Real Vampires Don't Sparkle

by Amy Fecteau

  “Right.” Matheus watched Juliet’s face, looking for traces of the distortion he’d seen the other day. He considered his escape options. Juliet blocked the front and back doors, but he could pry the boards off the windows in the kitchen.

  Juliet smiled at him, skin aglow with the kind of warmth not seen outside of moisturizer ads, and makeup created by the best Photoshoppers available.

  “Of course,” she said. “Any idiot can see you’d be useless in bed with a woman.”

  “I—You—”

  “‘Bye, Pet.” Juliet wiggled her fingers at him, gone before he formulated a response.

  Matheus raised his hands, tightening his fingers into claws.

  “Going to strangle—”

  “Don’t bother,” said Quin from behind him. “She’ll pop right up. Like a jack-in-the-box.” He made a popping motion with his hand.

  “Don’t do that!”

  “This?” Quin made the popping motion again.

  “Sneak up like some kind of undead ninja. Where the hell did you come from?”

  “Weapons room,” said Quin. “Putting away the mace. Next time I’ll herald my approach with trumpets. Will that do?”

  “It might.”

  Quin rolled his eyes. Folding his arms, he turned around, crossing the room to drop into the armchair. One leg swung over the arm, the other bent at the knee, sole of the feet resting against the leg of the coffee table. He rested his elbow on the other arm, and then propped his chin on his hand. His other arm stretched over the back of the chair. Quin elevated sprawling to an art.

  Matheus found the whole thing deeply unfair. If he collapsed all over the furniture, he’d look like he’d suffered a spontaneous narcoleptic attack.

  “Where’s Alistair?” Quin asked.

  “Why? You want a snuggle?”

  “I’m just curious. There’s too many people in this house. Bunch of freeloaders.”

  “So kick him out.” Matheus shrugged. “I’m not going to argue.” He leaned against the doorjamb, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  “The thought crossed my mind. There’s also your friend.”

  “Bianca,” said Matheus. “Try to kick her out, and I’ll do to you what I did to Grigori.”

  “You’ve very loyal. Like a puppy.”

  “As least Bibi earned it and didn’t just murder me in an alley.”

  “Crude methods are sometimes effective,” said Quin.

  “Right. You’re my favorite person in whole wide world.”

  “That’s touching, Sunshine. Shall we hug now?”

  “Fuck off,” said Matheus.

  Alistair returned after midnight. He breezed into the living room, dripped sweetness over Quin, glared at Matheus, then disappeared to check on Bianca.

  “I loathe that man,” Matheus said.

  “But you hide it so well,” said Quin. “Gin.” He laid the cards flat on the coffee table.

  “You’re fucking cheating.” Matheus threw down his own cards. “No one wins fifty-seven hands in a row.”

  “I’m no—” Quin paused as the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairway interrupted him.

  Milo appeared in the doorway, still in the process of shoving a laptop into his bag.

  “We have to leave,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Quin.

  A window exploded into shards of glass and wooden splinters. The house rocked with the force, plaster falling like a fine rain. Through the new opening, Matheus saw men in greys and blacks, circling the house. He gripped the sofa, staring at Quin with wide eyes.

  “That’s why,” said Milo.

  Quin twisted out of the chair. A crossbow bolt thudded against the back, the bladed tip sticking out of the thick upholstery. Jumping to his feet, Quin grabbed Matheus, pulling him into the hall. A second arrow, this one alight with flame, landed dead center on the coffee table. The cards bubbled, the plastic coating melting in the heat.

  “What did you do?” Quin asked Milo.

  “Not me,” said Milo.

  Overhead, glass shattered, followed by another explosion. Matheus fell back, striking his head against the wall as the top of the stairs collapsed. His ears rang. Smoke rolled into the hall, mixing with the dust and debris, turning the air opaque. A hand gripped his forearm. Matheus followed the bones up to Quin’s face. A trickle of blood ran down Quin’s temple, ash and dirt covered his face.

  “Bibi,” said Matheus. He shoved past Quin.

  “Sunshine, don’t—dammit!” Quin sprinted after Matheus. “Find a way out!” he called to Milo over his shoulder.

  Matheus skidded down the stairs, bursting into his room.

  “We’re being attacked,” he said.

  “Obviously,” said Alistair. He knelt on the bed, one arm wrapped around Bianca’s waist. “Help me get her up.”

  “Who is it?” Bianca asked as Matheus slung her arm over his shoulders.

  “Does it matter?” Together, Matheus and Alistair lifted Bianca off the bed. She leaned on Matheus for a moment, her breathing labored.

  “I can walk,” she said.

  From the bottom of the stairs, Quin shouted. “Sunshine! Hurry up!”

  “We’re coming!” Matheus said. “Faster, Bibi.”

  Another explosion shook the house, followed by an extended, overwhelming crash. There goes the attic, Matheus thought. Behind him, Alistair darted around the room, shoving the remaining medical supplies into a pillowcase.

  Bianca hissed, a hand pressed to her abdomen. Her head hung down, curls hiding her face.

  “Are you okay?” Matheus asked.

  “Yes, fine,” said Bianca. She took a small step forward.

  Matheus looked up the length of the hall. At this rate, the house would be ashes around them by the time they reached the stairs.

  “Vae!” Quin pushed Matheus aside, scooping up Bianca in one swift motion. He ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  “Watch the stitches!” Alistair yelled.

  The firelight flickered off the smoke. Flames licked out around the living room doorway, crackling as they consumed the house. The remaining stairs to the second floor creaked and teetered, one good blow away from collapse. Matheus squinted, tears blurring his vision as he tried to follow Quin through the smoke.

  “I hate this,” said Alistair. He bumped against Matheus’ shoulder.

  “It’s not my idea of a good time,” said Matheus.

  Overhead, the floorboards cracked; a long support beam crashed onto the stairs. Matheus stumbled, ducking his head as the staircase crumpled into a pile of jagged boards and nails. The wallpaper caught fire, glue and dry paper feeding the flames as they raced around the hallway.

  Alistair gripped Matheus’ arm hard enough to make Matheus wince.

  “I hate this,” he repeated.

  “Quin will get us out.” Matheus shook his arm free. He moved forward in shuffling steps, kicking away smoldering boards. His skin felt tight and hot; the hairs on his arms crinkled in the heat.

  Alistair laughed, laughter turning to coughing in the smoke. He stayed at Matheus’ back, his nose bumping between Matheus’ shoulder blades when he stopped.

  “He’ll get you out,” Alistair said. “Doesn’t give a damn about me.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Matheus knocked a strip of burning wallpaper out of his hair. Screw caution, he thought. He groped for Alistair, then dragged him down the hall blindly. He found the others kneeling by the back door, Quin peering out into the yard.

  “Why aren’t we fleeing?” Matheus asked.

  Milo yanked him to the floor as a bolt smashed through the glass pane next to the door.

  “Ah,” said Matheus.

  Alistair dug his fingers into Matheus’ thigh, pressing against his side.

  “Eight, four with crossbows” said Quin. “No night vision goggles.” He glanced from Alistair’s hand to Matheus’ face.

  Matheus did his best to translate I have no fucking idea into a facial expr
ession.

  Quin shook his head.

  “Milo and I will create a diversion. Sunshine, you run around and get the car.”

  Bianca raised a hand.

  “You stay here,” said Quin.

  “I’m okay with that,” said Bianca.

  “Take this,” Milo said, passing his laptop bag to her. “Lose it and I’ll turn you into a fur coat.”

  Matheus took up position behind Quin and Milo. Quin held the doorknob, counting down with his free hand.

  “This is suicide, and we’re all going to die,” said Matheus.

  “Run fast,” said Quin, and yanked open the door. He and Milo rushed, low to avoid the initial volley. They dove into the crowd of black-clad men.

  Matheus didn’t stop to watch them. He ran left, sprinting with supernatural speed. A bolt whizzed past his ear, smacking into the fence. Matheus flung himself through the gate, then stopped short.

  “Shit!” Wheeling around, he ran back in time to see Quin feed a man his own arrow.

  “What?” Quin asked.

  “Car’s on fire!”

  “Fuck!”

  Matheus’ thoughts ran along a similar line.

  Quin didn’t pause; he moved with the same speed he’d shown during the hunt, but the soldiers caught up faster than the hunters. They worked in pairs, delivering as many hits to Quin as he dealt to them. Milo had retreated, pinned down by a crossbow.

  Matheus scooped up a piece of brick, and hurled it at the man aiming at Milo. The man stumbled, but didn’t fall. And now he aimed at Matheus. Great.

  A blur rushed out of the house, barreling into the soldier and knocking him to the ground. Milo ran forward, picking up the fallen crossbow and aiming into the tangle of bodies. The blur rolled away, and Milo fired. The soldier went limp, blood soaking the earth around him. Milo spun around, swinging the bow at another attacker, while Alistair hauled himself upright.

  “Get Bianca!” he yelled, dodging a fist.

  Flame swallowed the house, dancing up through the rooms, casting a column of smoke to block out the night sky. Bianca huddled by the door, her eyes closed, rivulets of sweat and soot running down her face.

  Matheus shook her shoulder. Bianca opened her eyes, choking as she inhaled suddenly.

  “Mat—”

  The second floor collapsed, sparks and embers flying upward as the boards slammed down. Matheus grabbed Bianca, half-carrying, half-dragging her into the yard.

  “Stitches!” she croaked, her voice scorched by heat and smoke.

  “Not now!”

  The rest of the soldiers filled the yard, surrounding the small group. Matheus juggled Bianca’s weight as he backed away. The five of them clustered together, outnumbered two to one, even with the corpses littering the yard. Blood dripped down Alistair’s arm, small drops forming on his pinkie finger before splattering on the yellow grass. Milo tilted, favoring his right leg. He held a bloodied arrow in one hand. Orange light painted the scene; the whooshing howl of the fire drowned out any other sounds. The soldiers moved closer, a wall of black around them.

  Matheus looked at Quin, clothes torn and filthy, mouth stained scarlet. “What now?” Matheus asked.

  Quin looked around the circle of men, then up at the flaming remains of his house. He shrugged. “Hell if I know,” he said.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Bianca clung to Matheus’ side, her head resting on his shoulder. Blood dotted her shirt, a wavering line across her abdomen. Matheus hoped her stitches hadn’t burst, but they all had more pressing problems.

  “Why haven’t they shot us yet?” Alistair asked, his head turning left and right, trying to watch all the soldiers at once.

  “Don’t encourage them,” said Milo.

  “Quin?” whispered Matheus.

  “Not now, Sunshine.”

  The frame of Quin’s house shuddered, creaks and groans layering over the sound of the fire. The windows on the second floor cracked, then shattered. Shards of glass flashed yellow and orange as they rained over the yard.

  “Leave the tall one,” said one of the soldiers. “Kill the rest.”

  With a deafening crash, the supports on the first floor gave out. Flames rushed out, curling and swooping upward, enveloping the falling timbers in a shimmering cloud of ash and embers.

  Quin leapt toward the nearest soldier, snapping his neck in a single movement. He spun, hurling the fresh corpse at the massing soldiers.

  “Run!” he yelled.

  Alistair grabbed Bianca’s other side. He and Matheus dragged her between them, sprinting for the gate in the fence. Milo stayed at their heels, shoving at Matheus’ back. The sirens grew louder. Red and blue lights colored the horizon. Some of the soldiers chased after them. A bolt skimmed Matheus’ shoulder, then imbedded into a telephone pole.

  “Fuckfuckfuck,” he chanted under his breath.

  Bianca’s feet scraped over the pavement. Another bolt shot past, above Alistair’s ear, slicing off a fistful of blond strands.

  They veered into a sharp diagonal run across the street.

  A black SUV blocked the end of the street. The engine roared into life as they approached, high beams snapping on, white-blue lights burning after-images onto Matheus’ retinas. He stumbled, losing his grip on Bianca.

  Alistair cried out, trying to catch Bianca as she fell. He tripped over her legs, and they both went down. Bianca let out a soft moan. She tried to curl into a ball, while Alistair scrambled to free his limbs.

  The SUV’s tires spun. It jerked forward, swerving toward Matheus and the others.

  Someone yanked Matheus to the sidewalk, throwing him into a rusted fence. Matheus caught himself on the bars. He pushed himself upright in time to see Alistair and Milo drag Bianca over the curb. The front tire of the SUV passed a quarter-inch from her feet. The driver slammed the brakes and reversed.

  “This way,” said Milo. He ran down a narrow alley between the houses. The cloying smell of rot tainted the air. Stacks of discarded furniture, bulging trash bags, and other junk lined the walls. Without the debris, the SUV might fit through, but only if the driver didn’t like his mirrors much. The SUV raced down the street, clearly intending to cut them off on the next one. The soldiers left the yard on foot and followed them into the alley.

  Bolts bounced off the walls of brick houses. One smashed through a window overhead; glass landed in Matheus’ hair, down the back of his shirt.

  Milo emerged from the alleyway first, ran out to the center of the next street, then stopped, looking left and right.

  The SUV’s lights appeared around the corner, highlighting the rundown houses, reflecting off the remaining windows.

  “What now?” Matheus asked as the SUV spun into view.

  The soldiers rushed out of the alley, taking up positions along the street, loading their crossbows, blocking off any paths of escape.

  Where the fuck is Quin? Matheus thought. Bianca’s weight pressed against his side. Her curls hung heavy on his shoulder. She shuddered with each forced breath. Matheus glanced at Alistair; he shook his head.

  Milo looked down at his feet. He tapped the manhole cover with the toe of his boot.

  “Here.” Stooping, Milo lifted the cover, shoving it aside with a grunt. The soldiers started forward as Milo dropped through the hole. “Send the girl down.”

  “I can….” Bianca staggered toward the hole.

  Alistair held her arm, helping her down the ladder.

  Matheus fell to his stomach as the soldiers fired. He crawled toward the hole, then wiggled around until his legs dangled over the edge. He swung his feet back and forth, searching for the ladder. The rungs were slick with condensation, the air rising up thick and earthy. Matheus looked up; a figure stood overhead, divided into light and shadow by the SUV’s headlights.

  “Qu—”

  A boot slammed down on Matheus’ fingers. He screamed, letting go of the manhole’s edge. Flailing, he swung by one hand, heels slipping over the rungs. Matheus looked up. The
figure raised his boot. Matheus watched the treads rush toward him. He closed his eyes. Twenty-eight years without a broken nose, and now two in as many months. And to twist the knife further, no painkillers. Matheus mourned for the lost Percocets.

  Above him came a thump, then a groan.

  Matheus opened his eyes. The figure slumped, covering the hole, one arm swinging down. A second later, the body disappeared, replaced by a pair of scuffed dress shoes.

  “What are you doing?” Quin asked, peering down at Matheus. “Keep moving.”

  Matheus tried to suppress the relief swamping his mind. He scrambled down the ladder, jumping the last few rungs. Water splashed up his legs. Pulling his shirt over his nose and mouth, Matheus started forward, catching up to Milo and the others.

  Bianca leaned against the curved wall, one hand pressed against her bandage. She offered Matheus a weak smile.

  “You take me to all the best places,” she said. Even at a whisper, her voice echoed down the narrow tunnel.

  “You want to take your chances up there?” Quin asked. He glanced back up the ladder. “We need to move.”

  Milo took the lead, then Matheus and Alistair, with Bianca between them, and Quin at the rear. The sounds of footsteps chased them through the tunnels, interspersed with echoing shouts. Milo took turns at random, taking them farther away from the manhole.

  The darkness overtook the light, until even Matheus’ enhanced vision failed. He faltered in the blackness, his steps shortening as he groped forward. Water dripped off the ceiling in a dozen different rhythms. The smell of manure hung like velvet curtains in the air. Matheus stopped breathing.

  “Wait,” said Milo. Matheus heard clothes rustling, then a square of light illuminated Milo’s face.

  “Cellphone,” he said.

  Light flickered over water. Matheus stuck close to the wall, but puddles coated the floor. After a while, the sounds of the soldiers faded into nothingness.

  Nobody spoke. They slowed, falling into a steady pace. Time passed, but Matheus couldn’t be sure how much.

  “This cannot be healthy,” said Bianca. She exhaled, pulling away from Matheus and falling back against the wall. Slowly, she slid downward, keeping her legs folded. Her eyes moved back and forth, unfocused.