Real Vampires Don't Sparkle

by Amy Fecteau

  He snorted. He’d met people suffering through withdrawal with more pep. He rolled off the bed. Hopping on one foot, then the other, Matheus slipped on his pants and shoes. Nothing else to do but wait. He sat on the edge of the bed, resting his broken hand on his leg. He wondered what would happen to Quin after he changed back. He wondered if he’d ever seen him again. He wondered if he wanted to.

  “Mattias?” Fletcher rapped lightly on the door as she poked her head in.

  “Hey, Fletch.”

  She stood in the doorway, hands twisting around one another. She noticed Matheus’ gaze, and shifted her arms behind her back. “It’s time,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Everything’s all ready for you.”

  “Right.” Matheus stood up. “The woman, the one that I…the one that died. What was her name?”

  “Ada Summers,” Fletcher said.

  “Did she have a family?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Please.”

  “I’m not helping you torture yourself,” said Fletcher, decibels rising.

  “No, that’s Dad’s job.”

  “God, Mat, don’t do this now. Please. We may never—” Fletcher cut off with a sharp headshake.

  “May never what?” asked Matheus.

  “It’s nothing,” said Fletcher, her gaze on Matheus’ chest. “Parents. No siblings. A boyfriend.”

  “Do they know what happened?”

  “Lab accident.” Fletcher gave him an unhappy smile. “We paid for the funeral.”

  “How generous.”

  “It was part of her contract.”

  “Right.” Matheus tapped his fingers against his leg, then winced as he realized he’d forgotten about the breaks.

  “Are you all right?” Fletcher asked.

  Matheus tucked his hand out of sight.

  “Fine,” he said. “We should go. Don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

  He walked toward the door, then stopped as Fletcher caught his arm.

  “Mat,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  Fletcher frowned, giving another a quick headshake. Rising onto her tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around Matheus, pressing her face into his shoulder. Matheus rested his cheek against the top of Fletcher’s head, feeling the curve of skull beneath the smooth fall of hair.

  “Fletcher?” he said.

  Fletcher mumbled something into his shirt. Matheus hoped she didn’t start crying. He patted her back, trying to gauge the wetness-level on his left shoulder.

  “If you have a boy,” Matheus said. “Don’t name him after me, okay?”

  A loud, choking noise emerged from his shirt. Fletcher raised her head, trapped between laughing and crying.

  “Oh my God, you’re melodramatic,” she said, wiping her eyes. “And you smell dreadful.”

  “Well, my room lacked an en suite toilet, so you’ll have to complain to the management about that.” Matheus scowled at her.

  Fletcher smiled at him, then pulled a tissue out her pocket. She turned away. Fifteen seconds, she turned back, makeup restored, tear tracks vanished. Matheus used tissues to blow his nose, but in the hands of the right woman, a Kleenex turned into a magic wand capable of feats undreamt of by man and beast.

  Matheus preferred the original face; the new one didn’t smile at him.

  “Shall we go?” Fletcher gestured toward the hall.

  Leaning forward, Matheus pressed a kiss to Fletcher’s forehead. Her lips parted, and she blinked up at him.

  “After you,” said Matheus.

  Expression wiped clear, Fletcher strode out. Godzilla and Foot Fungus waited in the hall, falling into step behind Matheus.

  “You know, I’m really going to miss you guys,” said Matheus over his shoulder. “Your eloquence is truly overwhelming. I may never know such wit again.”

  “Walk,” grunted Foot Fungus, despite the blatant evidence of Matheus’ current movement. Entering further into the state of walking would violate the laws of physics in ways from which they’d never recover. Foot Fungus clearly had no appreciation for the mental health of the universe. He shoved a meaty palm between Matheus’ shoulders to emphasize his point, endangering the entire planet in an act of petty bullying.

  Matheus stumbled, throwing out his arms to catch himself. He landed on his hands and knees.

  “Get up,” said Godzilla.

  Farther along the hallway, Fletcher paused. “Mat? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” said Matheus, staring at his left hand, at the straight, unbroken fingers, a perfect match to the right. “Absolutely nothing.”

  A dentist’s chair, with silver cuffs, sat amidst shining counters and instruments. The room resembled the one Matheus had found Quin in, but flavored with the strong odor of bleach. A wheeled tray of gleaming instruments sat next to the chair, needles and blades lined up with razor’s edge precision.

  A woman in a white lab coat and latex gloves stood to the right of the chair. She forced a smile as Matheus entered.

  “Hello,” she said. “My name is Dr. Degas.”

  “Like the painter,” said Matheus.

  “Yes.” The woman cleared her throat. She looked down at her clipboard. A pair of glasses hung around her neck on a beaded chain. The beads formed stars and hearts, all different sizes and bright colors, a child’s craft. “Please, have a seat.”

  “You’re not going to make me take off my clothes first?” Matheus asked.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said the doctor.

  “I was kidding.” The vinyl squeaked as Matheus settled into the chair. He wrapped his fingers around the handles, digging his nails into the soft rubber.

  His fingers didn’t matter, he decided. Quin acted on whims. He had a whim to hurt Matheus, and then he had a whim to heal him. Nothing deeper than that. Matheus remembered the grin Quin gave him as he snapped Matheus’ finger. Matheus held on to that grin, clung to it.

  “Are you staying, Ms. Young?” asked the doctor.

  “No,” said Fletcher. “I—There are things I must attend to. Excuse me.”

  The guards parted to allow her through the door, then moved back into position. Matheus had the flash of Tweedledee and Tweedledum from the Disney version of Alice in Wonderland. Huge, boulder-sized Tweedles, sans pinwheel-hats and with one hundred percent more crossbow. A twinge of regret nudged at Matheus. A wonderful naming opportunity missed.

  Degas pulled a flashlight out of her pocket, switching it on with a sharp click. She flicked the circle of reddish light over Matheus’ eyes, then made a note on her clipboard. Another click, and the light turned blue-white. Through a fresh layer of tears, Matheus saw the doctor scribble further.

  “What was that for?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. Everything had taken on a gold-edged glow. He blinked.

  “Just testing,” said Degas. She set the clipboard aside and moved to the back of the chair. A mechanism whirled, and the cuffs snapped over Matheus’ wrists.

  “I’m here voluntarily,” said Matheus. He writhed, trying to pull away from the silver.

  “A precaution.” The doctor picked up the longest needle Matheus had ever seen. She fitted the end into a glass vial of silvery liquid. Matheus watched the syringe fill as the room started to spin around him.

  “Isn’t there a pill or some smoke I can inhale or something?” he asked.

  The doctor tapped the side of the syringe. Satisfied, she set the needle onto the tray and picked up her clipboard again.

  “What’s in there?” Matheus asked, nodding at the syringe. His wrists burned. He glanced at his left hand again, before forcing his gaze back to the doctor.

  “It’s a compound designed to help your body accept the transfusion,” said Degas. With brusque movements, she rolled up Matheus’ sleeve past his elbow. She twisted his arm, exposing the inside of his elbow.

  “Looks like mercury,” said Matheus.

  “Yes.” Degas picked up a scalpel.

  Matheus�
�� eyes widened.

  “What are you doing with—ow!”

  “Don’t move.” Degas inspected the cut she’d made on Matheus’ arm. A thin line of blood rose up, dark and thick. She pushed against the wound, forcing out the blood. She frowned.

  “We’ll have to go in through the jugular,” she said.

  “You’re not sticking that thing in my neck,” Matheus said, jerking his head toward the needle.

  “Your blood flow is too sluggish. The compound will take too long to work its way to the heart from the arm.”

  The chair groaned, and Matheus found himself flat on his back, staring up at a needle-wielding lunatic.

  “This may sting a bit,” said the doctor. She leaned in.

  “Wait!” Matheus wiggled as far away from the point of the needle as the restraints allowed. “How many times have you done this?”

  “You’ll be the ninth.”

  “They were all successful?”

  Degas pressed the tip of her tongue to her upper lip before answering.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “The procedure is very effective.”

  “Effective is not the same as safe,” Matheus said. The needle glinted under the lights. Matheus swallowed hard, suddenly in possession of enough saliva to fill a small swimming pool. He curled his fingers up, digging the remains of his nails into his palms.

  What the fuck am I doing? His father said jump, and here was Mattias, jumping. The room spun into a haze around the tip of the needle.

  I don’t want this, Matheus thought. The realization burst through him like gasp of air to a drowning victim. He didn’t want to be a monster, but this, to be his father’s puppet, to fill in the gaps in his father’s grand design, Matheus didn’t want either. His chest heaved, each breath clinging thick and leaden in his lungs.

  “I am certain you will be safe,” said Degas. “Calm down. You must be still, or I may have to do this more than once.”

  “More than once?” Matheus closed his eyes. The silver sent tiny seismic shocks up and down his nerves. He shook, his teeth clattering together. Why hadn’t he tried harder to escape? He’d heard the conversation between his father and Fletcher, and what did he do? Laid his neck right across the chopping block. Still Mattias, letting his father stride in and take control, sweeping away his mistakes, no need to make his own decisions, to know his own thoughts. Just take another swig off the bottle, crush another pill.

  “Ich Hasse nadeln,” Matheus said. He jerked, the cuffs biting into his skin. “I changed my mind. I need more time to think. Let me out.”

  He kicked, catching the edge of the rolling tray, the edge colliding into Degas’ arm. Instruments hit the floor with a clatter of metal; the syringe shattered, silver liquid oozing out into an oily pool.

  Degas stepped back, pressing her back into the countertop.

  “Stake him,” she said.

  Godzilla grinned. Reaching over his shoulder, he brought forth his crossbow. He slapped a bolt into place, and flipped up the sight with his thumb.

  Matheus squirmed, twisting left and right, heels sliding over vinyl, searching for leverage.

  “Say bye-bye, fa—” Godzilla grunted as the business end of a baseball bat smacked into his temple. He slumped, the crossbow slipping out of his grip.

  Matheus yelped as the trigger released. The bolt arced upward, tip embedding into the vinyl cushion, slicing through the side of Matheus’ pants. The fletching vibrated as if to say “Hi! Let’s be friends! I’m much cooler than a second testicle!”

  “Motherfu—” Another thud, and Foot Fungus dropped, clutching his manly bits and whimpering. Fletcher stood over him with a double-handed grip on the bat, and a shocked expression on her face.

  “What are you doing?” shrieked the doctor.

  Matheus nodded frantically.

  Fletcher looked down the keening Foot Fungus, then back at the doctor.

  “You have a daughter in Kansas City, don’t you? Maybe now is a good time to pay her a visit.”

  The doctor gaped at her.

  Fletcher raised the bat a hair, narrowing her eyes. “A long visit,” she said.

  “Yes. Yes, all right, what a good idea,” Degas said. “I’ll just leave now.” She sidled toward the door, stepping over the fallen Godzilla and giving Fletcher a wide berth.

  “Silently,” said Fletcher, slamming the bat across the doorway.

  The doctor squeaked. “What would I have to say?” she asked.

  “Good.” Fletcher lowered the bat. She gave the doctor a pleasant smile. “Have a lovely trip.”

  The doctor opened her mouth, then shut it again. She hurried out the room, white coat flapping behind her.

  “Jesus Christ, Fletcher!” Matheus shouted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Foot Fungus stirred, rising onto his knees. He did not look pleased. Less pleased when the bat conked into the side of his face. He grunted, then slumped, landing in a heap of muscles.

  Fletcher nudged him with the tip of the bat, then nodded, apparently satisfied with the result of her labors.

  “Hold this.” Fletcher chucked the bat into Matheus’ lap, and moved around the chair. A second later, the cuffs snapped open.

  Matheus scrambled out of the chair and the friendly bolt. He waved the bat at Fletcher.

  “Do you have any idea what our father is going to do to you?” he demanded. “Are you crazy?”

  “I’m pregnant,” said Fletcher. “There are hormones.”

  “God.” Matheus upped the bat-waving to epic levels. “God, I mean, Christ, I love you, Fletch, but there is no fucking way he’s going to buy that.”

  “Do you want my help or not?” Fletcher asked. “Because if you’d prefer to stand there and berate me until more guards turn up rather than escaping and not becoming a vegetable for the rest of your life, we can do that.” She stuck her head into the hall, looking left and right. “Follow me.”

  “Oh, this is going to end poorly,” Matheus said, trailing after her.

  “Shush!”

  “Did you just shush me?”

  “Shut it!” Fletcher paused at the next junction of halls. She glanced at her watch. Her mouth moved silently. All right.

  She crept forward, motioning to Matheus.

  “I can’t believe you knocked out the guards,” Matheus said.

  “I didn’t have much time,” said Fletcher, over her shoulder. She stopped beside a large window overlaid with a black crisscross pattern. The hinges whined as she pulled open the grating. “One of the accountants is a fan. He keeps that in his cube.”

  Matheus turned the bat over.

  “It’s signed,” he said.

  “Oh. Well, needs must.”

  “It’s got a bit of blood stuck to it.”

  Fletcher rolled her eyes. “Help me with this,” she said. “The paint is sticking.”

  Together, they managed to force the window up high enough for someone to slip through. The fire escape offered a path down to street level. Matheus slung a leg over the still, then paused.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

  “I—” Fletcher looked down at her hands. She straightened, pushing her hair back and meeting Matheus’ gaze. “The process doesn’t work. At least, not as well as I would like.”

  “It lobotomizes people,” said Matheus. “I overheard you and Dad.”

  “And you were still going to go through with it?”

  Matheus shrugged.

  “Don’t shrug at me!” Fletcher boxed his ear.

  “Ow! Fuck, pregnancy is making you violent,” Matheus said, glaring at her.

  “You are making me violent,” said Fletcher. “You knew what was coming and you just walked straight into it like a bloody feebleminded git! I don’t even know why I’m bothering.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly a candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize, am I?”

  “Please, just stop talking before I change my mind. Go now, before I think too much about this.”

/>   “I just—”

  “Oh my God, you have the survival instincts of a suicidal lemming! Go!” Fletcher gave him a hard shove.

  Matheus grabbed the edge of the window, and shoved back. Fletcher stumbled, then smacked his arm.

  “I can’t believe you shoved a pregnant lady,” she hissed.

  “I can’t believe you managed to find someone willing to get you pregnant,” Matheus snapped. “You’re certifiable. Your husband must be a bloody saint.”

  “Me? You’re the one about to let himself be turned into a sodding zombie to please Daddy.”

  “You bitch,” said Matheus. “You were going to let me!”

  “You talk about how I am with Father, but you’re the fucked-up one, Mat,” said Fletcher. “I chose this life. I chose to be here. My decisions, mine. You don’t even know what you’re doing or why you’re doing it. Everything you do, you do because of him, and you can’t even man up and bloody admit it. Mr. Rebellion, Mr. Independent, so desperate for Daddy’s approval. So damned busy running and you don’t even realize you’re still following his path. My God, Mat, be your own man for once!”

  Matheus’ mouth dropped open. “Um,” he said.

  “Sorry,” said Fletcher.

  “You’ve been holding onto that for a while, haven’t you?”

  “A bit,” Fletcher said.

  “For the record, I was captured. I didn’t come here voluntarily,” said Matheus.

  “I swear on the Queen herself, I will push you off this fire escape.”

  “I’m going! Calm down. You’re going to stunt the baby or give it a third arm or something.”

  “You are so lucky I love you,” said Fletcher.

  “I know.” Matheus grinned at her. “Come with me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? Go back to London, have adorable babies with Will.”

  “Bill.”

  “Whoever.”

  Fletcher shook her head. “Mat, this is my life. I believe in what we’re doing here.”

  “But—”

  “Go, please. The guards are going to notice soon.”

  “Right. Okay.” Matheus stepped inside and straightened. “I want Quin.”

  Fletcher’s turn to gape like a largemouth bass on steroids. “What? Are you—what?”