Real Vampires Take No Prisoners (Real Vampires Don't Sparkle Book 3) Page 5

  “They’re there,” said Quin. He stepped away from Matheus, keeping his frame loose. “The shadows are moving. Watch beneath the cars.”

  Matheus squinted, but he saw only snow and shadows.

  “How many?” he asked.

  How had Apollonia’s soldiers found them? Random chance? Sentries scattered around the city? Thomas’ warning flashed into Matheus’s mind. No. If Quin had formed an alliance with Apollonia, he’d have led her straight to the manor house. What good did luring Matheus out here do? Apollonia didn’t want just him; she wanted everyone.

  “Five, maybe six,” said Quin.

  “What do we do?” asked Matheus.

  Quin arched an eyebrow at him. “We?”

  The shadows slipped from between the cars, straightening as they approached Matheus and Quin. They stayed at a wary distance, forming a loose circle. Matheus squeezed up to Quin’s side, his head turning to look at all six of the attackers at once. They carried crossbows and quivers, the loaded bolt-tips gleaming steel blue. The shafts had been cut from rough wood, sanded just enough to fly straight.

  “There’s something I should probably tell you,” Matheus said.

  “Not now.” Quin gave Matheus a tiny push and bent his knees, ready to dart for the closest attacker. He grinned. Why Apollonia’s soldiers didn’t run screaming, Matheus had no idea. Perhaps she threw in free lobotomies with turning.

  “It’s important,” said Matheus.

  One of figures stopped under the light of the sign. He looked familiar. So did the crossbow, but all crossbows looked alike. They shot pointy death, so he didn’t feel much need to differentiate. He felt the same way about Apollonia’s soldiers.

  “What is it?” Quin asked, without looking away from the man underneath the sign. His fangs slid out, the tips curving into his lower lip.

  Matheus inhaled. He gave himself a thirty percent chance of surviving the next fifteen seconds.

  “We’re bonded,” he said.

  Quin jerked upright, spinning around to face Matheus. “We’re what?”

  e’re bonded,” said Matheus.

  Quin gaped at him. He raised his hands, then dropped them.

  Around them, the former shadows paused, exchanging glances. They’d expected a slightly different reaction to their arrival, one that probably included more screaming and begging for mercy, and less ignoring and petty squabbling.

  “I can’t even… what?” Quin’s fingers clenched, as though trying to strangle the empty air.

  “Can we talk about this later?” Matheus jerked his head at the nearest crossbow. “Hey!”

  Matheus slapped at Quin as he grabbed his sweater, shaking him so hard he expected his eyeballs to fly out of their sockets. His neck snapped back and forth, his muscles already starting to ache. He’d gotten into three-car-pile-ups that resulted in less whiplash.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Quin shouted. “You stupid, mouth-breathing―”

  “You did it!” Matheus yelled back. “You! You claimed me!”

  “I did not!”

  The man standing underneath the sign shrugged, and bent his head, sighting down the crossbow.

  “You ass!” Matheus said. “You think I want to be stuck with you for all eternity?”

  “I don’t know,” said Quin, finally releasing him. “You’re disturbed. You’re a disturbed, obsessed weirdo and I―”

  Matheus shoved him. The bolt split the air between them, slicing his sleeve, and smashing into the glass doors of the motel. The clerk woke up, tumbling off his chair. He peered over the top of the counter at the shattered door, his gaze travelling to take in the crossbow-wielding lunatics in the parking lot.

  “Okay,” Quin said. “We’ll talk later.”

  He dove at the man who’d fired, hurling him into the next nearest shadow. The second man’s crossbow twanged, the bolt flying wild into the clouds. He cried out as his feet slipped out from beneath him. His bow smashed onto the pavement, bolts scattering over the ice. His legs splayed out, knocking the first man onto his ass. They tangled together, kicking and grabbing in their attempts to stand.

  The other three men rushed forward, one veering toward Matheus, the remaining two taking on Quin. Matheus dodged the initial shot by sheer luck. He seized the attacker’s crossbow, entering a tug of war. Matheus lost track of Quin. He kicked, hitting his attacker’s kneecap and yanked the crossbow away. He had a brief flash of triumph, then Apollonia’s soldier launched himself forward and they both hit the ground.

  Matheus scrambled to his feet first. He’d landed in one of the patches of sand tossed haphazardly around the parking lot. His opponent didn’t have the same luck. He managed to twist and shimmy onto his knees, using a streetlamp to claw his way up the rest of the way. He lunged at Matheus with a swing telegraphed by Western Union.

  Matheus dodged, skidding on the ice. His attacker fought like someone who’d watched too many action movies. On the other hand, Matheus learned by actually fighting. Okay, he’d never be a MMA fighter, but he did understand the use of a well-placed knee. He grabbed his attacker’s shoulders, driving his leg into the man’s groin. With a choked whimper, the man doubled over, placing his head at a convenient bashing height. Matheus hated to disappoint.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, shaking out his hand. He turned toward Quin who did something complicated with two of the other soldiers. Things got more complicated as the two he’d sent flying decided to join the fun. Matheus winced at the crack of bone. He watched for a few seconds.

  He decided not to interfere, but at least he had considered it. Then he thought about helping Quin. That seemed like a slightly better idea. Best to be on the winning side.

  “Want some help?” Matheus asked. “No? Okay.”

  The man at his feet moaned. Matheus gave him an absentminded kick. He wondered how much longer before Quin finished. Leaning against a lamppost, Matheus folded his arms and crossed his legs at the ankles. He looked up at the clouded sky, listening to the grunts and dull thuds of flesh colliding with flesh. He heard the sirens first, then saw the flashing blue lights.

  “Shit,” said Matheus, straightening. “Quin!” He slipped and slid across the pavement. “Quin!”

  “I’m… uhh… a little… busy!” Quin’s voice came from the tangled pile of body parts.

  The cop car sped up the street, tires skidding over the snow-covered road.

  Matheus reached into the pile, grabbing random limbs until he grasped one of Quin’s. He yanked, tendons snapping as he dragged Quin away.

  “What are you doing?” Quin asked, trying to shake off the grip.

  “Cops!” said Matheus, pointing at the approaching lights. He kept pulling, sprinting among the rows of cars toward the back of the motel.

  “So?”

  “So, you see cops, you run!”

  “Who are you?” asked Quin.

  The blue lights reflected off the motel windows, growing brighter with the squeal of tires. Matheus rounded the corner of the building, Quin at his heels.

  “Shit!” A ten-foot fence blocked off the back of the parking lot. Matheus slapped the fence, the metal links rattling.

  “Oh, excellent plan,” said Quin.

  “Shut up,” said Matheus.

  The siren split the air, white light flooding over them. Matheus whirled around, squinting, his eyes tearing up. In the room to his right, a pale face peeked out from behind a curtain. To his left, the fence turned the corner, protecting the parking lot of the Applebee’s.

  The siren cut off, leaving behind throbbing silence. A car door opened.

  “Don’t move! Hands where I can see them!”

  Matheus raised his arms. Through the light, he made out vague figures moving toward them. Footsteps crunched over the sand and ice. Beside him, Quin shifted, placing his hand on Matheus’s shoulder.

  “I said, hands up!”

  Quin’s grip tightened.

  “What are you—aah!” Matheus yelped as Quin flung him
at the cops. He smacked into the taller of the pair, knocking them both to the ground. Someone grabbed Matheus’s collar, hauling him to his feet and slamming him into the car.

  I’m going to kill him. The cop twisted Matheus’s arm behind his back. He shivered as handcuffs clicked around his wrists. Would it have killed the cops to warm up the cuffs a little? Matheus supposed he should just be happy he didn’t get shot. The cop turned Matheus around, pushing him back against the car.

  Well, this is familiar. Matheus repressed a sigh. Even with an ocean separating them, cops remained cops. Facing away from the headlights, Matheus’s vision cleared, although his eyes still stung. The taller cop rose, brushing off his uniform.

  “You okay, Richie?” asked the cop holding Matheus.

  “Yeah. What happened to the other guy?”

  “Dunno. Never seen anything like it.” Not-Richie scratched his chin. “Those other guys too. Damndest thing. One second they’re there, then bang, gone.”

  “You need to stop drinking on the job,” said Richie the Cop.

  “Shut your cram hole,” said Not-Richie. “Call it in.”

  Richie slipped into the driver’s seat of the cruiser, speaking into the radio. His partner gave Matheus an efficient pat-down, a touch on the rough side, but very professional. Matheus had had worse. At least this time he didn’t “run into a wall” or “trip over a trash can.”

  “All right,” said Not-Richie. “What’s your name?”

  Matheus blinked, putting on his blankest expression. He found trying to do algebra in his head usually did the trick.

  Not-Richie frowned. He unhooked his flashlight, and shone the light in Matheus’s face. “Hey, Rich. Come here a sec.”

  The cruiser shook as Richie the Cop climbed out.

  “Doesn’t he look like that guy?” asked Not-Richie, nodding at Matheus.

  “Yeah, he kinda does.”

  Three-X to the third power is equal to y squared divided by two.

  Not-Richie moved closer, pointing the flashlight into Matheus’s eyes. “You like to attack girls, bud?”

  Matheus turned away, squeezing his eyes shut.

  “Ich spreche kein Englisch,” he said. “Ich bin ein dummer touristischen.”

  “What the heck is that?” asked Not-Richie.

  “I think it’s German,” said Richie.

  “Jesus.” Not-Richie gripped Matheus’s chin, forcing him to face forward. “This is America, genius! Speak English!”

  “Mark, come on, man,” said Richie. “Don’t be a douche.”

  “Du bist der Grund jeder hasst Amerikaner,” said Matheus, still trying to solve math problems in his head. He didn’t know if he had his verbs in order, but he doubted Not-Richie the Moron would know the difference.

  “You’re coming back to the station,” said Mark the Idiot Cop. He grabbed Matheus’s shoulder, pushing him toward the rear of the cruiser.

  A possible future flashed before Matheus’s eyes, one where he ended up a pile of ashes in a jail cell. On the plus side, he’d save the state the cost of a trial, but Matheus didn’t consider that much of a win. He looked toward the street, wondering about his chances if he just ran. Knowing his luck, he’d slip before he made it halfway across the parking lot. Still…

  Matheus jerked out of Mark’s hold. He sprinted, racing for the road, both cops yelling at his heels. He glanced behind him, and screamed as he looked back. A huge SUV swerved into the parking lot, gunning straight for Matheus. He turned, skidding on the ice, wobbling from side to side. The SUV sped past him, then spun, cutting him off.

  “Get in!” The driver yelled out the window. The back door swung open. Matheus looked at the cops, and decided to take his chances. He dove into the SUV, hitting the seat as the wheels started to spin. Matheus hooked the door handle with his foot, pulling it shut. He slid across the seat, smashing into one side then the other as the SUV fishtailed across the parking lot.

  “Jesus Christ!” Matheus struggled for purchase, difficult with his hands bound. He wiggled, working his way into an upright position. He caught sight of a sleek, dark bob before the SUV took the corner and he tumbled off the seat.

  “Are you okay?”

  Matheus spat out carpet fibers.

  “Fletcher? What are you—Are you insane? They execute people here, you know.”

  “Here, I brought these.”

  A flat leather packet landed on Matheus’s back. Wiggling, he worked the flap loose. His fingertips brushed over familiar metal hooks.

  “You just happen to have lock picks?” Matheus asked, his fingers straining as he worked one of the picks free.

  “They’re yours,” said Fletcher, taking another screaming corner. “I, umm, kept them.”

  “Sap,” said Matheus. “Ow! Holy hell, Fletch, take it easy.”

  “So sorry, I thought we were running from the police.”

  Matheus grunted, twisting around, trying to work the pick into the lock. Picking locks required concentration and a light touch, neither of which came easily with his wrists handcuffed behind his back. Especially with the way Fletcher drove. Sirens wailed behind them, but they faded more and more with every manic turn.

  “How did you find me?” he asked, jiggling the pick.

  “Police scanner,” said Fletcher. “I heard dispatch talking about a crossbow fight, then the officer calling in someone with your description.” She laughed with a touch of insanity. “I thought it’d only be a matter of time before you were arrested.”

  “Okay,” said Matheus. “Why did you find me?” The lock clicked. Matheus shook free the handcuffs. He pulled himself onto the seat and buckled himself in.

  Fletcher glanced over her shoulder. “We need to talk.”

  “I thought I was dead to you.” Matheus grabbed the door handle as the SUV swung into a parking garage, rocketing over the speed bumps. His head banged against the roof. “Are you sure you should be doing this? What about the baby?”

  “I’m wearing a seatbelt.” Fletcher pulled into a parking spot and killed the engine. “It’s a boy, by the way.”

  “The seatbelt?”

  “The baby, wanker.”

  “Congratulations,” said Matheus. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on now?”

  Fletcher’s seatbelt clicked, zipping away. She turned, somewhat hampered by her stomach and the close quarters. Her face had filled out, softening her appearance, but deep lines bracketed her mouth. She wore no makeup, her complexion pale except for the dark circles around her eyes. Matheus wondered when she’d slept last.

  “Father is acting strange.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. Her manicure had grown out, the color stopping mid-nail.

  “How could you tell?” Matheus asked.

  “I’m serious, Matt―Matheus. He’s different.” Fletcher bowed her head. “I think he’s losing his mind.”

  “What do you mean, losing?”

  Fletcher shot him a glare.

  “I don’t know what you expect from me,” Matheus said. “I’ve been solidly on the ‘he’s bonkers’ side for a while now.”

  “No,” said Fletcher. “He wasn’t like this before. The alliance with that… creature. I’m not supposed to know, but I hear things. The things she’s doing for him… killing humans. He’s never…” Fletcher trailed off, her gaze drifting out the window. “Before he was, yes, obsessed, but he’s gotten worse. Ever since you… He used to act as though you’d come back. Like any day, you’d just stroll back into the house. He never really believed you were gone for good.”

  “That’s because he dismisses anything that doesn’t fit into his perfect little world,” Matheus said.

  “I know he’s not perfect,” said Fletcher.

  Matheus snorted.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, stop acting like a child. I knew you would be like this.” Fletcher sighed, rubbing her forehead.

  “Then why are you here?” asked Matheus.

  “Because I don’t know what to do!” Fletche
r’s voice rose into a panicked pitch. She rested her forehead on the back of the seat, her shoulders shaking. “I’m so tired.”

  “Jesus.” Matheus scooted forward, smoothing his palm over Fletcher’s hair. “I’m sorry, Fletch. Stop crying. Your baby will come out with two heads or something.”

  A choked noise escaped her. She raised her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “No, I’m sorry.” She gave him a wan smile. “I haven’t been sleeping well.” She straightened and settled back against the dashboard, rubbing a hand over her stomach. “I’ve been so worried about Father. He’s fixated on you, but not you, if that makes any sense.”

  “It doesn’t,” said Matheus.

  “It’s like you’re dead.”

  “I am dead.”

  “Yes and no,” said Fletcher. “You’re walking about, looking like yourself. It’s confusing. Father isn’t handling that well. You killed his son. He wants revenge.”

  “I am his son.” Matheus picked up the packet and traced his thumb over the worn leather. The maker’s label had faded into obscurity; scratches marred the metal. He’d lost one of the picks when a neighbor came home unexpectedly. Matheus had run for it, leaving the pick still lodged in the lock. The cops came round to interview the delinquent next door. Matheus’s father provided an alibi and a private lecture on his many failings. He still remembered the hangover he’d had the next morning.

  “You’re not,” said Fletcher.

  “Trust me, I wish I wasn’t,” said Matheus. “But you really can’t deny the resemblance.”

  Fletcher shook her head. “No, you’re just some… thing living in his body.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Matheus tossed the lock picks onto the seat and leaned forward, catching Fletcher’s wrist. He tapped the thin, crooked scar running between the knuckles on her index finger. “You got this cut trying to make an apple pie when you were ten. No one else was home, so I called a cab and went with you to the hospital. You needed three stitches.” Matheus smiled. “We stopped on the way home and bought a pie at Tesco’s, then ate the whole thing in the car park.”

  “Don’t.” Fletcher pulled her hand away, folding her fingers out of sight within the pockets of her jacket. She stared out the side window, the fluorescent lights casting a greenish pall over her skin. “Don’t try to confuse things.”