Vampire Mage

by Rosemary A Johns

  Slam — Drake cracked me down across the cannon.

  I groaned; my wings were trapped beneath me, taking most of the impact. Fire shot straight to the wingtips, searing. The ancient powers inside bellowed at the indignity: the threat to my newly knitted wing bones.

  And to my chances at flight: to Rise.

  The shadows stirred, restless. I fought to hold them inside.

  Slam — Drake hauled me up from the cannon, only to smash me down across it again.

  He knew.

  The Ice Commander was deliberately targeting my wings because of course he had a strategy. He didn’t fight on emotion and rage like me, with the beauty of a dance like Rebel, or the instinct of his squirming magic like Mischief. If he couldn’t take out my mind, Drake would take out my wings — shank my weakness.

  Cold bastard.

  Yet he’d grown up with Rahab as a daddy and been gifted as a kid to my mummy as a bed slave…

  I’d be astounded if Drake didn’t know how to hurt.

  Except, I was a Jerusalem Children’s Home kid. I’d been raised with hurt in my soul too.

  Rebel had once told me that if I didn’t kill only to save, then when I hunted vampires, we’d become only two monsters in the snow.

  Well, watch out bitches, because now there’d be two monsters in the blood.

  Mischief’s magic glinted in a gushing wave through me: popcorn and power. I wove it in winding braids with my violet fire that surged, fizzing in fury at Drake’s attack, until they became silvery violet discs.

  The discs exploded from my palms, launching Drake in a howl of fried feathers and shocked pain through the air and slamming into the pool of blood beneath the whipping post.

  Shocked whispers.

  Even the apprentices risked their own lashing to break their military silence.

  I eased off the cannon, wincing at the smart in my wings, before prowling to Drake, who sprawled in the crater where he’d landed.

  Hell, this magic was juiced.

  Drake moaned, forcing his head up to glare at me.

  Nope, that wasn’t guilt icy-balled in my stomach at the anguish in his eyes.

  I pulled my hands further apart, and the discs whirled together into a single pulsing sun.

  Drake swallowed, staring up at the lightening sky.

  Why was it so hard to draw back my arm and shoot him with the final fire bolt?

  Victory: it throbbed through me to a tribal beat. My enemy crushed at my feet. Except, I desired Drake at my side. This felt…wrong…even as I pulled back my arm to strike.

  Then Drake roared, rolling to the side. I blinked, confused.

  Three Drakes hovered in the air before me: bleeding, bruised, and annoyingly smug.

  Bastard clones.

  “What’s wrong?” Drake One smirked. “Are you having difficulty deciding which one of us to make bleed, brat?”

  I flinched, before forcing my sore wings to flap, rising to meet him in the air. “Why limit myself to only one angel toy, when there’s three up for grabs?”

  The Drakes growled, but all my powers were ready. It didn’t matter which one was the real Drake, he’d just shown me his belly and begged me to slip in the shank.

  When Drake Two dived towards me, I fired a burst of flames sizzling across his wings. He howled, and as I’d hoped, an echo of the wound vibrated through the other clones and the real Drake. He tumbled down onto the arena floor with a bang.

  Simultaneously, I cast a shadow net over Drake One, sticky over his creamy skin, swinging him crashing next to his clone brother, as well as shooting a disc at Drake Three, blasting him in a spray of singed feathers onto his back.

  Multiple Drakes? Multiple ways to hurt him at the same time.

  Each Drake reached out towards the other, whimpering and holding each other’s hands in comfort. I realised he was attempting to wrench them back inside himself again. He’d been too weakened to manage it, however, and now his clones were stuck outside to suffer with him.

  As I landed, prowling towards the three Drakes it was easy to spot the original: it was the one who pushed himself up onto his elbows, as if he could even now protect his clones.

  Like he’d always protected me.

  I stumbled, fading the fire on my hands.

  Hell, I couldn’t do this.

  Yet there were more ways to win than blood. We might be both coated in Rebel’s, but Drake had always been hurt more by tender touches than pain.

  I hated the way the clones cringed back from me, as I crouched over them. The true Drake, however, met my gaze, even if his breath hitched.

  I reached out, stroking Drake One’s feathers from the shoulder to the wing tip; Drake shuddered as he too felt the echo of the sensation. I traced over Drake Three’s nipple; he panted, whining. Then I twisted.

  All three Drakes arched.

  Drake turned away his head. “I’m the real Drake,” he muttered. “You need not…”

  I slipped my hand beneath his harem trousers to caress his inner thigh, as I continued to twist Drake Three’s nipple, and kissed Drake One’s wing tip.

  Drake writhed, overloaded with sensation. “Enough. It’s me,” he murmured. “Don’t violate my shadows; they’re innocents.” He steeled himself, before raising shaking fingers to touch my hair. “I hid them from your mother; she believed they could only appear in battle. Have me if you wish, but they’ve never… They don’t know what it is to be forced at the hands of a Glory. Do not steal that from them.”

  How had the dominant bitch inside managed to escape: the Glory these blokes feared and needed to hide from here on the island? No wonder they hated Angel World.

  And me.

  I shook, drawing back.

  Drake wrenched on his clones. Finally, they merged into him. He fell back, closing his eyes. “Allow me to congratulate you on your win.”

  I ran my fingers through his curls, which were stiff with Rebel’s blood. His eyes snapped open with shock.

  Catcalls and jeers.

  Drake flushed.

  “Look at me.” I grabbed his chin; his eyes were wide and his pupils blown. “You have the only bitch in the castle; this is most bloke’s wet dream. What do those pricks have but a cold bed and their own hand? Let them watch because you’re the only one I see.”

  Then I kissed him: desperate, hard, and exploding with frankincense stars.

  Drake was real, beneath me, and mine.

  “As you like.” Drake breathed in slowly, as if trying to breathe me in: to live on my scent alone. “It has always been as you like.”

  He smiled, shy and uncertain.

  My chest ached. I’d used Drake’s fondness but why hadn’t I seen that it was truly love, as fierce as Rebel’s or Ash’s? Just…different…because had anyone ever loved Drake before?

  Did I now?

  Rahab’s clapping, followed by the sudden stamping of feet and beating of wings broke me out of my daze.

  Drake tensed, his face becoming the rigid mask that I understood so much more now.

  Lazarus rises! Rises! Rises! And we will rise!

  I gritted my teeth, as the chant swelled around the Bailey, before dying down at last.

  “Was I not right to trust in my royal guest? Like a good father, I knew you merely needed the correct push for the win. The motivation.” Rahab rose over the Bailey; his bow lips curled into a smile. “You are now an official apprentice in the Brotherhood. You may work to become a mage: my true child. Whereas my blood son…” His smile died an ugly death into a glare; Drake quailed. “Well, we all know he’s not worthy.”

  Smatters of laugher.

  My fists clenched, as I fought not to unleash my fire on the smug bastards.

  Rahab waved his hand. “The contest is over. Violet is entered into the Brotherhood, and Duma is humbled to Underserving.” His eyes sparked. “You’ve already trained to serve her mother, Duma, you should know how to satisfy her daughter.”

  “I’ll satisfy myself by kicking your
arse.” I launched myself up, but Drake snatched hold of my skirt, yanking me back down.

  Drake shook his head. “Be silent. Now is the time to celebrate. Don’t you want to see your brother again at the Initiation Feast?”

  My brother?

  A bruised shoulder beneath golden sheets in the Through the Looking Glass room…

  At last, I’d meet my magical monster brother at a feast in my honour. I’d know if he was safe.

  I forced myself to give a careful nod. “I’m always down for partying hard.”

  Rahab swooped towards Phoenix Hall, on the edge of the castle. “Party and punishment. I promised both lover and brother remember? Consistency is the key: I shall never break a promise. Now, follow.”

  In waves of gold and bronze, Rahab’s boys rose into the air after him, circling towards Phoenix Hall.

  I offered my hand to Drake, pulling him to his feet. We both wore Rebel’s blood like second skins. Now scarlet painted, we flew after the tide of gold towards my reward, brother, and my punishment.

  11

  As a kid in the children’s home at night — alone — I’d weave tales of my birth brother: older, braver, and my protector.

  I imagined that we’d been separated by mistake, but he was searching for me and would find me. Then I wouldn’t be the only freak with mismatched eyes anymore because he’d be the same as me, only he’d be able to stop the monsters creeping into my bed at night.

  He’d save me.

  Except, now my brother and I were the monsters, and I was the one who had to save my older brother: The Invisible Prince.

  In fact, so invisible that as I squirmed on the turquoise bench at High Table, straining from my vantage point on the dais at the end of Phoenix Hall, I couldn’t even see him.

  At least, I didn’t think so…

  Yet would I even recognise him? My half-brother was nothing more to me than a flash of brunet hair and pale skin.

  A stranger.

  My claws shot out, screeching along the sparkling table top. Drake’s hand rested on my shoulder, before he leant over to refill my gold tankard with mead.

  I snorted: when I’d said partying hard, never in Medieval Ville had I thought it’d be with mead.

  Drake straightened, keeping his gaze averted from mine. His silk trousers had already been changed to silver: Undeserving. I itched to rip them off his slender thighs — not because of the 101 Dirty Reasons that’d be fun — but because he shouldn’t be reduced to the ranks of servant…because his dad had wanted to prove my worth before the Legion.

  “Problem?” Rahab rapped his fingers on the table in imitation of my claws; I sharply retracted my talons. “Aren’t you enjoying your reward?”

  “Because it’s never a problem to brutally flog someone’s fam.” I slammed my tankard against the table; the foam slopped out in a fizzing sea. “This is mutiny, bro”

  “I believe that to be my line,” he replied drily, sprawling back in the armchair at the head of the table, which was draped with a golden canopy.

  Och perched next to me, clutching his tankard like his firstborn.

  Guess that’s what a guilty conscience looked like. Except, it hadn’t stopped Och putting his back into swinging the cat o’nine tails.

  I scanned the hall again, over the bowed heads of the apprentices on the lower trestle tables and the mages, rowdy and drunken, on the silk covered tables closer to us.

  Cheers and whistles.

  I pinked: the party was for me. I’d told Mischief I’d never wanted power. But respect? Adulation? To fit in?

  Yeah, I bastard thirsted for those.

  Tapestries as rich as the table coverings hung on the stone walls, between the gold and green banners of the Legion: angels battled vampires, witches fell before mages, and in the most glorious shone the prophecy of the Rising…

  I shivered, caught in the thrill.

  Could it be real? Could I be the one who led the Brotherhood to that wondrous moment of victory: The Chosen who they’d been waiting for?

  Unexpectedly, music burst through the hall: the seductive spell of Katy Perry’s “Dark Horse”. I closed my eyes, snared in the song’s relentless, unstoppable black magic. Its chorus rose in brooding crescendos: magic as a weapon of love.

  “Are you making a point?” I forced out, opening my eyes with difficulty against the force of the music.

  Rahab blinked. “My tastes lean more towards Mozart than hip hop, but the mages discovered this music from their human Brothers. I’m not the Matriarch: indulging in humanity isn’t punished, as long as they don’t lose themselves in it.”

  I caught Drake’s smirk, before he covered his mouth with his hand. “Your son wasn’t in charge of this playlist?”

  Rahab’s gaze shifted to Drake. “And if he was?”

  Drake’s expression instantly stilled. Yeah, I got the joke: I’d cast a love spell on him, and now he was screwed. There was something legendary about Drake pulling that kind of trick at my own celebratory feast to get back at me for winning, and no way was he being punished for it.

  I grinned. “Then his choice of song doesn’t suck.”

  This time, Drake didn’t hide his smile.

  A whine, loud enough to startle me even over the icy rhythms of “Dark Horse”.

  Startled, I caught a movement in the shadows at the back of the hall. Then the mages laughed again, and this time it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with humiliating the naked vampire, who they’d forced to all fours in the sole patch of shadow on the bare floor.

  Ash wore the Compulsion Collar around his neck, and his chain had been wound around a table leg. Even though he was out of direct sunlight, the rays through the phoenix stained-glass in the arched windows must be giving him the mother of all migraines.

  When a mage bent to pour a dribble of blood — not enough to do more than bank the fires of starvation — into a bowl on the floor, and Ash desperately lapped it up, I fought not to remember the way I’d fed his sisters.

  How I’d once had my own pets.

  Sneering snickers.

  I shrank back on the bench. Why had I even for a moment wanted to lead these pricks? What magic was woven into those tapestries?

  When I glared at Rahab, he didn’t even try to hide the smug grin. “Feeling any…different?”

  “I’ll be in the sharing mood, when you tell me where Rebel and Mischief are.”

  Rahab sighed. “All this is in your honour, yet you worry about an Addict and an Underserving…?”

  “Guess I’m a sentimental bitch.”

  “Then I imagine I am too because they’re recovering in the Mirror Lodge.” Rahab tilted his head. “Do you not approve?”

  “You’ve earned a Feathers Medal. You want your second…? Where’s my brother?”

  “Patience,” Rahab tutted. “The show is about to begin.”

  I stiffened. Why did I think this wouldn’t be the rabbits out of a hat variety, unless it included cutting someone truly in half? “Patience is overrated, like shower sex, birthdays, power, dieting, perfection, money, parents—”

  “I’m intrigued to discover what isn’t overrated in your world?”

  “Fam: their loyalty, courage, and sacrifice. Love.”

  Drake’s fingers ghosted across my shoulder again, grounding me down from the high. I gripped onto the edge of the table.

  “You may not believe me, but I hold the same truth.” Tiny crinkles radiated around Rahab’s eyes, as he smiled. “My Legion, here and amongst the humans, are my fam. I prize the same values as you. Yet perhaps it’s merely hard for you to accept the authority of another? Remember, I understand; I seek to help bring you into our Brotherhood.”

  If it hadn’t been for Drake’s touch on my shoulder — Rahab’s true son, who’d been cast out — I’d have believed Rahab.

  How to Be a Cult Leader for Beginners. And I’d almost fallen for it.

  “Yeah, so let’s get with the bringing already.”

  R
ahab frowned, perplexed. “It’s not a celebration without a feast.”

  As the music died, Drake slipped a golden platter in front of me, then a second before his dad. I groaned, sinking into the heady roasted aromas. Thick wedges of beef towered over flanks of venison and pheasant wings. I half-expected a wild boar to be stuffed at the head of the table next to a slaughtered swan.

  A bitch from the streets of Hackney had never feasted Henry the Eighth style, and after a month on Dickensian gruel, my stomach grumbled.

  This meat was going down.

  I snatched up a leg of…something dead…and gnawed, ripping off the flesh, as the juices ran sticky down my chin.

  Rahab only grinned, whilst he nibbled delicately on a bread roll.

  Hell, let him. This would be meaty heaven, if I had a pizza slice underneath it…

  “You bastards don’t have to eat,” I accused between mouthfuls. “You get all your yummy nutrition from the sun. So, why do you act the Addicts and copy humans? After all, don’t you think they’re worthless?”

  “Not worthless,” Rahab ripped the roll in half, crumbling it between his fingers. “Many have magic. The rest? Must be reminded of their place.”

  Suddenly, the mages beat their fists — bang, bang, bang — on the table. Then they cheered, as Kunel swept to his feet with a bow.

  When Kunel swaggered towards us, I slumped. “Here comes the jester,” I muttered.

  Rahab’s lips quirked. “One of those at this table is quite enough.”

  Fair point.

  “On this Initiation Feast, let us remember the story of the Legion of the Phoenix!” Kunel swung back to his audience, who shuffled in their seats in anticipation.

  I rolled my eyes, shovelling in another mouthful of beef, before slurping on my mead. More fairy tales…

  These angel mages were no different to the vampires, Blood Lovers, or kids in the children’s home. They ritualised fantasies to hide from the terror of the truth beneath.

  Including the monster who was sitting in a golden chair like a benevolent god right here amongst them.