Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

OK, wanker here, and you’re a… I don’t know yet. That’s what brings me out in a cold sweat — the uncertainty, which haunts all slaves — because nothing is under their control, least of all what their new owner will be like.

  Still, if you don’t want honesty from a Blood Lifer, don’t demand it.

  In the 1950s, I knew this Blood Lifer from Darwin, who was so blindingly honest that he’d tell you to your face you were a crook or a fiddler (and sometimes both). I asked him once if he didn’t get tired of all the fights.

  The bloke had stared at me evenly out of his purpled eyes, before shrugging. “The truth is free.”

  It turns out, however, that the git wasn’t right: he was slaughtered when some crook or fiddler took exception to the truth, knifing him through the heart.

  Shame that…because wouldn’t it be nice and comforting if life could be tied up pretty in a bow?

  Anyway, now that you’ve left me alone for the night. I don’t know if it’s punishment, or if that’s simply the way it’s going to be. If it is, I’ll start scratching lines on the wall to record the dawn, as the ivy brightens and dims, transforming this into a proper jail. I’ve paced up and down to burn off the buzz and roar of the blood, as my muscles bunch and tense, dancing on the balls of my feet and gagging for a go with my fists and my non-existent fangs.

  Or a shag — I’m not fussy.

  You’ve been feeding me cows’ blood, which is richer than my normal pigs’. It trickles into the system slow and sensuous, manna to a starving man, after all these months.

  Christ in heaven, can it really be so long...?

  The blood’s not human. But after existing on so little, it firework sparks, until I could lick the walls and kiss the stars dancing in front of my eyes.

  There’s nothing to do in my cell. I’ve lain for hours counting, losing myself in the exquisite song of numbers: whorls of plaster on the high ceiling, strands of entangled crochet cotton, molded into servitude and leaf tendrils of alien ivy. Then I’ve played with the numbers, drawing out the game to fill the void: ordering them into sequences and memorizing the never-ending tumble of morphing shapes.

  I should be used to my bondage. When I was first captured, I drowned in it. And now…? Sometimes I think that it’ll turn me crazy after…

  No, you haven’t earned that memory. Not when you’ve locked me in here.

  Alone.

  I tried the door earlier, just before I started writing this entry. It’s a heavy, original affair, or it’d splinter with one good boot. I’ve broken through enough doors in my time (you don’t want to know why). There was no budging it.

  Then I lost my temper.

  All of a sudden, I was hammering on the door and hollering: You sodding well let me out… I’m not your bleeding pet… Open this…

  Until reality crashed in: Abona House’s severe gray façade, the stables, Sir, the slaves who I’d left behind and the parades of punishments for just such rebellion.

  I freaked out.

  Trembles shook me, as I fell back, scrambling to the illusory safety of the corner. I hugged my arms over my head.

  Good boy. Got to be a good boy. I promise to be…

  I huddled there — I don’t know for how long — but you never came. The blind showed that it was still twilight. You must be out.

  Lucky break for me.

  That’s why I reckoned I should write this entry…you know, honesty and that. To show you that I can be a good boy too.

  You can’t imagine how much I hate myself for that slave thinking. But you’re free: you have options.

  I don’t.

  Still, writing this has given me something to do in the vast expanses of boredom, seeing as you’ve abandoned me in this cell. It keeps the nightmares out: the ones of my past and future. Specters of what’s been done to me and shadowed fears of what will be.

  It doesn’t half bring home a bloke’s helplessness, however, to have the long length of an empty journal spread in front of him, with all these blank pages to fill, like these walls and my slavery.

  How about I write what it was like when you came to buy me? Maybe then you won’t leave me in isolation. A bloke’s got to hope or else he’s truly dead. And I’ve already tried that; I didn’t fancy it much.

  It was the rebirth that was glorious.

  “Whoa, this one’s busted. What did he do, Mr Yates?”

  A line of us had been herded into a wing of Abona House, which I hadn’t seen before: a huge entrance hall with a baroque chandelier, all smoky flourishes and brass scrolls amongst the sharp glint of Austrian crystal. I’d only caught a glimpse of the room, before we’d been ordered to kneel. Then all I’d been able to see, as I’d bowed my head, had been the black-and-white chequered marble floor.

  When I heard the woman’s unexpected voice, I risked a quick glance up from underneath my eyelashes.

  It was a First Lifer, tall and willowy in a lace Victorian knit sheath dress, who’d come to inspect us, as if we were expensive antiques for sale.

  I could smell the blood pumping through her…through you.

  Christ in heaven, did I crave to violate that dainty throat and gorge my starved fill.

  I warned you that this would be the truth flayed bare, didn’t I?

  Your gray, piercing gaze caught mine, before I had the sense to lower mine.

  “The pretty leech makes trouble, he does.” Sir — I could feel him hovering behind me. I tensed. I could imagine Sir pushing his black framed glasses up his nose in a habitual gesture of disappointment. “You don’t get nowhere without discipline, see. It was all on your dad’s orders, Miss Cain.” I flinched. This First Lifer was the owner’s daughter? Master’s daughter? Bollocks. Shrinking down, I tried to look as uninteresting as possible, as you strolled closer. I sensed your hand reaching out towards my cheek. Just for a moment, I allowed myself to pretend that you intended to caress it, rather than clout it. “You carry on now,” Sir’s voice contained a hint of impatience in its Cardiff lilt: that never boded well.

  I struggled to stop myself fidgeting; the stripes across my back and arse ached deep into the muscle.

  Stuff Sir, I was going to risk another look.

  This time, when I raised my gaze, you were staring right at me. Neither one of us looked away.

  “I’ll take this one,” you announced.

  “What? I mean…” For once Sir seemed lost for words, and wasn’t that just orchestral backed choirs in Heaven music to my ears? “Look you, the boy’s not ready. His training’s only… Your dad’s been thinking on this leech for the Estate.” The Estate. Two words, which hung over us Blood Lifers as the ever-present threat, making Abona look like a sodding kiddie’s nursery. I only realized that I’d begun to gasp in panicked breaths, when Sir’s manicured talons landed on my shoulder and squeezed. “See? Not right at all. But isn’t this little one a lovely job?”

  When Sir released my shoulder, he tried to drag you on to the next Blood Lifer: a blue-eyed teenage crush of a Dutchman who was staring vacantly ahead.

  My breathing slowed at last — that was me forgotten then.

  “Na-ah,” you shrugged Sir off. “I’ve already told you. I’m taking that one.”

  “But I need a few more months to break him. If I was given a couple of weeks, maybe I could—”

  “I want him like this.” I was surprised by your sharpness. “Right now. Intact.”

  I nearly laughed.

  Intact?

  I sodding wish that I was, sweetheart.

  “Up. Inspect,” Sir barked. I jumped up, standing to attention with my legs spread apart, as I balanced on tiptoe. I clasped my hands behind my head and arched my back; my whole bloody wares on display. When you circled me, your hand skimmed my skin it but never quite touched: it was torture. Your fingers hovered over the lash marks. Sir’s voice was low. “It’s a mistake.”

  “You want me to call my daddy?” You raised your brow.

  “No, no, look here… But the leech’ll have to be
sent to you.” Panic. There was definite panic in Sir’s tone.

  I sensed you directly in front of me; you were studying me. “I want to talk to him alone. We could walk in the gardens. He’ll be on his best behavior, right?”

  I ventured a small nod.

  “How about some pants and a t-shirt for him? It’s wicked raw out tonight.”

  I tensed.

  Sir had never yet shown his other side to a human, but — and I had to give it to you — you had the skill to royally piss him off.

  There was a significant pause, before Sir replied, with what I knew was a supreme effort of restraint, “These creatures don’t feel the cold.”

  You snorted. “That’s why they’re shivering their asses off?”

  This time I couldn’t help it. I spluttered with laughter. Then I yelped, as Sir grabbed me by the scruff of the neck.

  “What slaves feel,” Sir spat, “doesn’t matter.”

  A moment later and it was your soft fingers on my neck instead of Sir’s, as you prised him away, before steering me out of the room.

  You and I strolled in silence through the kitchen gardens at the back of Abona House, the herbs — basil, mint, and thyme — melding in sunbursts of scents and hollowing my starved belly with the memories of long-ago dinners. We wove past the ice house and down to the large walled gardens and horse pond; fat koi dozed under the black mirror of the water. The gravel of the drive was sharp under my bare feet, nicking my soles, but I bit back my pain because I was outside and that was…like breath.

  I was desperate to tip back my head, stare up at the stars and howl at the crescent nibbled moon.

  Yet I didn’t dare.

  You just kept on walking, tense as I felt.

  When we reached the long low stable block, I couldn’t repress the tremble that ran through me. I wished that I could forget my last trip there but I was still welted in rainbow stripes.

  You glanced at me. “Cold?”

  “Yeah, it is rather parky, darling.”

  You gaped at me, as if you’d been expecting me to speak some strange Blood Lifer tongue and not the Queen’s English. Like you hadn’t assumed I’d sound…human.

  Then you gathered yourself together. “Here,” you led the way to a sheltered trio of arches, which made up the fakery of a loggia. “Better?”

  “It’s almost like I wasn’t naked.”

  You gave a tight smile.

  I leant against a column as I peered back at the silhouette of the great house, its steep terrace, the wood encircling it beyond, and the drive sweeping down between the dark sentinels of oaks.

  In some screwed-up world, this was the worst Jane Austen scene ever.

  Well, maybe not ever…

  You were giving me these quick, surreptitious looks. “This is, like, fried.”

  I shrugged. After the year I’d had, this new twist to my existence had some dead stiff competition in the fried department.

  You edged closer. “You don’t have to look so scared; I’m not going to kiss you.”

  I raised my eyebrow. “Good to know.”

  That flummoxed you.

  You ran your fingers nervously through your ash blonde hair, which hung in a bob to your shoulders. I had the sudden thought of how soft it’d feel on my lips…and then wanted to scrub out my brains.

  I haven’t long been alone — utterly, truly alone — since my first death. Since I lost the only person who mattered to me in this brutish world, I feel too easily.

  Us Blood Lifers do that; every emotion is amplified.

  I looked down, but you forced my chin up. Reluctantly, I met your sharp gaze.

  “I meant it. I didn’t want…one of those broken things. Though you’ve got to be soft making trouble for daddy. He’s the one who’s insisting that I buy one of you. He’s eager for me to learn about the business now that I’m back. It’s not like I want…” Embarrassed, you looked away.

  “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want me either.”

  “Naw, it’s just…I’ve never even looked after a dog before.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Lucky I’m not a mutt then.”

  The wind whipped through the gaps in the arches, goose bumping my skin. The air was fresh and sharp. For the first time, I could smell more than my own blood and sweat.

  “Look, it’s late. I’d better get you back.” Bugger it — me and my big mouth. I hopped from sore foot to sore foot after you down the drive, leaving a crimson snail-trail in my wake. “Just tell me what luggage you’ll need sending with you?”

  I built up the bottle to reply, “I had a coat. A leather motorcycle jacket — studded — with a gold ace of spades on the back. I don’t know where it is; the buggers took it. It’s vintage, from the ‘60s. It’s a bit faded now but…” You were staring at me in surprise. I dropped my gaze. “It’s a blinding coat,” I muttered.

  When I looked up again, I almost caught a smile.

  You may be a Cain, but it doesn’t have to mark you. We’re more than what our families, ancestors, or species make us.

  At least, I used to reckon so.

  There isn’t bleeding anyone who won’t try and control you. The system’s set up like that, cradle to the grave.

  But that doesn’t mean you have to play their game.

  For the first time in months, as the Stuart shadow of Abona swallowed us again, I let my mind wander to escape…and it smelled just like you: of gorse and sunlight.

  Then again, you’ve shut me up in solitary now, so I got that wrong, didn’t I?

  Maybe you are marked by Cain.

  3

  MAY 6

  Your little pinkie stroked mine, when you passed me my blood just now, so that’s progress...?

  No, you’re right, I’m crazy: too much blood and boredom.

  I noticed something though, when you handed the blood to me, inked on the inside of your wrists, before the delicate pulse points (and trust me, you don’t want to know why my gaze was drawn there).

  Tribal black outlines of a Manx cat with long hind legs and shortened stumpy tail.

  There’s one other place that I’ve seen the same design. It signifies white searing agony, snaking fire, and Schumann playing wild carnival.

  Do you have the tracker?

  That thought makes me shudder. I remind myself just who you are: a daughter of Cain.

  The Manx is marked out by its genetic mutation: the shortening or nonexistence of its tail. That makes it no different to us Blood Lifers.

  It’s all in the evolution — venom and fangs — which are from Komodo dragons, if you’re interested (although I reckon your sort isn’t).

  To you, Blood Lifers are simply numbers on a page and cash in the wallet. You prefer to commodify us.

  And trap us in a tattoo.

  4

  MAY 9

  I’m writing this in your kitchen: a huge white and stainless-steel affair. It has silver brocade wallpaper, Smeg fridge, and a Rangemaster gas stove, which has more dials than I know what to do with (and looks like it’s never been touched).

  I’m writing this entry because you stuffed the journal in front of me, before ordering me to do something quiet, since you had so much work. You’d reckon that I was a snotty nosed brat with a coloring book, rather than a century and a half old Blood Lifer.

  It’s not as if the last week has been a picnic, shut up in my cell.

  This evening started the same. Except that the call of the blood — the night, in all its electrifying glory — beat in my veins, until my head felt like exploding bloody firework and I struggled not to scream from the pulsating migraine agony. All I wanted was to drive the pain away…bang, bang, bang…to the beat, beat, beat of the blood by slamming my head against the wall, painting it crimson.

  The new pain grounded me. There was no thought or sensation, except the…bang, bang, bang…

  I didn’t even hear the door open.

  The next thing I knew, you were dragging me away from the wall and hollering at
me.

  My blood was dripping sticky into my eyes and shadowing you into a specter.

  Then you quietened. To my surprise, there was the light touch of your fingers down my cheek, followed by the firm grip of your hand in mine, as you led me out of the cell for the first time.

  You parked me here in the kitchen, before swabbing me with balled cotton wool, pinking a bowl of tepid water, as you cleaned my cut.

  Ruby, my Blood Lifer Author, would’ve licked the blood from me like a proper feast. Then buzzed, we’d have shagged right there on top of the gleaming counter, shoving the avocado knives, nut milk bags, and kombucha jars smashing to the white tiles.

  You, however, just threw the used cotton wool into the rubbish. “Well, that was fricking stupid.”

  I shrugged.

  ‘Ya huh! You’re not getting off so easy. You’re telling me what that was about on account of I don’t want you decorating my tasteful apartment a vivid shade of red.”

  All right then, veiled truth time.

  I looked down. “I don’t like to be caged. Alone. I’m sorry.”

  And there was that piercing look of yours.

  Then you sighed, settling on the stool next to me, before piling out an iPhone (that was miraculously charging inside your monochrome tote bag), workbooks, and a handful of rollerballs onto the counter.

  So, definitely no shagging then…

  Your hair hung in damp strands, as if you’d recently been caught in a downpour.

  I flipped open one of the workbooks. “Masters in Management?”

  You snatched the workbook back, as if I’d sully it. Right, I’ve got the memo, sweetheart. “It’s why I’ve been…distracted this week. Daddy wants me trained, but it’s so intense. I mean, wicked exciting, with global experts and networking, you know? But this week there’ve been evening summits and—”

  “So, you reckoned… What? You could stuff me in a spare room like a…Hoover?”

  “A Hoover?” You sniggered.

  I couldn’t help grinning. “Alright, not my best analogy.”

  Tiny rivers streamed down the bay window out in the dark; I craved to feel them coursing down my skin too.