Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  But a game?

  “Not to me,” I whispered. “It wasn’t a game to me.”

  Ruby balanced the torch between my bare feet, sprawling over the rock next to me. When she rubbed her body against mine, the fire was back in the blistering burns.

  I gritted my teeth.

  Ruby pressed her tits against my chest. “We played the world together. Ate it ripe. Do not tell me now that you’re tamed?” Ruby’s tongue licked against my lips.

  “No.” Ruby’s tongue retracted, like a snake back into its hole, when I smiled. “I’m happy.”

  Ruby sat bolt upright, staring down at me. Then she snatched up the torch, holding it against the sole of my right foot; I howled.

  She always knew how to hurt, Ruby did.

  Through the haze of pain, I managed to rasp, “This world…” When Ruby eased off for a moment, I suddenly realized that I was desperate for her to understand, so that I could return to that feeling of wholeness, like when Ruby had kissed my cheek. “We get the night; the day’s not our due. First Lifers aren’t there to crush or conquer, exterminate or enslave, like they’re animals. Or we’re animals. You’d have seen it too if you’d not been bound to the blood, your brother, and this desire never to be controlled again. And what am I? Just something for you to mold as dark as you and keep you warm in the shadows? Don’t you want something more? We don’t need to kill…”

  Ruby bayed with laugher then, shocking in its sudden loudness. “A Blood Lifer who will not kill? Your shyness was not odd when you were first elected. But now…?” Her eyes quivered with tears. “That First Lifer has broken you.”

  I managed to smile through the agony, which was hitting me in dizzying waves. “No: she’s freed me.”

  Ruby didn’t talk to me after that. Instead, she made her point with pain and she was bloody good with that. She knew how long to leave it between blows, so that you didn’t grow numb or fall into shock because you want the bloke to feel it. How to build up the anticipation, which is part of the whole deal: the waiting.

  Pain had always been Ruby’s thing, not mine.

  I discovered Ruby knew tricks, which she’d never loosed on me, from an age long before; I guess that she’d been playing gentle with me over the years, after all.

  I felt like I was floating, lifted by such expertly dealt agony that there were no coherent thoughts left. It was only a matter of when Ruby grew bored with her torment now, then she’d kill me.

  It was when light crept into the upper caves (because Ruby wasn’t a climber, she hadn’t taken me deep), that we reached that point.

  I was coughing, spluttering for breath. My body felt like a thousand different parts, each one screaming, mewling, weeping and each unique in its own hell. Then I saw through my eyelashes, which were thick with matted blood, Ruby picking up a hooked knife: it fitted the sacrificial picture all right.

  Ruby’s shadow was dark over me.

  I tensed muscles too sore to tighten and stretch.

  How many First Lifers had I plunged down this dark tunnel? I could hear the echo of them ghostly, chanting my name and slow clapping. They were watching for the delicious moment when the light faded from my eyes too.

  Then what…? And right at that moment, that’s what terrified me, even though it’d never scared me before.

  I closed my eyes, waiting for the slice before the spurt, as Ruby cut my throat clean through at the jugular, like a poor bloody lamb.

  I groaned in shock, when instead Ruby thrust the knife deep into my chest.

  Sodding hell, was that my heart…?

  My heart was still pumping; I was aware of its beating, as well as the ebb and flow of arteries and veins around my body, in a heightened way, more than a Blood Lifer does every moment of existence. Then Ruby cut in grinding slices around that organ, and I knew — bugger it all, did I know — that she was going to cut my still beating heart from my body and hold it, warm in her hands, before my eyes, whilst I died.

  How’s that for a break up?

  Ruby’s voice was cold with accusation. “I gifted you Blood Life.”

  “No, you robbed me of my death.”

  “Then let me return it.” Ruby pushed the knife deeper, and I arched, waiting for it to be over.

  Unexpectedly, Ruby’s face paled with shock. The knife loosened in her fingers, before clattering from them. She looked down. When I did too, I saw a blossoming burgundy, deeper red than Ruby’s dress. It stained her chest, over her heart; I smelled her blood.

  Then Ruby fell.

  A steel piton was buried in Ruby’s back. Ruby clutched at me, curling around me as she died like she wanted to cradle me as she always had…because after half a millennium, the second death had found her.

  That’s when you saved me — again.

  I wish that you could remember that you saved me by killing a Blood Lifer: you didn’t simply save me once but twice.

  The next thing I saw was your face, gazing down into my swollen eyes, as you wept and repeated over and over, “The dawn came and you weren’t there. The dawn came and you weren’t…”

  Today, I lie here with you, in those quiet hours before dawn breaks, writing this and I know that you don’t remember me.

  Truth, right? It’s all that I have left.

  My First Life died, and now my second life — with you — is fading so fast that I can’t keep up.

  I’ve lost you; I bloody know that now. But our love…?

  It exists in these pages and maybe (a bloke can hope, can’t he?), somewhere buried in that darkly blinding brain of yours.

  Did I leave out the poetry? Because at the end, that’s all there is: the bleeding words.

  When I slept earlier, I dreamed that we were strolling down Carnaby Street together in the sun, under the swags of Union Jack flags, by boutiques blaring music and spilling out Mods. You were young again, like me: an unchanging waxwork.

  When I awoke, I was suddenly very tired.

  Now I study the wisps of white hair, which are caught down your lined cheek. It’d be so easy to live in the memory and hide nice and safe there, holding the photograph in my palm.

  But bugger that.

  You once cried salty tears, turning away from me, disgusted by your own aging body, whilst I remained forever young. You tried to cover your stomach, tits, muff, and then your face.

  Some Blood Lifers pick the ripe before they can wither. All they want to see is mirrored perfection, stretching on for eternity. But that’s the Plantagenets of this world. I may bear their name and blood but I’m my own man: no one’s ever going to dictate my choices because of family.

  The real fun starts with the flaws.

  Here’s the thing that I’ve come to realize: First Lifers are meant to decay. Your cells degrade and die every day, but your Souls don’t. I still see yours shining bright.

  The shell…?

  One day soon it’ll be in the ground, where mine should’ve been by rights a long time ago. Then I’ll bury it and I’ll weep. But I’ll live because that’s all I can do.

  I remain the Lost.

  I’ve seen more of this world than I could’ve ever imagined, even in my dreams, when I stood on London Bridge with my papa. More than I sodding wish that I had too. I can’t say I’ve come to a higher understanding.

  Blood Lifers shouldn’t be revered. That’s the greatest bollocks myth of them all. If there’s a god, we’re damned. But if there’s a devil, then I didn’t sign no sodding contract.

  Are you happy now that you’ve forgotten me? What’s it like not to remember?

  I used to reckon that my memory was a blessing: a miracle of the human camera.

  I was wrong.

  It’s a curse having to relive such nightmares with the clarity of a photograph. If only some of them had moved and blurred to ghosts.

  I hope that you’re happy, my love.

  Most of all, I want you to die a mortal death — natural — as you’ve lived. A First Lifer always. And when you’re go
ne…? The Blood Life Council, Plantagenet, and Donovan…my enemies are as real as they’ve always been because of Ruby’s killing and our rebellion. We’ve spent a lifetime together hunted.

  Yet there’ll be something even more deadly to face, and it tries to entrap me even now: how can I hold onto my humanity and not become the predator that I was, when you’ve left me alone?

  The darkness consumes us all eventually.

  Bollocks to that.

  If the dark comes, I’ll nut it to oblivion. I was never one to conform.

  You may be lost, and I may be alone, but after all the nasties and wankery, I never left you. We’re together at the end.

  Now that’s bloody life.

  The End…For Now

  Continue Light’s adventures in BLOOD SHACKLES, Book Two in the Rebel Vampires series.

  https://rosemaryajohns.com

  If you enjoyed Blood Dragons: Rebel Vampires Vol. 1, let me know by leaving a review!

  Author Note

  I wrote Rebel Vampires because I wanted to create the ultimate British anti-hero, as well as allow a vampire to tell his own story. I also loved the idea of a vampire loving a human all the way through their life…and never leaving them. I love beautiful monsters who battle to hold onto their humanity: Light took hold and wouldn’t let go. He’s my rebel alter ego!!

  You’re total stars for your reviews, recommendations, and word of mouth. They’re the main way that my books reach new readers, so I’m truly grateful to you. Even a single line review raises the series’ visibility.

  I’m excited for you to read the next book in the trilogy and discover what happens to Light next when the tables are turned and humans become the predators…! Also, how he survives without Kathy in a new and dangerous world…

  I love this series. I hope you do too.

  Thanks, you’re awesome - my Rebel family :)

  Rosemary A Johns

  Sign up to Rosemary A Johns’ Rebel Newsletter for two FREE novellas. Also, these special perks: promotions, discounts, and news of hot releases before anyone else.

  Become a Rebel today and join the Rebel Age!

  Volume Two

  BLOOD SHACKLES

  REBEL VAMPIRES VOLUME TWO

  Rosemary A Johns

  FANTASY REBEL

  www.rosemaryajohns.com

  BLOOD SHACKLES: REBEL VAMPIRES VOLUME TWO © copyright 2016 Rosemary A Johns

  First Edition 2016

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters, places and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

  Fantasy Rebel Limited

  Blood Shackles

  Rebel Vampires Volume 2

  “When humans are the predators and vampires are the prey, it’s dangerous to love your Mistress.”

  Light, the rebel vampire of the Blood Lifer world, is hunted through paranormal London. The predators? The humans who were once his prey.

  When Light’s enslaved, he’s bought by his enemy’s daughter. Now he’s caught between breaking under cruel training, or battling to hold onto the rebel inside. If he can remember the vampire he once was, he can fight to uncover the conspiracy behind the slave ring and free his family.

  But to do this, he must face his worst terrors and risk everything - even the woman he loves…

  1

  The Slave Journal of Light

  MAY 3

  Look, it’s all about the pain, right? Pretty playthings, forever young, and no guilt, whilst the Lost are reduced to nothing but a possession. Property. Slaves to you sodding humans.

  See, at the heart is the Blood Club: the new and most exclusive club for Russian oligarchs, sons of Arab princes, and the brats of Silicon Valley.

  Here we are — two species in this world of ours — and I should have my head examined for reckoning that it was big enough to share.

  Ruby, my Author, once showed me a macabre museum: La Specola. She warned that you First Lifers would stuff and mount us Blood Lifers (like all the other animals you’ve screwed over), if you ever discovered that we existed.

  Ruby swore we had no place but the shadows.

  I, however, didn’t listen.

  It doesn’t look so bloody clever now, does it?

  I’m sprawled on the bed of my cell. I’m still naked, except for the silver ring on my left hand; S.L.A.V.E stands out in stark relief around it.

  And yeah, it’s a cell: Egyptian cotton sheets don’t cancel out the lock.

  Didn’t they teach you that in How to Be a Mistress school?

  Earlier, I heard footsteps outside my door. I also caught the whiff of gorse and sunlight. You’d smelled just like that, the first time that I saw you, when I was just one of many slaves — tiger-striped and bruised — waiting for your inspection at Abona House. But then the scent had faded.

  To be owned by Finlo Cain’s daughter, Grayse, now that takes the piss. I’d forgotten that you were Master’s spawn, until you told me that your name was Manx.

  Even your name is torture: it strips me back, layer by painful layer, to my first love and betrayer over a century ago. To the woman who destroyed my heart and then got me killed…to the bitch who became my first ever prey.

  Grace: that was her name.

  Still, your name’s spelled differently. So, best we don’t take it as a bad omen, yeah?

  I can’t hear anything in the dark of the night anymore; you must be sleeping by now.

  I take another quick look around: there’s nothing but four off-white walls, this strange bedside table (a stiff cube of crochet), and an eerie blue glow from the window blind, as if it’s infested with magical ivy. You’d explained that you’d had it fitted with electroluminescent fabric, which becomes brighter at night and dims as the sun rises: an early warning system for the dawn.

  It looks like you’re a dead thoughtful slaver.

  Still, there’d also been this journal on my pillow: A5 textured Italian calf leather, framed by smooth burgundy; it’s so deep red that I could suck the blood from it. The pages are buttery between my fingers.

  I guess you’re not big on irony, springing for such luxury on a slave. I imagine that you only buy the best: this journal and now me.

  The journal even came in a navy presentation box; the bang was bloody satisfying when it hit the wall. It doesn’t have any lines, so your thoughts can flow free. There’s no lock. But then I don’t know why I expected one: privacy’s for the free. There was, however, this blinding pink gold fountain pen, so…swings and roundabouts.

  And its name: The Slave Journal of…

  See, that’s where I became stuck.

  You lot call me slave shadow to mock. Because my true name…?

  It’s Light.

  I feel like I’ll be struck down or…beaten down at least, simply for writing that. But it’s the truth and truth can’t be erased as easily as words.

  You must be a mug if you reckon that you can keep me here — tamed — as a willing slave. But then, I’m not exactly willing, am I?

  Do you get off on it? The power?

  If folks were honest, everyone would (given half a chance). The thing is, most First Lifers never do. It takes being reborn as a Blood Lifer to taste that splendor.

  I haven’t forgotten the majesty of the night, even if the black’s consumed me. I’ve more than a century on you. I’m a predator — not to mention a Rocker. You can take the clothes from a bloke but you can’t take that.

  Freedom means so little, until you lose it.
But I will find it again, I promise you.

  So, dear Reader (because I know you’re reading this, there’s no use pretending otherwise), did you reckon giving me this journal — all softness and stink of leather — would make me spill my Soul? You already have my body, bought and paid for. You think that you have my mind.

  My thoughts, however...? They’re my own.

  Write in it every day, you’d ordered, with that little smile.

  What do you think this is: Bridget Jones’s Diary?

  I’m not a performing monkey. I’ll write, when I write. You want more…?

  Good luck with that.

  You want to know how I was captured? Enslaved? Defanged? I won’t guarantee that you’ll like what you read. No one does when it’s the truth: raw and flayed…bloody.

  But not tonight.

  The glowing ivy is dimming in the blind. The sun is on its way. And I’m knackered. I need a kip and a wank. That’s what comes of you not giving me any clothes: black jeans and a t-shirt please. Nothing fancy.

  Maybe you won’t even read this. What difference could my thoughts make? I’m only a slave now.

  2

  MAY 5

  So, I guess you did read my journal then?

  The look on your face this evening when…

  I noticed that the journal had been straightened on the crochet table. It’s not like I leave anything straight, is it?

  Because rebel here, yeah?

  I knew that you’d read my pissed off ramblings, when you tossed the black jeans and t-shirt at me, before slamming down a cup of blood and banging out. Not a single glance at me.

  Not one word.