Vampire Mage

by Rosemary A Johns

  Was Rahab the saviour not the Big Bad? The Glories were savage and cruel. I’d rescued their slaves myself. I was working on freeing their Wings.

  My eyes were burning, but I blinked away the tears. Yeah, I understood. My blokes and me were the outcast misfits and we were fam. But wasn’t Rahab as brutal as the Glories?

  “Lucifer was a prick but he loved me.” I stumbled towards Rahab.

  Whack — I slammed my hand against the rock.

  Rahab gripped my chin. “Is that what you choose to believe?”

  Don’t cry…don’t bastard cry…

  “You’re not my dad,” I repeated like a mantra, before whispering, “you’ll never be…”

  “Zophia,” Rahab snapped.

  When Mischief slunk to his side, Rahab snatched Mischief by the scruff of the neck, pressing hard into the base. Mischief yowled.

  “Stop it,” I snarled, tugging at Rahab’s wrist.

  When my violet vampiric claws shot out of my nails, Rahab shook his head.

  “Desist. You shall control yourself. If you do not stand still, behaving as both a queen and a Brother, then I shall weight Zophia and abandon him to the snakes in this pool for the next month.” At Mischief’s terrified gasp, I froze breathing hard through my nose. I couldn’t let Mischief be put with the snakes again. Not because of me. Rahab smiled. “Good girl. You see how wisely I choose my Phoenix Apprentices…? Duma, on the other hand…?”

  When Rahab shoved his thumb deeper into the base of Mischief’s neck, Mischief’s face became pale and pinched with pain, as he struggled for breath, forced into shifting into Commander Duma Drake.

  No longer long silver hair but golden curls. Gold harem trousers, instead of silver.

  I shivered at the violation of the forced shift.

  The false Drake hung like a puppet from his dad’s hand, which held him onto tiptoe. Only then did I realise that it was white-hot fury, which was making him tremor. “I don’t know that I have a sufficiently inflated superiority complex to play your son.” The false Drake hissed. “Should I toss my pretty curls, stomp around like a god, and lock myself alone in my room?”

  I stared at the false Drake in shock. Why the hell did I want to light up his cloned arse in defence of my true harem boy Commander, even if he did have pretty curls?

  I hadn’t expected Rahab to answer drily, “You seem to be managing so far.” Then he shook the false Drake, knocking his harem pants down his slim hips. “You see how something can appear one thing and yet be another? Duma is no son of mine, even though he’s in the Brotherhood. You can’t choose what slithers bloody from your lover’s womb, ripping her apart.”

  Rahab’s smile was frozen. His eyes glittered like another realm lay beneath the surface: and it wasn’t the one of fluffy bunnies and snuggles.

  I recoiled; my heart raced. “When Drake asked you why you reduced him to a Marked Wing, you said it wasn’t because—"

  “He murdered his mother through his birth?’ Rahab stroked his fingers down False Drake’s cheek, and False Drake flinched. “No, I told him it was because he’s a disappointment. And that’s also the truth.”

  “I take it back.” Mischief’s voice was quiet and thoughtful out of False Drake’s mouth. “However Commander Drake behaves, it appears he has every reason to lock himself in his room.”

  “Yet your beloved Queen of Chaos has taken a Marked Wing in the same way as the Matriarch took Drake.” Rahab dug his fingers into the False Drake’s neck again, and I stiffened. Bastard, no… Rebel’s soft violet eyes smudged with kohl eyeliner gazed back at me.

  Nope, not Rebel: False Rebel, even if he had a perfect flame of hair and studded leather jacket with red bondage trousers, as well as a spiked black collar around his neck.

  Hell, after a month of not seeing Rebel, it hurt to see him now as an illusion.

  Yet it also hurt Mischief to see how much I hungered for him to be my Blood Bonded and Marked lover, rather than himself. He couldn’t hide that pain, just as I couldn’t hide how much I desired Rebel.

  Loved him.

  I ached for him.

  False Rebel closed his eyes, turning away his head.

  “What do you want?” I asked Rahab; my voice was tight.

  “I believe you were the one who wanted something.” Rahab splayed his hand along False Rebel’s chest, tweaking his nipple.

  “Cool story, bro, but I’ve got the message. I disrespected and now I’ve got your autopsy-level attention. So, what do you want from me, so you’ll stop hurting Mischief?”

  Rahab’s surprised gaze met mine, as his groping hand stilled. “You truly care about this Undeserving?”

  “Ding, ding, give that wizard a wand.”

  Rahab spun the False Rebel towards me, and we tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs. I shoved Mischief away, gritting my teeth against the shifting of my broken bones, and he turned back to himself again with visible relief.

  Mischief studied me with an unreadable expression that unnerved me.

  “He’s yours.” Rahab swooped into the air above us.

  “And the deal is…?”

  “We’re not in the Under World. There are no deals, only rewards and punishments. Not everyone believes you have a place here with us, but I have faith in you. The Matriarch saw you as no more than a weapon to take part in her twisted sports. Lucifer is a brat who never knew how to use his freedom or spark. But you…? With the right training, direction, and motivation could take us all into the light.”

  The ancient powers inside me stirred, roused by his fervour. My cheeks reddened; I ducked my head. Hell, only Rebel had ever spoken with such belief. Why couldn’t Rahab get with the program of wing breaking and snake ducking, at least then I didn’t get the charismatic leader tingles that made me want to start marching in his deluded army.

  A tug at the velvet scarf around my neck.

  I blinked, glancing down into Mischief’s concerned gaze.

  “There may not be deals, you senseless ingenue, but there are balances,” Mischief said. “If you receive rewards, then they must be earnt. Why, I ask, would you wish to receive anything from…?"

  “Because I’m his apprentice.” I looked up, battling to meet Rahab’s scrutiny. “So, let’s get with the rewarding.”

  The gust from Rahab’s blazing wings hit my face. “Three wishes then, if I was a genie. What would you ask for if you could have your deepest desires?”

  I ignored the frantic shaking of Mischief’s head, as I held up my hand and counted, “One: Mischief, he’s mine.”

  Rahab snapped his fingers. “It doesn’t work like that, but I like the effect. Now you’ve chosen him, your second two wishes can’t include your other Wing or the vampire.”

  I froze. “No way—"

  “Do you wish me to change this to punishment, rather than reward?”

  I smacked my fist against my thigh, only for Mischief to catch my hand and cradle it. “Two: my brother. I want to see him.” Mischief sighed and shook his head. “What? Did I say it wrong?”

  Before I’d been brought to this castle, I hadn’t even known that I’d had a half-brother. But as soon as Rahab had told me I had a blood sibling, I’d been desperate to see him and be certain he wasn’t a prisoner or tortured like Mischief.

  Rahab had told me he wouldn’t place me in the barracks with my blokes. Instead, because I was royalty, I’d be lodged with my brother. But I still hadn’t seen him, and it clawed at my insides.

  Rahab grinned, snapping his fingers. “And three?”

  “I want to prove myself to you.”

  Because it was the only way to raise through the Legion and save all the worlds.

  Rahab’s grin faded. “You will rise above us all, I am certain of it.” Then he snapped his fingers again. I jumped, as he swooped, crushing me in a hard embrace. “Wishes granted. You’ll prove yourself in a Battle of the Bailey against my son, Duma. It’s a longstanding tradition in the legion. If you’re victorious, you’ll win the rewa
rd of Zophia as your personal Undeserving and the chance to see your brother. You’ll fight before the entire Legion.”

  He hauled me to my feet. I staggered, trying to balance myself with broken wings.

  How the hell could I fight the Commander of the angelic army like this?

  “Of course, if you don’t win,” Rahab ran his hand through his curls, “perhaps if you imagine I’d asked your three worst nightmares, rather than your three wishes…? Because that’s how I choose my punishments.”

  No wonder J had turned scaredy-cat and demanded that I hide him.

  Now I had to fight Drake, whilst my wings were injured, and either receive my three deepest desires or face my three personal nightmares.

  3

  In Angel World, I was the Monster Princess. I’d been crowned Queen of Chaos in the Under World. Here in Drake’s Castle…? I was the freaky black-and-violet eyed female apprentice in the sea of the Brotherhood.

  And sometimes the only way to win was to lose.

  Silver sparks shocked, then lips were kissing mine: desire and magic. I pulled away from its wildness, before its thread of loneliness and pain called to mine, and I dived into the touch like we were meant to rule together.

  Like we already were.

  Then Mischief finally drew away. “You are fighting for me,” he forced himself to take a step back. “What kind of damsel would I be if I didn’t grant you my favour?”

  “Does your favour come with a side order of healed wings?” I rolled my shoulders: no way was I flying today.

  I shifted awkwardly in the centre of the Bailey: the vast courtyard of the castle. Swaying, I caught myself on the bulbous bronze cannon; Mischief rested his hand on the whipping post above my head, blocking me from the view of the entire Brotherhood, who’d been put on parade to watch the battle: either my victory or humiliation.

  Apprentices in bronze harem pants stood sweating at attention in the boiling heat: angels no older than me, teenagers, and kids. The apprentices didn’t move a bastard muscle: a clay army. I didn’t blame them; last week an angel with the graceful wings and poise of a ballerina had fainted on parade, and I’d drifted to sleep that night with the swish — crack of his flogging, at the same whipping post that I now huddled under, shuddering through me.

  Kunel, First Reformer and Bastard Number One, who was in charge of the apprentices, glowed like a Captain America impersonator: slicked blond hair and not a feather out of place.

  Mages in gold harem pants — the Alpha top boys — lounged against a wall in the shade, whilst servants in silver scurried between them with cool drinks: The Underserving, like Mischief.

  Rahab’s refuge was as hierarchical as Angel World. The only difference was how you rose or fell between the ranks and who was in charge.

  Mischief leaned closer, murmuring, “The rules are not the same anymore. I can no longer take your pain for mere brownie points.” I winced: Mischief could heal but he did it by taking the pain onto himself. Had I been using him? “I may only share my talent with Mage Drake’s permission, or when I choose to and he has no chance of discovering it. Do you believe you still have the power on this island?”

  I squirmed but shrugged. “Screw having power. How about getting through without being phoenix whomped, cult brainwashed, or turned into chunky salsa?”

  “Well, someone’s certainly not a realist.” I smacked Mischief’s arm, and he grinned. “How about we both strive towards those lofty goals?”

  I dragged him towards me, kissing his forehead.

  Sniggers and jeers.

  Mischief wriggled away from me with a glare, rubbing at his forehead like a kid wiping away his mum’s kiss.

  “We were swapping saliva a moment ago, but now you’re playing the virgin?” Black and violet roared, outraged at his rejection, hissing to drag him down and teach him in front of everyone just how much I could touch him…

  Shocked, I stumbled away, huddling my arms around myself.

  Mischief glared at me. “I am not your pet.”

  I blanched. Hell, I remembered how my dad had called Mischief his pet, and how Rahab controlled him. I’d never meant to make him feel like that… Yet wasn’t it how I’d just ached to treat him? “I didn’t—"

  “I’m quite certain you did.” Mischief bit out, before shoving me into the fighting arena. “You have a battle to win.”

  I stumbled, catching my toe between the amber cobblestones.

  Sniggers again.

  Shadows danced behind my eyes. I drew myself up, twisting to the mages. They shrank back, looking anywhere but my furious glare.

  Then I turned to Rahab.

  He stood in the grand archway to the gatehouse with his majestic — unbroken — wings out. Their pulsing wingtips rested loosely on the two angels who knelt either side of him: his son, Drake, and Rebel.

  My head jerked back, as my skin tingled: Rebel, my Irish bondage punk angel. Not false or an illusion but real for the first time in a month of only being able to feel his emotions of fear, pain, and shame through the bond and soothing him through it, whilst not knowing if I was breaking his trust by forcing my emotions into him. Because he hadn’t willingly become my Marked or my Bonded: I’d taken both from him.

  Did I even deserve to comfort him?

  What the hell: I loved Rebel, and he bastard loved me.

  Fam was fam.

  Rahab caressed his fingers along Rebel’s shoulder, and I shuddered. I scanned Rebel for injuries: he was unmarked. Yet when Rahab could turn phobias into torture devices and all he needed with Rebel was the dark to torment him…?

  When I took a storming step towards Rahab, Drake pushed himself up from his knees and stalked towards me, blocking my path. Unlike the False Drake that Mischief had shifted into, my Goldilocks had been reduced from his Commander gold trousers, to bronze Apprentice, just like me. He rubbed at them absentmindedly, revealing his creamy thighs, as if the trousers bothered him.

  When Drake met me in the middle of the arena, he jerked his head at the ranks of the apprentices and Kunel with a sharp tap of his bare foot against the cobbles.

  Forbidden from talking to each other since we’d been brought under Kunel’s loving care, we’d developed the art of whole conversations via body language. Drake’s meant:

  What’s up with you in the land of crazy cats, bitch? Why’d you call down this conflict on me to humiliate me in front of the gang?

  Although, that’s a loose translation.

  I nodded towards Rahab.

  No choice, bro.

  Drake clenched his jaw, casting me an anxious, searching glance.

  I sighed, as brilliant white threads that tasted of candy floss, quested into my mind, spinning me in their softness. They stroked me, soothing. This was our secret. The way Drake had reached out to me, risking punishment throughout this month to connect without words.

  To bond.

  “Our new apprentice has asked to prove herself in the Battle of the Bailey.” Rahab stepped forward from the archway. Drake snapped back the white from my mind. His gaze blanked, but not before I’d missed the sudden cold rage. “My son may not have the same honour to ask for the chance…” Hoots. Drake paled, and I tensed: please don’t bastard do this…not because of my three wishes… “But I’m a kind father. So, Duma, do you wish for the opportunity to prove you have at least some worth before your peers?”

  “Yes, sir,” Drake forced out, his hands fisted at his sides.

  He didn’t turn around however, his gaze still locked with mine. His hand twitched: See, what an epic ball busting you’ve called down on me?

  “How mortifying to hold a fondness for our royal apprentice and yet know she loves Addicts and vampires more than you.” Titters from the mages as they slouched closer, circling the arena. Drake hunched, avoiding my eye. “Don’t you wish — just once — to win against her? Show her your true worth, whatever that may be? Or are you nothing but her sacrifice: burnt, abandoned, and disposable?” Drake flinched at each wo
rd: assassin’s blades, wrapped in the trickery of fatherly concern. I fidgeted, reaching for Drake’s hand, but he recoiled. “Will she ever be able to see you as more than her lovers’ gaoler?” He stroked Rebel’s hair, and Drake’s eyes narrowed at my growl. “Win, Duma, and demonstrate you can be something other than a disappointment.”

  For the first time, Drake’s eyes glinted with tears.

  Rahab was going down Hackney style.

  Except, Drake’s expression had cooled to predatory ice-cold fire. With a flick of his wrist, an invisible blast knocked me backwards.

  I howled, as my wings scraped along the floor. When Drake wrenched me up by my scarf, his eyes clouded with concern. He shook his head, however, and his gaze once again smoothed out to the deadly. He shot out a second blast to paralyse me. This time, however, I was prepared; I deflected Drake’s shot with the cold magic, which slunk through my neck like chains. Then I whipped him across the face with the coils, tumbling him onto his arse.

  Guffaws from the angel pricks.

  Eyes tarring, I sprayed out a hurricane of shadows at the mages.

  Shrieks and hollers.

  I grinned: not so much with the Alpha swag now.

  The mages scrabbled at themselves, smacked each other on the back, or reached into their pants, hopping on one leg to kick out the wiggling shadows.

  When I turned to Mischief at the side of the arena, he quirked an unimpressed eyebrow, before singing, “Behind you.”

  Drake lifted me off the ground. Rich frankincense caught in my nostrils, as his pale violet wings trapped me. I struggled, but he pinned my arms to my sides, ramming me against the whipping post; the sharp iron manacles bit into my back, and I groaned.

  “I’m winning this fight,” I whispered.