Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  Then M.C. bared her teeth in what could’ve been an attempt at a smile but it was one that said the tiger now had its prey in its jaws. “Come on, little leech, no secrets.”

  I knew my eyes were comically large. My mouth was too dry to answer.

  “How precious,” Captain stretched back in his seat. I could tell how much he was enjoying my discomfort. I wondered whether he would, if he’d ever felt a bullwhip ripping up his arse. “I think that he’s under the misconception I may save him.”

  Babe to Blood Life, Captain couldn’t have swum these dark waters more than half a decade, yet here he was taunting and tormenting me: centuries old but a toy to be batted about.

  I blinked away tears; no sodding way were they falling.

  “And you wanted to meet about...?” Your tone was ice cold.

  Captain turned his gaze (and lazy smile), on you. “He’s yours?”

  You nodded stiffly.

  “He’s Plantagenet?”

  You shrugged.

  Captain smoothed his trousers. “Everyone at the Blood Council was keen as mustard to get as many of those caught as possible. I mean, they’re not all Long-liveds but still…what a bloodline. You do know about the bloodline?”

  “It be a bitch that ain’t got no respect, that’s what I know,” M. C. snarled.

  “Marlane.” When Master shot M.C. a look, she subsided. “The boy makes trouble,” Master explained.

  Captain waved an airy hand, as if he was the authority. “Plantagenets always do. They challenge authority and try to change things with respect to the natural order: our authority and our order, come to that.”

  This time I snorted, and then quickly ducked my head.

  The Blood Life Council. It wasn’t a single Blood Lifer but the entire equivalent of Blood Lifer Westminster dealing with the Cains. Slave trading with them.

  I couldn’t point the finger of blame any longer at First Lifers alone.

  Blood Lifers aren’t the compassionate sort as a rule, but this was beyond anything that I’d imagined them capable of; I should’ve guessed there was a silent partner. How otherwise did M.C. Crew know the secrets of us Blood Lifers: how to hunt, capture, and defang us? I struggled not to hurl, when I thought about the details Captain must’ve casually taught you in this room, so Sir could train us at Abona: how long it took to reduce us to living skeletons, how taking away our acute senses would mess us up, and how to motivate us with blood.

  Had Captain looked so cheery then, enthused by his dinner and events?

  Captain was eagerly passing on the names of the best families to target. I recognized some of them: Sringara, Hardy, and Dulcinea.

  Long-liveds and their authored kin.

  Then there were place names and businesses. The wanker even passed over maps with marked locations, along with an analysis of each Blood Lifer’s weaknesses.

  I wondered whether I’d ever get to have a look at my file; they must’ve had fun putting together my weaknesses.

  Then I spotted a pattern. The Blood Life Council was crucifying its political rivals, or anyone with a bloodline strong enough to challenge these newbies to evolutionary advancement.

  The sneaky little bastards.

  Black betrayal. It hit me, twinned with a rush of rage: a screaming insistence for revenge.

  We’d been sold out by our own kind, who were the true puppet masters in the shadows, merely to further their own political ambitions. And the worst of it? They were so blinkered in their arrogance they couldn’t see that they would be next. The Blood Life Council had opened the door to First Lifers, revealing the existence of the Lost and the profits to which we could be turned. Only a fool would think that it could be closed again. Once the Long-liveds were tamed, next would come their bloodlines, and then, who would be left? Kids like this Captain? Who did he reckon would protect him, when the roar of the motorbikes was at his back?

  “You must only take these families,” Captain arched his fingers self-importantly, “or else you’ll risk depleting the stocks.”

  Stocks? As if we were fish to be farmed and netted.

  And that was it: I bloody lost it.

  Captain’s smug, red-cheeked face ballooned, until it was all I could see as I firework exploded.

  I launched myself across the table with its spinning globe of servitude, tackling the wanker and — snap — there went the bloody stupid skeleton chair.

  Captain tumbled backwards in a flurry of boots and clouts — crack — his head took a blinding bang to the concrete. He howled.

  I lifted Captain up by his ripped shirt, before smashing him down again. “Why, you bastard, why?”

  Captain was a bleeding coward; he had enough bottle to send untold numbers of Blood Lifers to centuries of abuse, but I bet he hadn’t been in a fair fight in his life. He didn’t fight back, even though he was the one with the fangs.

  My attack was so fast and sudden — Kenpo Karate, cheers for that — you First Lifers reacted as if you were floating in space.

  I straddled the conniving weasel, getting in as many good shots as I could because I wanted to make this count: for me, Donovan, Hartford, Ashanti, Vesper, even marie antoinette…

  White, blinding, shuddering agony. I collapsed backwards off the now sobbing Captain. Wracked through every nerve, right to my fingertips and tingling toes, I absorbed the searing pain; I didn’t even have the strength to scream. Then it was gone. Instead, there was a curtain of black, tipped with scarlet: M.C.’s hair, my brutalized mind supplied.

  “This be my yard,” M.C. hissed. “A leech disrespect my yard…? Nah, we be having a boot party.”

  M.C. dropped the tracker onto the table, before dragging me onto my knees. She booted me in the stomach with the heel of her foot — Kick Boxing — next my chest — Shotokan — and then with her open hand across my face — Karate.

  Through my bruised eyes, I watched M.C.’s blurred outline pace behind me, before the sudden agony, as she shoved me down onto my front. She wrenched my wrist and hand up to my neck, like I was being nicked by a brutal policeman.

  Bloody blinding, she knew grapple holds too.

  I tried to roll M.C. off, but she intensified the pressure, until my shoulder was about to pop out of its socket.

  I could hear you pleading in the background, through the haze.

  When at last you dragged your sister off me, I carefully lowered my arm; the joint settled back into place. I panted, before shakily hauling myself up. Unfortunately, that meant I was staring at Master, who was giving me that look: the one, which I’d promised I’d never give him reason to direct at me.

  Captain was quaking; his hair stuck up at all angles, as if he’d just had a wild snogging session. Scarlet dripped from his lips. He huddled next to Master (prat that he was), as if for protection.

  Captain prodded at his bloodied teeth. “My fang,” he whimpered, before pointing at me dramatically with a quivering finger. I looked back innocently. “You broke my fang, you…you…yob!”

  I flipped him the two-finger salute.

  Captain’s cheeks puffed with righteous indignation, as he dived for M.C.’s tracker. M.C. stopped him, however, with a hand pressed to his slight chest. “Humans only.”

  Captain swiveled to Master, like this must be a mistake. Master merely patted him on the back. Captain winced. “It’s been a right good meeting,” as Master steered Captain out of the apartment, I heard him placate, “with your helpful information, we know the best tack.”

  Then came Captain’s wailed protest, “But…I mean…this is an outrage…”

  “We’ll learn the boy,” Master growled, “don’t you worry.”

  Finally, it was just the two Cain sisters and me again. I struggled to control the harsh thud of my heart as I clutched my arms across my chest.

  M.C. scuffed her boot against a table leg. “If it was mine—”

  “Well, he’s not.” You edged between M.C. and me. “And he never will be.”

  “Whatever.” I di
dn’t like how M.C. smiled; apparently neither did you.

  You startled. “What does...?”

  “You be stupid if you reckon dad’ll let you keep it, if you can’t control the little leech.” M.C. shoved your shoulder, and you flinched. “This be a business. We be professionals. Either you get with that or…”

  “What?”

  M.C. clicked her tongue. “Are you a Cain or not?”

  I held my breath.

  Please say ‘not’…

  Your expression shuttered, as you looked down, but Master marched back in, before you could reply.

  M.C. sighed, leaning against the graffiti Manx.

  “It…” Master pointed at me, before dragging his thick black belt through its loops — thwap, thwap, thwap — and hurling it onto the table with a clatter; the particles of sand quivered, as the globe trembled and then shivered out of existence “…needs learning. Or do you want to send it back or mark it for the Estate?”

  “He’s mine.” You clutched my wrist so tightly that I could feel blood rushing into bruises; it grounded me, reducing the rushing panic that surged the blood pulsing through me. “No one’s… I can do it: whatever it takes to keep him with me and not…like the others Marlane showed me. I’ll train him on account of it’s my responsibility. I promise — I’ll prove it to you.”

  “Don’t work yourself up: I trust you.” Master’s expression softened. “Our books on slaves are plentiful. Did you read them?”

  “She destroyed them,” M.C. sniffed. “A paper massacre, yeah?”

  “It was an accident, like, when I was studying them,” you muttered.

  “Marlane, ready us some drinks at the bar,” Master commanded.

  M.C. looked as if she might argue but then she slouched further into the apartment.

  Master slid his hand significantly down the coiled belt on the table, tapping the bronze buckle, before clasping you by the shoulders. “Learn it respect. Learn it obedience. Learn it what it means to belong to a Cain. Or I will.” He kissed your forehead. “Show me that you’re still my daughter; I know that I’ll be fair proud of you.”

  Then Master too was gone. And that left you and me.

  Buggering hell.

  You stood, head bowed, staring at that belt, as if it was one of your Fiendish Sudoku. You were sinking into black; I recognized the struggle. Except, you’d already drowned in the dark.

  Your daddy was too overpowering to fight: he was the nightmare.

  Were you awake yet?

  Subdued, you reached out a shaking hand to pick up the belt, like it was venomous. You got as far as doubling it over, before not seeming to have the least clue what to do with it.

  It was a hell of a piece of leather.

  I had the sudden urge to make this easier on you. Yet I didn’t know where that impulse came from.

  I sighed, limping over to the table. “Get on with it.”

  I wrenched off my jacket, tearing the ivory satin lining. I tossed it over a chair, before bending over the table. I planted my feet firmly a shoulder width apart. Then I rested my forearms on the cool surface, with my fingers splayed. Their imprints ghosted. I raised my head and shoulders to stare at the opposite wall, so that my back arched and offered you the best target (and me the worst bloody humiliation).

  It wasn’t like I didn’t remember the position. Yet I’d come to hope — dream — that I’d never be in it for you.

  Somewhere in the fantasy, which I’d spun in the long hours alone in the apartment, I wasn’t really your slave.

  I was simply Light, and you were simply Grayse.

  I held my breath, when I heard you hesitantly come up behind me. “Light…”

  I wasn’t dropping my trousers. I bloody wasn’t. You’d have to use the wankering tracker on me, if you wanted to heap on that added schoolboy shame. And please don’t make me count. And please – please - don’t order me to thank you for every stroke. “Go on.”

  There was the swish of heavy leather and then — crack.

  I jerked and gasped but I didn’t cry out. I wouldn’t give M.C. the satisfaction of hearing me bawl. I realized, however, that I wouldn’t be able to help bucking and squirming because you didn’t know what you were doing, so your aim would be off: too high or too low.

  That’d bloody hurt.

  A second swish — crack.

  That one got my lower back. I stifled a yelp. My fingers curled.

  Yeah, I was right, it did bloody hurt.

  Swish — crack.

  That third strike stung my thighs. I pulled to the side and then stilled myself with an effort. I could already feel the three raised welts glowing. I waited for the next blow.

  Silence.

  I clenched in anticipation.

  Then I heard the thump of something heavy hitting the concrete, before I was gripped by the shoulders.

  To my alarm, you spun me around to face you: it was the belt, coiled primeval-like, and it was you, not me, who was bawling.

  “Are you happy now? You think that I wanted to...? That I take pleasure...? Are you soft…?” You pounded your fists against me, and I let you. Then you were embracing me tighter than anyone has since Kathy. But just as fast, you shoved me away, furious. “I hope that it was worth it.”

  So, you want to know if it was worth it?

  My arse hurts, so do my ribs, head, guts, shoulder, wrist, thighs, back, and every single nerve.

  Yet the only thing I regret is that I didn’t get to rip out Captain’s heart. That’s why old-fashioned pencils have their uses: at least then I could’ve staked the bastard.

  The thing is, I’m haunted by those I left behind in Abona. By the memories of what I witnessed because of Blood Lifers like Captain. You saw the photos and heard M.C’s speech: don’t you understand now?

  You’re a slaver.

  Whether you like it or not, blood money buys you all your pretty things. Don’t you want to hear how that blood money’s earned?

  Then you can judge for yourself if it was worth it.

  19

  MAY 28

  Every day I’d still fantasize that someone besides Sir would come through the dark oak doors, but the daydreams were less substantial. Nothing was real except Sir. The blood that I sucked from his fingers, the water (which I could now drink from a plastic cup like a big boy), and the chains around my contorted body.

  I’d learned commands for positions that I could drop to at a word, only needing mild correction from Sir’s bloody riding crop.

  That was my narrowed world: the damp cell, with its constant overhead light and no demarcation of night or day…and I was slowly losing my mind.

  Then came the time that I heard the locks and scrambled to kneel: my legs spread with feet together, sitting back on my heels but back held straight, whilst my hands rested on my knees with the palms up. My gaze remained downcast.

  The perfect little slave.

  Yet next there wasn’t the click of Sir’s Oxford shoes, rather the pad of bare feet...

  Shocked out of my obedience, I peeked up.

  Another Blood Lifer.

  He was naked too, except for a silver ring, the same as mine. He looked young, like a matinee idol. His shining golden hair was slicked back over the crown of his head, but with the power radiating from him, I knew that he was a Long-lived.

  Yet somehow there he was, standing scrutinizing me — cock out — plastic cup of water in hand and a bright smile, as if we were meeting over cocktails in a jazz lounge.

  He couldn’t be real. I’d finally gone mad.

  I started to giggle. Then for one even more crazy moment, my instinct was to holler for Sir. Where was Sir? Why hadn’t he come to see me today? Didn’t he realize that I needed him? Then I wanted to hurl with self-hatred.

  Suddenly, soft fingers stroked my cheek; I quietened.

  “Are you real…?” I managed to rasp.

  “Poor little bunny. I heard that the new one was all balled up.” The Long-lived’s gentle Ame
rican voice sounded concerned. It was a trick. Another mind-fuck to drag me deeper into bondage. When the Long-lived held out the water, I didn’t take it. “Would you like a drink-avous?” He shook the beaker vigorously under my nose.

  “No thanks, helmethead, I’m on the wagon-avous,” I replied with exaggerated slowness.

  To my surprise, the bloke gave a delighted laugh. “You slay me!’” Then, with a nervous glance over his shoulder at the open door, he dropped to his knee, plonking down the cup. “Lucky this joint serves an alternative.” The Long-lived raised his wrist to his mouth and bit. He winced as he worried at the skin with blunt teeth (so I wasn’t the only poor bastard who’d been defanged). He tore a gash in the flesh, just enough for the blood to ooze out, before offering his wrist to me, as he had the water. “For crying out loud — quick — before Sir sees.” I studied the bloke’s expectant expression, whilst his scarlet wrist dangled before my face. This Blood Lifer wasn’t my Author or Blood family. Why would a stranger offer me something so intimate? Impatient, he smeared my lips with his blood. “Get a wiggle on. You’re starved. You sure must’ve fought Sir. Real hard-boiled type, huh? Go on, drink.” The scent of the Long-lived’s powerful blood was intoxicating. Trick or not, I was under its spell. The moment that I’d licked my lips, it was too much: it hit me, like all of existence fracturing and being put together in the moment. I juddered; my eyes rolled back. Faster than I knew I could still move, I’d grabbed the Long-lived’s wrist and was sucking. I was vaguely aware that he was threading his fingers through my hair, almost as if he knew just what I needed right then. But too soon he was pushing me off. “Sorry, mac, I can’t spare anymore yet. On the level, it’s not like we’re fed much.”

  “We?” I was still buzzing from the strength of the Long-lived’s blood, which had given me a stiffy. There was no way to disguise it.

  Luckily, he politely ignored my faux pas. “All the Blood Lifers in this joint: Abona House. That’s where you are.”

  I began to shake. In all my fantasies, I’d never imagined such a horrific possibility. “But why? What’s the bloody point?”

  The Long-lived looked suddenly shifty, concentrating on licking over his wrist to accelerate its healing. “For now, just drink when you can and get strong. Promise me?”