Blood Shackles (Rebel Vampires Book 2)

by Rosemary A Johns

  I heard the First Lifer’s animated chatter increase around me, the clink of Champagne glasses and hoot of laughter, whilst the candles scorched me, as they melted en masse into dripping pools of opposing white and black: the spectacular theatre of destruction. I couldn’t help remembering how Vesper’s skin had melted too, just like I’d once been caught candle-like in the sun - before Kathy had saved me.

  When I’d first crawled into the main reception at your heels, I’d had a sneaky butchers at the party preparations: servants bustling in penguin black-and-white tails, with Champagne flutes and miniature hors d’oeuvres on silver trays, whilst the crystal chandelier spiralled B – L – O – O – D - C – L – U – B.

  Master had positioned me on the table, as Cain Company employees, corrupt Independents from Tynwald and Chief Constable Quayle (Mann truly was Master’s fiefdom), as well as the Russian oligarchs, sons of Arab princes and brats of Silicon valley, arrived by chauffeured private car, yacht or helipad, or stayed as guests for the weekend on the Estate.

  M.C.’s Crew, in leather, spikes, studs, tartan braces and tattoos prowled the edges as Security, coordinated by Red Mohawk and his mate Aviator.

  Here was the Blood Club, gathered for the first time. Your dad was holding court, showing off his power, which had been diminished since the hullabaloo at Abona, with both his grownup daughters at his side.

  And me - the sample product.

  The fact not every member would’ve attended made me uneasy: all those glowing lights still existing around the world. I’d also scanned for Captain or any other representative of the Blood Life Council, but they either hadn’t turned up - or hadn’t been invited.

  ‘It took strict discipline: leeches need to know who’s in control,’ Master was stroking my nut. It took all I had to remain motionless. There was a ring of Blood Clubbers huddled around Master, as if he was their guru. ‘But there’s not a leech I can’t train. Our family have been slavers since Roman times. The Anglo-Saxons had no laws stopping us selling darling fair-haired boys and girls to Dublin. See, this isn’t about race or species: it’s business. That’s why the Blood Club be in safe hands. My family know what works and we’re not fearful to do it. We’ve traded with the brutal Norse traders and now with the Blood Life Council, leeches that they are. It’s all merely business.’

  ‘What a good boy the little chap is now,’ a genial voice gave an oily chuckle, which oozed through my consciousness, with memories of lying strapped on a table at the mercy of this silver bearded man.

  When Master’s hand paused in its petting, I forced myself to relax.

  Even though you were nearby, I wished I could see you. You’d promised you’d never leave me alone here again.

  I tried to block out the sensation of Master’s caresses and the thought of the Doctor, by imagining you were with me: you’d be bloody stunning in the strapless, crimson Alex Highbury-Lord number, which I’d picked out as your glamourous disguise for the night.

  It was never going to be a piece of cake to pass myself off as the same mindless, broken slave Master had packed off in a crate to you.

  No, not bloody Master, not anymore - Mr Finlo sodding Cain, slaver and all round tosser. But never my Master. No one’s Master. Mr Cain was only a First Lifer playing at it, with the toys in his training room.

  Well, soon he’d meet some true Masters and then he’d be the one sodding learnt.

  Mr Cain’s grip was now hard in the hair at the base of my nut: a warning not to fidge. I couldn’t help the instant tension I’d hear the tap on his belt buckle. I held still, falling down into thoughts of deep submission.

  Gradually, Mr Cain’s grip loosened.

  I could smell M.C.’s sweat and leather. And that’s when M.C.’s fingers fondled my goolies. ‘It be a good liccle slut now. I’ve taken it for test runs.’

  ‘This Blood Lifer, slave shadow, I believe? He’s quite the specimen. Is he up for auction?’ A deep, male voice.

  When I stiffened, M.C.’s hand squeezed my baubles, until my peepers watered.

  ‘Naw, he’s mine.’ I heard you at last, somewhere in the throng.

  ‘But you could offer the goog’s services,’ Mr Cain’s gruff suggestion (and no way could you miss his underlying order), ‘as a premium bonus for valued members - like our Chief Constable here - for a night or a weekend?’

  ‘Na-ah, that’s--’

  ‘Grayse?’ It was gentle but your dad’s warning was as obvious as his hard grip in my hair.

  ‘I guess important Blood Club members can play with him, you know, for goodwill.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Chief Constable Quayle was giddy with excitement; I bet he couldn’t wait to get his flabby hands on me. ‘A weekend with shadow would be much appreciated. And the extra services..?’

  Mr Cain smiled slowly. ‘Access to the training room is included, of course. Now Grayse, there are many of the bettermost men here, who I want you to meet,’ Mr Cain patted your arm, ‘MPs and aristocrats; you should think on marrying soon.’

  M.C. snorted, as she gave my goolies a final twist, before letting go.

  Even though I knew you wouldn’t look at any of these wankers with anything but loathing, I still hated that your dad was husband hunting for you.

  ‘First though,’ Mr Cain turned to M. C., ‘time for a demonstration. Marlane – lights.’ Suddenly the main lights dimmed, until only the guttering of the melted candles and their holders, in puddles of black and white wax, like a chessboard with pieces ranked ready for war, remained flaming. And me - the sacrificial slave in their centre. ‘Slave shadow will put on a show for us.’ Mr Cain’s announcement echoed through the vast hall.

  I heard shuffling, as First Lifers entrapped me on either side.

  Donovan, Hartford, Ashanti, Ashanti’s girl, Vesper, marie antoinette, the Blood Lifers at Abona and every Blood Lifer, who’d ever been enslaved and then treated as entertainment by the Blood Club: I thought of them and I found the strength to endure.

  I only understood then that a slave can’t have a true conscience: you were right when you once threw at me in anger that I’d used you and maybe you’d have done the same but it didn’t make it right.

  If you’re not free, your choices can never be truly your own. But you’d freed me, so now I was empowered to make my own choices and this was my choice: your choice, my choice and Donovan and Hartford’s too. First and Blood Lifer united.

  So I endured.

  ‘Kneel.’ I knelt up on the table. Mr Cain waited only a moment before he barked, ‘Inspect.’ I stood fluidly, with my hands clasped behind my nut, as I balanced on tiptoe on the shiny surface of the table. I hoped I didn’t crash over onto those flaming pools of wax because that’d bleeding hurt.

  I could hear the Blood Clubbers yakking about me. Although it does a bloke’s ego good to know he’s admired in that department, it’s less reassuring to overhear the uses others intend to put you (and that part of your anatomy). Let alone the excited chatter about the nights with you, which they’re already pencilling into their busy schedules and debates over whether blood and breath play are permissible – that’s a yes, by the way.

  Then Mr Cain began shooting positions at me so fast I almost stumbled. He intended me to because the first mistake I made would give fair reason to punish me. Except it wasn’t fair, was it? I wondered how many other situations Mr Cain, when he’d been my Master, had engineered for me to fail, so he could condition me to feel I deserved discipline. Even ask for the punishment myself.

  If Mr Cain wanted to punish me tonight, then I intended to make it sodding difficult for him. I moved to each position as fast as he said it.

  I glimpsed Mr Cain’s frustrated mug from underneath my lowered lashes.

  ‘He is indeed a good boy.’ I heard the Chief Constable congratulate, before patting Mr Cain on the shoulder, as if Mr Cain would be pleased I was keeping up with his gunshot rapid orders.

  These naïve wankers didn’t know the truth behind the Blood Club,
with its Champagne and slaves.

  But they would: they bloody would.

  I couldn’t help it. I looked up, straight at Mr Cain. And smiled.

  Mr Cain’s hand flew to his bastard belt, working at the buckle, which had filled so much of my narrowed world.

  The dark wave of Blood Clubbers, however, took Mr Cain’s sudden silence to mean the end of his circus show and they clapped: a polite ripple of applause.

  That was when the screaming started.

  My smile widened to a grin.

  Mr Cain stood there - his black belt wrapped by its brass buckle around his fist - frozen in triumph, as if unable to believe he’d lost control on his own Estate. But then he saw the look in my peepers.

  If you break a man, you know him better than he knows himself. And Mr Cain knew I was no longer his, nor was I a true slave - he understood just what he’d unleashed.

  Like a herd of terrified wildebeest, snapped at by the jaws of submerged crocodiles, the Blood Clubbers crowded together, hoarsely calling to each other in their distress. The ones trying the doors or windows found them locked, which viral-bloomed their panic, as did the personal bodyguards, who hurled chairs at the reinforced glass windows: they didn’t shatter. I knew how that felt.

  The systems were on lockdown, except for one single back entrance, which we’d opened – or Fernando had. He’d hacked in, using the codes I’d memorised.

  Turns out, the Professor is a decent guy.

  The M.C. Crew snarled into walkie-talkies - pointlessly for the most part – because in our plan they were the first targets. There was nothing on the other end now but dead air.

  M.C. stalked through the swarms, rallying the remaining punks.

  Mr Cain was frantically scanning the hordes to work out who the invisible enemy was, whilst the Blood Clubbers - his acolytes only moments before - were plucking on his sleeves, demanding information. Help. Freedom.

  It sounded so bleeding familiar, I still couldn’t wipe the grin from my mug.

  Mr Cain wrenched himself away from the Chief Constable, who was wheezing in anxious gasps if this was all part of the demonstration? Then Mr Cain glared right at me. ‘You, boy. This is you.’

  Belt tense between his hands, Mr Cain prowled towards me.

  Let him come.

  I swung my hands forward from behind my back, clenching them to fists.

  Mr Cain hesitated, stumbling.

  There was a sudden surge of First Lifers away from the atrium: they fell over white chairs, shoving each other over chaise longues and slipping on the black rugs.

  Both Mr Cain and I glanced up into the shadows of the atrium’s high entrance way.

  And there they were: the fanged mugs of Donovan and Hartford, full Blood Lifer and no mistaking. They stalked from the shadows. They weren’t starkers, collared or submissive. Even I shivered.

  I waited for Mr Cain’s attack on them - or me - to defend his Blood Club, Estate and daughters.

  Christ in heaven, my every nerve sang Halleluiah because I was ready for it.

  Stunned, I watched as instead Mr Cain scarpered. He hurled the oligarchs, Arabian princes and Silicon Valley brats out of his way, like playthings, as he struggled through the terrified throng.

  The bloody coward.

  All the agony and terror Mr Cain had forced me to face. And yet what was he? Give me Mr Cain, the training room and one day, and I knew now that the man, who’d been a god to me, would break. He’d shatter into smaller shards than I had.

  I sprang off the table to start after Mr Cain. But then I caught Donovan’s eye. Hartford nodded at me. We grinned. Mr Cain could wait. We had the jugular to rip out. Bloody.

  After that? All was crimson and whirlwind death. We were Blood Lifers unchained at last. This was a Long-lived’s revenge for over a decade’s abuse. And it was glorious.

  I trapped the sweating Chief Constable against the brocade wallpaper: strange thing was he didn’t seem so keen to get up and personal with me now.

  ‘Good boy,’ Chief Constable Quayle tried to placate, licking his dry lips, ‘good boy.’

  ‘I’m not a boy and I definitely ain’t good.’ I seized the Chief Constable by his shirt front, before bashing the bleeder back against the wallpaper – bash – his nut smashed ripe – bash – crimson stained – bash – he slumped down in a heap of arms and legs.

  Donovan (magnificent in indigo velvet and mauve eyeshadow), was letting Hartford take the pick of the Blood Club members. Hartford finished off the Blood Clubbers with such frightening relish the kills must’ve been personal. When I remembered the snaps of Hartford on the Dark Web, I hoped Hartford made the johns bloody feel it. When I saw a flash of silver, weaving the same way Mr Cain had fled, I wondered if Hartford had seen the Doctor too.

  Donovan and I tag teamed what was left of M.C.’s Crew. My blood zinged, as I spun in circles, letting out every instinct, uncensored at last. I took down a punk in tartan trousers, jabbing and getting in an elbow strike. He staggered, before I swept out his legs from under him. Donovan dived on the punk then, fangs out.

  I watched fascinated, as Donovan’s newly grown fangs pierced the First Lifer’s throat, pumping venom into his bloodstream. Paralysed, the punk jerked, as he fought it for the final few seconds. It’d been awhile since I’d seen the death of my true prey up close.

  I wondered if I’d recovered enough of my fangs. It was fear…or shame…that I still wouldn’t be whole, which had kept me from trying.

  Suddenly, I was dragged backwards by a burly arm around my throat, which was crushing my windpipe and stopping the blood to my brain. White bursts of light danced in front of my peepers.

  I clawed behind me at my attacker but reached only thin air. Desperate, I stamped down. Even with my bare foot, I caused a grunt and a weakening of the hold. I wrenched both arms off and twisted the joints back. The grunt increased to a shriek and – pop – the elbow joints went.

  The bloke - Aviator goggles, red-faced and snarling – fell to his knees, spitting curses.

  I booted Aviator over onto his back. Then I straddled him, wrapping my fingers around his neck: his limbs flailed, whilst his peepers were hidden fly-eyed. He scratched at me and kicked, but I didn’t let up, not until he was as motionless as I’d been, whilst the centrepiece on the table.

  It was at that moment I saw the black combat boots of red Mohawk standing over our bodies: one dead and one – me – having just strangled the life out of the other.

  I slowly stood to face the bastard, who’d started all this: Head of the Retrieval Team in Bangkok, who’d hunted me on his monstrous black motorbike and trashed my Triton. He’d kidnapped me - not like a person - but like a wild bird, which’d been trapped and sold into captivity. A pet to be tamed and trained, presented in a gilded cage on some rich man’s wall. From the moment Mohawk had shot me full of tranquillizers, I’d been a slave. My blood roared louder than those motorbikes. It wasn’t terror I trembled with any longer: it was rage.

  Mohawk’s peepers were darkened, glancing from his broken friend to me.

  We circled each other. How great a disadvantage I was at being starkers, however, was illustrated when Mohawk’s first attack was a groin strike.

  I doubled up, before I was caught to the kidneys. The tosser towered over me. Taught by M.C in the cage, this bloke fought dirty: he seized my goolies in a vice-like grip, crushing and twisting, until I reckoned he was going to rip them off.

  Talk about irony: gaining my fangs but losing my balls.

  I began to sweat…one more twist and… I bit Mohawk, with my ordinary, blunt teeth. I sank them deep into the wanker's chin. The zip of fresh human blood hit me kaleidoscopic.

  Mohawk yelped, instinctively dropping my goolies and prising at my jaws, like you would a rabid dog. He hopped from foot to foot, as he tried to force me off.

  I kept my gnashers clamped, however, working Mohawk back towards the central table. Then I let go of his chin.

  Mohawk staggered, his hand
s flying to the crimson teeth marks. Like the Manx tattoo over his knuckles, they were a marking: for every Blood Lifer he and his Crew had bagged.

  Before he could recover, I caught the bastard a roundhouse kick dead in his chest; he crashed backwards into the white puddled candles. Mohawk screamed, as the flames caught his mesh top on fire, and the wax stuck in pools to his skin. His scarlet Mohawk shot up, like a coloured birthday candle, as he shrieked, writhing with the agony of being burned alive.

  Vesper, I thought, an offering for you.

  It was then, however, that I saw you, crushed against the far wall, watching as my family tore and bit their way through the terrified First Lifers – your own species - who you’d betrayed, whilst I burnt a man alive.

  Your mush was spectral. Death and killing weren’t natural to you. Yet. They couldn’t simply mean justice, without the guilt. The first time, of course, is always the hardest. I remember my own.

  The reality - peepers wide open - is different to the theory. The real world is messy like that.

  Hold onto my hand a little longer.

  When I darted to you, I panicked when I noticed blood trickling down your neck. Without thinking, I pressed you harder to the wall, scenting the blood; thank Christ it wasn’t yours.

  Then, however, I could hear your heartbeat going like the clappers. I suddenly realised my mouth was stained crimson, as I scented your pulse point. My fangs itched.

  I forced myself to draw back. ‘I wasn’t gonna…’

  ‘I know.’

  You, however, were still in shock. I stared around me.

  For the first time, I saw the scene, as if a First Lifer. Hartford in particular had been busy: it was bloody carnage, where one side didn’t even need weapons because they were the weapon.

  Upturned trays of hors d’oeuvres were ground onto the black terracotta tiles, and shattered crystal Champagne flutes were like modern art, between displays of twitching bodies.

  Donovan was dancing the Charleston, clutching a paralysed servant in black tie as his partner; I recognised the man as one of the minions, who’d delivered my bottled blood, whilst ignoring me, as if I’d been a piece of furniture.