Blood Shackles (Rebel Vampires Book 2)

by Rosemary A Johns

  After that, both Donovan and Hartford continued visiting me.

  I nurtured the tiny, flickering flame of hope I’d escape my cell and chains. At least I was filling out though and growing stronger, fed by the nourishing Blood Lifer blood.

  In between Sir’s training and the boredom, Donovan and Hartford’s mushes popping around the oak door were enough to have me bouncing with something, which I hadn’t felt for so long I barely recognised it. The joy of companionship.

  I’d only ever had one mate before: Alessandro.

  Now, however, I was truly alone. And Donovan and Hartford were all that anchored me.

  Sometimes they’d bring water, food (thin gruel and dry bread - these humans had been reading too much Dickens), and depending on Sir’s capricious mood, honest to goodness blood. At least I got a flask to hold in my own two hands – all grown up now, see daddy?

  I grew used to us being starkers. Hartford had been right: a bloke can be taught a lot.

  Donovan and Hartford would sit side by side with me, waffling on about something or nothing, trying to take my mind off the present. They’d both been through this. They understood how precious snatched minutes of normal life were.

  I noticed, however, that they returned to work with as little enthusiasm, as I watched them leave. I wondered what they did. But Hartford would never talk about it, even when he appeared beaten, sliced by razors or blackened with blisters.

  I became used to Donovan’s explosions of impotent fury and Hartford’s own weary acceptance.

  It hurts thinking of those two, whilst I’m out here. I might be bruised and sore but I’m with you - in the world - whilst they’re stuck away in Abona.

  One of our favourite games was to outdo each other with our hunting stories.

  Because competitive blokes here, yeah?

  By the time we were done, we could taste the First Lifer blood warm and feel the cool of the night air. We’d transformed once again into fanged predators pounding with freedom.

  ‘Groupies,’ Donovan sighed dreamily.

  Hartford shook his nut. ‘Jazz babies: now there was a treat! All those blotto dolls in loose dresses, with looser morals, wanting to have a good time. I was in Chicago when it was the hard-boiled gangsters running the cabarets and the dance clubs; now they knew how to throw a party. Later the place to be was New York, where I’d hunt The Cotton Club to the throb of Duke Ellington. Have a smoke. Have a snort. Some skirt up for some nookie and then… Pulse of the blood and the jazz in synchronicity…’ Hartford’s peepers shuddered closed, as we all licked our lips in sympathetic memory. ‘I’d sneak into the Rosewood Ballroom to hear Louis Armstrong play, even when I wasn’t on the hunt.’

  ‘Right on, sounds a blast. But you did say skirt, baby?’

  I saw Hartford bite back a smile. ‘What’s eating you? There were swanky fellas too, but I was lynched once already,’ my mind trapped his throwaway comment, shuddering with shock, ‘‘do you think I’m enough of a goof to have danced the Charleston with a fella?’

  Donovan shrugged, sulkily.

  ‘Lay off, baby.’ When Hartford swung Donovan to his feet, I cowered back, clutching my arms over my mush.

  I reckoned Hartford’s true nature had reasserted dominance and a blazing Long-lived was about to show us just what he could truly do.

  Hearing only laughter, however, I carefully lowered my arms again.

  Hartford was tossing Donovan around the cell in a spirited Charleston.

  Suddenly I felt myself grabbed by both hands and dragged into the dance. I tried to protest, thinking they’d forgotten about my chained ankle. Along with the fact I don’t sodding dance.

  They were careful, however, like I was their kid.

  I finally twigged they’d been pulling me out of my despair just as carefully.

  Maybe rescue had walked through those dark oak doors.

  My favourite times were when Donovan would risk shutting us in soundproofed, and we’d sprawl together on the cold floor.

  Then Hartford would sing.

  Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen…

  Spirituals, gospel or jazz, we were freed on their wings.

  Nobody knows but Jesus…

  Hartford didn’t have permission to sing. It was one of the motivators that right bastard Sir held over him, like doggy treats. Maybe Hartford did have some balls left after all.

  Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen…

  There was an intense sorrowfulness in Hartford’s tone. Yet there was also a deep hope and faith. I wished I could bloody share it. Even though I didn’t, however, Hartford’s strength sustained me. I wondered if that was what being Long-lived truly meant.

  Glory hallelujah!

  One time when Hartford had limped in, his back and arse bleeding, like he’d been thrashed with something meant for animals (a bullwhip I reckoned), Donovan slammed the door. Then he clasped both Hartford’s hand and mine, until we were standing in a Wiccan circle.

  Hartford’s haunting voice started up… When Israel was in Egypt’s land… The song suddenly swung into jazz… Tell old Pharaoh… I had Hartford wrong, he still had all his balls: Sir definitely figured himself a sodding Pharaoh. Donovan and I found ourselves impromptu backup singers, with wide grins on our mugs and our fingers entwined… Go down (go down)… Our bodies swayed… Moses (Moses)… Our melded voices echoed off the bare walls; we raised them as loudly as we bloody could… Tell old Pharaoh… It was the sort of release, which purged the Soul and bonded us as intimately as blood sharing… Let my people go (let my people go!).

  ‘Even they can’t take everything,’ Hartford said, once the echo of our voices had died, ‘a fella’s voice is still his own: I’m still me, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, baby,’ Donovan’s grasp tightened, ‘always.’

  It was Hartford’s mellow voice, which transported us to freedom. Even if he’d never done anything else, he did more for me in that, than I’d ever dreamed a Blood Lifer would.

  And he did do more.

  Christ in heaven did he.

  It was Donovan, however, who was finally straight up with me about what went on in Abona.

  ‘Sir’s training you.’ Hartford was leaning in the far corner, refusing to look at Donovan. I’d sparked a lovers’ tiff. ‘He must reckon you’re a righteous stud because he’s never taken this personal an interest or gone this slow before.’

  ‘Lucky me.’

  ‘No, man,’ Donovan shook his nut, ‘it’s not cool. See, you want to be invisible here. Us three? I guess we’re in this cell right now because we don’t bow to the man.’

  ‘But why the hell do those wankers even want Blood Lifer slaves?’

  ‘Bread, of course: how much do you reckon they charge each client? They can schedule ten appointments a night, or it’d blow your mind the lolly a whole night rakes in, if the client wants that. Plus some have to because they like to play rough--’

  ‘Pipe down for crying out loud,’ Hartford rushed at Donovan, slamming him against the wall.

  I was shaking, the world fuzzed to grey. It wasn’t as if it was a shock - I knew what I was now. But stated stark like that?

  It made it real: there was no hiding.

  Donovan squirmed but he couldn’t dislodge the Long-lived. ‘Hey, don’t freak out. You reckon it’s better he only learns the truth the first time a cock’s rammed--’

  Slap. Donovan’s nut snapped to the side.

  There was a silence.

  Then Donovan mumbled, ‘I’m sorry. But he has to know.’

  ‘And what am I?’ Hartford asked, ‘Just a whore?’

  Donovan’s peepers filled with tears. ‘Never to me.’

  ‘And you? What are you Donovan?’ I said quietly.

  When Hartford pushed himself away, I could see the bruises crescented on Donovan’s shoulders. Donovan ran his fingers through his unruly hair. ‘Not pretty enough for first choice. Unlike you and…’ he glanced at Hartford. ‘I’m one of the servants. It’s
a real drag: we cook, clean, wash…you know, man, run the house and Estate. Then there are others--’

  ‘The Enforcers,’ Hartford hissed. I’d never heard him sound like he could stake someone before but bugger it, he did now.

  ‘It’s the old divide and conquer trick. Not all Blood Lifers spread the love, they’re more into rising up the ranks. Marie antoinette is the worst. This skirt is practically in love with Sir. If you’re prepared to work for the First Lifers and keep the rest of us in line, Sir grants privileges: books, nights outside, even threads. Blood Lifers oppressing each other for an extra shot of pigs’ blood a day..? Bummer. Of course Hartford? He’s also Sir’s favourite chew toy.’

  ‘So bloody fight back.’ I clambered up, forgetting all caution in my eagerness.

  ‘Says you, who’s never even been out of this cell.’ Hartford darted towards me, easing me gently back down again.

  ‘But if the others knew--’

  ‘Lay off, what others? Blood Lifers? Who’d be caught as easily as we were? Or the humans?’ Hartford spat out humans with bitter contempt, before glancing at Donovan, who gave a small nod. Then they both crouched next to me. Donovan clasped Hartford’s hand, playing with his fingers; the slap was obviously forgiven. ‘Let me tell you a story.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough of those, cheers.’

  ‘That so? What about how I died?’ I shifted, averting my gaze. Us Blood Lifers don’t talk to each other about how we died as a rule: it’s intimate, like exposing your goolies to another predator. ‘Salem witch trials weren’t the first of their kind in America. My home town of…’ He hesitated, before forcing the word out fast in a whisper, ‘Hartford, Connecticut, had that privilege in 1662. All it took was little Elizabeth coming home from her neighbour Goodwife Ayres’, taking ill and saying, ‘Father! Father! Goodwife Ayres is upon me. She chokes me.’ Maybe it was all hooey - or a fever - but whatever, Elizabeth dies, and before I knew it there were accusations of bewitchment from folks I’d considered neighbours and friends. I thought it was just folks beating their gums. Yet up went the gallows in our Meeting House Square, and there were my friends baying for the woman’s blood, as poor skirts and fellas were dunked in the pond, as if witches really couldn’t sink. Sure I’m a man of god but natural philosophy too, so when I tried to argue against this madness? Suspicion fell on me. When I fought to stop them bumping off the third innocent, my goodly neighbours dragged me from my bed one night into my yard. Then the ring leader – John - a fella I’d known my whole life and crushed on too since I was old enough to realise I felt like that about him, demanded I confess. Confess I danced with the Devil and spill about my other wizarding collaborators in town. I spat in his eye. So they tied a noose around my neck and swung me from my own sugar maple.’ I saw Donovan’s hand tighten around Hartford’s. ‘My Author saved me. He elected me into Blood Life. First Lifers? They’ll never save us, my poor little bunny. If the masses discover we exist? There’ll be nothing but hysteria and death. That’s why I took the name…’ I saw the struggle, understanding it properly at last. I didn’t push. Frustrated, Hartford shook his nut. ‘Because I don’t want to forget.’

  The next time I saw Hartford, he was alone.

  But Sir was close on his heels.

  Sir wasn’t wearing a jacket and his salmon pink shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and rolled up at the elbows. He wasn’t carrying that blasted riding crop. Yet there was something about his casual dress - Mr Corporate on a day off - which spooked me, as did the nonchalant way he caught Hartford by the shoulder, giving the tender flesh a squeeze.

  Hartford tried to catch my eye, as I scrambled to kneel: I understood it as a warning.

  Sir barked out, ‘Inspect’.

  Submissively, as if following a drill he’d done for years, Hartford stood several yards from the wall, leaning his palms flat against it, his back arched and legs shoulder width apart. He glanced over his shoulder at me.

  Audience participation was it?

  Reluctantly, I pushed myself up and stood next to Hartford, copying his stance. I hadn’t realised how humiliating it’d be: staring at that blank wall, with my arse stuck out.

  Then I heard one of the sounds no one ever sodding wants to hear behind them, especially if they’re standing starkers, hands against a wall, with their goolies hanging free: the snap of a medical glove being pulled on.

  I reared up, but Hartford snatched at my wrists, yanking me back into position.

  I couldn’t help, however, having a sneaky shufti over my shoulder, as Sir moved behind Hartford. This was to be a lesson for me then, with Hartford as example.

  Were we nothing but poseable dolls?

  Sir rested one hand on the pale small of Hartford’s back, as if to calm a skittish horse, the other - comical gloved in vivid purple plastic - fondled the Long-lived’s goolies, before slipping forward to his todger. A shudder ran through Hartford but then he was still again. Next that purple hand was tracing backwards.

  I tried to shove down my stampeding panic.

  But then it happened. That thick, dry finger, inched inside…

  Hartford’s body became rigid. I could hear his panted breaths. Then a second finger joined the first and a third finger decided it didn’t want to be left out. When Sir crooked them, Hartford jerked, as if jolted by electricity.

  Finally, those purple fingers withdrew.

  ‘All in working order, whore.’ Sir patted Hartford on the rump, almost affectionately. I saw him toss the glove aside, before –– snap.

  That next one had my name on it.

  Click, click, click. Sir was close behind me; the reek of citrus wrapped me in its choking hold.

  I was meant to be showing Sir my gratitude. But this..?

  I could feel Hartford looking at me. I could almost hear him willing me to just shut up and take it. Like he had. Yet I couldn’t figure why he had. He was a Long-lived, and Sir was only a First Lifer.

  ‘You want to keep those fingers?’ I said, without moving, ‘I’d think twice about where you stick them.’

  I heard Hartford draw in his breath.

  But from Sir?

  Silence.

  I tensed. Then I found myself smashed face first into the wall, shattering my cheekbone. My arm was twisted high up behind my back – pop – there went my shoulder socket.

  Still, a bloke’s arse is worth a shoulder if you have to choose.

  And I did.

  ‘Look you, my pretty leech, what you don’t realise in that stupid, worthless little brain,’ Sir’s mouth was so close to my lobe I could feel the alien softness of his lips, ‘is there be two types of clients, see, in the Blood Club. There are those who fuck Blood Lifers for the unique experience. It’s like a sex safari. They’ll be gentle with you, like I am, even when you’re bad.’ He shoved me harder into the wall and I gasped, as my cheekbones shifted. ‘But the second type? Now they’re all about the pain, seeing as you leeches can take it and heal. They pay because they can do such things,’ I felt Sir’s mouth curve into a smile, as I had no doubt he was looking at Hartford, ‘that if they did them to a human…well, they’d be monsters, isn’t it? Now, who do you think decides which type of client sees which of you sluts?’ Sir stroked up and down the back of my neck with mock tenderness, teasing the strands of hair.

  ‘Mick Jagger?’ Sir’s grip on my twisted arm tightened. ‘Stephen Hawkins? Germaine Greer? Eddie Izzard? Stop me when I get close.’

  The punch to my kidneys set off a coughing fit.

  ‘You know I can plug you with something bigger than my finger, boyo. Make sure you feel it.’

  I was trembling but I didn’t start the tirade of pathetic begging, which I knew Sir craved.

  Not this time.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hartford straighten. I couldn’t understand what he was doing because he never moved out of position without permission.

  Then when I realised what was happening, I was cold with choking guilt. I tried, just once, ‘Don’t
, please, don’t--’

  ‘Not good enough. You’ve been a very bad little leech.’ Sir reckoned I was begging him.

  I bloody wish I had been.

  It was one shove.

  Considering Hartford’s strength, it wasn’t even hard. But it sent Sir stumbling backwards.

  Then the two of them stood there: Hartford, stunned he’d dared raise his hand against his master, and Sir equally astonished, like a beaten dog had dared to bite back.

  I remained with my mug crushed into the wall. I was too ashamed to watch what I’d incited. Instead, I listened.

  Horrified, I heard Sir stalking Hartford into the far corner - click, click, click - never raising his voice or fists. He didn’t need to.

  ‘Sir, I--’

  ‘Lie down.’

  Then there was the sound of a zipper being lowered…

  My face against that wall, I heard every moment. Tears streamed down my mush too because Hartford was taking it for me. Again. He’d known he would. He’d chosen it.

  I swore then I’d never forget what he’d done for me. Or what I owed.

  Hartford was my family now, the same as Donovan; I didn’t bleeding care about biology or evolution.

  Hartford had copped it in First Life because of his sense of justice. In Blood Life his self-sacrifice was amplified. I was afraid it’d get him done in - unless I saved him first.