Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  We looked at each other. Then for the first time, we burst into exhausted, overstrung giggles.

  Strangely, returning now didn’t feel like giving up my freedom.

  As I lay in bed, I remembered the bravery of my little whipping boy twin, squaring his shoulders and risking everything for another boy, just because he had a proper home and a papa.

  That was when I knew that I was ready to be the leader my family needed.

  Please, don’t let my fingers slip out of your hand. Hold on.

  21

  JUNE 3

  “This is… The blood and…I’m going to… Are you sure...?” You wrinkled your nose.

  My gaze became steely. “It’s the only way that I’ll learn.”

  You clung to my hand, as we ducked through the gloom of the gym, which stank of sweat and rage. We wove between the baying mob, who were circling the cage. They were high on violence and pain.

  When I recognized a red Mohawk, my guts did a dance The First Lifer swiveled his head, his manic gaze locking onto mine, before he knocked the shoulder of his mate who was fly-eyed in aviator goggles.

  They both scrutinized me. Then they were swarming all over me, clamping their large hands front and back around my throat.

  I just had the time to notice the Manx cat tattoos on their knuckles, before Mohawk’s grinning face pressed right into mine.

  “M.C.’s my sister,” you snapped. “And he’s my…” This’d be interesting. “…He’s mine.”

  Mohawk and Aviator’s grips’ tightened. Then, however, as if by telepathy, they pushed back, setting me free. They made the mocking universal gesture for after you, towards the cage.

  When I sensed you holding back, I made an effort to straighten my shoulders — not intimidated here — and pushed forward by myself.

  The huge brawler in the cage was stripped down bare chested to a pair of shiny scarlet Kickboxing shorts and hand wraps. Spider webs inked every inch of skin. His face was a work of sodding art: swollen and bleeding from his mouth and broken eye socket. Yet he was still punching.

  He was a slugger, slow but powerful.

  The thing was, he was being taken apart and toyed with by M.C.

  In red sports bra, shorts, and hand wraps, in the close heat of the gym, M.C. was sweating. The only mark on her, however, was the blood on her lips from a hard hook.

  Two jabs and then a cross…

  M.C maintained her distance, wearing the poor punk down. He was bobbing and weaving, finally reduced to covering up. M.C. hopped on her front foot: the flying punch caught the punk to the side of his head. When he stumbled back, M.C. pounced, with elbow strikes to his chest until he bled, followed by a spinning back kick to his chest and a hook kick to…his groin…?

  So, there was no such thing as illegal blows? No ringside doctors, rules, or referees?

  This was survival of the fittest: of course a Cain was at the top of the pile.

  I could tell M.C. was an out-fighter. And me? In the ring, I’m a swarmer. You know what that means? In a fair fight, without the tracker in M.C.’s hand, I’d win.

  Not like it’d be fair though because M.C. would fight dirty.

  Yet here’s the blinding part — I fight much dirtier.

  Back in the 1880s, when I was still an amusing bauble for Ruby and my love for her was as intense as a living fire, Ruby would insist that I enter no-holds-barred, Greco-Roman challenge matches. The matches were all the rage in the music halls, and I’d always win.

  See, I’ve been playing at this a long time.

  When Ruby and I would get back to our house, we’d have a wrestling match of our own. Except, this time it would be Ruby, who’d come out on top.

  I prowled around the cage in the shadows, studying M.C.’s strengths and weaknesses, as she in turn stalked the inked punk. When M.C. knocked him stumbling to my side of the cage, a tear of his blood splattered my cheek.

  Just for a moment, M.C. caught my scrutiny; her blazing eyes narrowed. Then to my surprise, she grinned. Not looking away, I steeled myself, before licking the blood from my cheek. I juddered with the high of human blood. M.C.’s grin died. In a blur, she gripped the punk, wrapping her legs around him, before grappling him face down onto the mat. Yet she never looked away from me.

  M.C. manipulated the brawler like a chess piece. She placed his body into omoplata — shoulder lock — using her leg; she pressed his elbow joint as well. When the punk howled, I winced. If he didn’t submit, his shoulder would… Pop.

  The poor git was frantically tapping out on the mat, but M.C. wasn’t letting go. Even her Crew had fallen quiet at the First Lifer’s screams.

  At last, M.C. released the pressure, only to wrap her arm around the brawler’s neck in a blood choke: he went limp.

  Checkmate.

  M.C. threw her crushed opponent down to silence in that crowded gym. Still her deathly cold gaze never left mine. Blood smeared on her lips, M.C. stood over her prey, roaring in victory like a tiger after the kill.

  “Did you get what you needed?” Your whisper was tense but determined; your hand slipped into mine.

  “Yeah,” I still didn’t lower my gaze from M.C.’s. Never again. Never bloody again. “Oh yeah, I got it.”

  M.C. was deadlier than I’d imagined, but she had no idea that I now knew how to beat her.

  22

  JUNE 6

  It’s black outside, yet you’re still not back.

  I’m scribbling this in the shadows of the lounge, my arse numb on the log bench, because what’s the point in lighting your mango or fig candles tonight?

  Please, just come home, darling.

  I was cooking up this cracking stir-fry.

  It was a compromise, the best of both worlds: your plant-based, gluten and sugar free purity, melded with my taste explosion of hot chillies, ginger, and garlic (that’s another one of those bollocks vampire myths because we can munch on garlic until we sweat the stuff).

  Your range had never been so splattered with cooking sauces, which were spitting from my wok, whilst the dazzling white sides were littered with wooden spoons and chopping boards that were bright with curling vegetable parings, as if a sentient being lived here, rather than an automaton.

  I hummed The Stones as I stirred, wrapped in your apron. When you pottered into the kitchen in jeans and cashmere, I smiled. You slipped your fingers over mine in sync with their rhythm. “Dinner’ll be ready soon.”

  You nodded.

  A wave of gorse and sunlight washed over me, as you pressed closer. “What’s that perfume? It smells like…”

  When you drew back, I bit my tongue.

  Stupid bugger, aren’t I?

  “Fernando chose it because it smells like gorse.” You shifted a spoon on the marble top, as if to distract yourself. “It reminds me of home — Mann — on account of the gorse on the Estate. Fernando reckoned that it would; he’s wicked clever like that.”

  I’d stopped stirring; I could smell the chillies catching.

  Fernando: of course that git had bought it for you. Considerate, perfect, First Lifer Fernando.

  Your virtual world, with virtual mates and mythologized semi-boyfriend is easier to face up to than the real one. That makes you the unreal one, princess.

  I stiffened. Why did my chest ache, even as my hand shook? “What I can’t figure is why you’re more trapped in the past than I am.”

  You backed away, before pulling out your iPhone like a shooter. “You know what? If I’m, like, trapped in the past, why don’t I just stay there?”

  You touched the screen, and there he was: Alpha Geek in all his miniature buttoned up glory, grinning that goofy grin. It made me want to whack your mobile with the wok.

  Still, I didn’t do that, so…progress.

  “Great Scott!” Fernando threw up his hands in faux shock. “I do declare, Grayse Cain, twice in one day! What’s doin’?”

  I hated the way that you smiled. “Nothing, I just wanted to see you.” You glanced sign
ificantly at me, before waltzing out of the kitchen.

  “Hey, dinner…” I called after you.

  No response.

  Of course not — now you had Fernando.

  Earlier, I’d perched on the sofa, your laptop open in front of me on the coffee table, having a look at some schematics. The Internet’s a bloody miracle: a democratization of info, which The Man can’t pull the plug on…or own. Finding what I’d needed had been a piece of cake.

  After, I’d tried for the more lawful route, digging into protection against slavery, to build a case for our freedom. But here’s the thing: humans are sneaky bastards.

  “The Vienna Declaration,” I’d clicked on the link excitedly, “and Roman Statute go on about sexual enslavement but…”

  “Yah?” You’d been sprawled in the Fjord Relax chair, painting your nails sexy in scarlet.

  “They’re on the basis of ‘human rights’ or ‘crimes against humanity’. Look at even the term human trafficking. United Nations Global Initiative to Fight Human Trafficking. Council of Europe Convention on Action against Trafficking in Human Beings—”

  You frowned. “Whoa rant boy, so what?”

  “So,” I’d stabbed an accusing finger at the screen, “don’t you get it? It’s not Blood Lifer trafficking, is it? Every single sodding law on trafficking and slavery is worded to exclude any species but humans. You lot can do anything you bleeding want to us.”

  Our cherished invisibility had left us vulnerable to exploitation. By staying Lost, we’d condemned ourselves to slavery.

  Your frown deepened. “Naw, don’t you get it? You reckon that you’re so good at hiding? Safe before us evil Cains? You think that the powerful men who drew up these laws didn’t know about you? Then why do you reckon they were so careful to assert humanity in each law?”

  I slammed the laptop shut, turning away and encircling my elbows with my knees.

  You were right.

  Trust a First Lifer to think like a First Lifer.

  I pretended to be busy with the Willow plates, plonking them next to the range in preparation, when you strolled back into the kitchen, dropping the mobile onto the stainless-steel counter.

  “I’ll lay the table,” you said softly.

  I nodded.

  Then you were gone. But your phone lay there, whispering temptation. Or that’s the story I’m going with; although Mr Professor risked…everything.

  Snap — I’d gripped the spoon so tightly that it’d broken. I tossed it in the rubbish. Then I turned back to the phone.

  I was going to do this; I was the leader now.

  I pressed on Skype.

  Alpha Geek’s face was a picture when he caught sight of me in your kitchen. His first reaction was still that charming let’s work this out together smile, but I wasn’t buying it: he was pissed.

  I made sure that Fernando had a good view of the two plates laid out next to the hissing wok in domestic harmony behind me, whilst I was snug in your apron.

  Fernando’s smile faltered. “What the frak...?”

  I shrugged. “Sorry, mate. I must’ve…you know, by accident.”

  His eyes narrowed. “So, who are you again?”

  It was like two stags at bloody mating time.

  I leant casually against the counter. “You’re that professor bloke? The one Grayse used to know—”

  “And that makes you...?”

  “She hasn’t told you?”

  “Where is she?” Fernando’s dark eyes flicked side to side in frustration, as if he could see outside the limits of the screen. “Are you…?”

  I sighed. “We’re about to eat here, so it’s not a good time. Look, this is embarrassing, maybe she should—”

  Fernando’s jaw clenched. “It’s OK, I get it.”

  The screen went blank.

  I let out a deep breath.

  That’d been my first contact with a First Lifer for six months who hadn’t known that I was a slave.

  And it’d been blinding to play him.

  I began to hum “In Another Land” as I gave the last few stirs to the meal; it smelt like a rock band kicking it at Glastonbury. I was ravenous. “Oi princess, it’s—”

  In a furious whirr, you slammed into the kitchen, shoving me across the counter.

  The shock shuttered my mind into shut down.

  I caught glimpses of your flushed, raging face… I know what you did… Your gray eyes were so cold that I don’t know why I ever reckoned you were softer than your sister… You’re meant to be a secret… I stayed down, but you kept advancing… How could you do something so bad? I trusted you… You were standing over me… Fernando tells me everything; he’s like my brother… Your mouth was twisted and hard… I have a Blackberry too, or are you that stupid?

  Bad… Stupid… My body contorted, as a bullwhip tore the skin afresh in searing slashes, whilst I writhed… Count, my pretty little leech.

  “Bad… Stupid… Bad… Sorry… Yeah, I’m bad. Sorry… Sorry,” I mumbled, with my head turned away and my palms splayed on the counter. At last, my distress seemed to break into the red rage, which was fueling your diatribe; you reached out towards me. I screwed me eyes shut. I deserved a clout but stuck in the gray area between Primrose Hill and Abona, I still panicked. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…”

  You hastily withdrew your hand, backing across the kitchen. “What was all that about?” You sounded calmer. I risked opening my eyes. Then I pushed myself up. My tooth hurt from where it’d banged the counter; I could feel the fang growing through behind it. I had a quick peek at you, leaning with your arms crossed in the doorway. “Was it a message? A way to escape?”

  Shocked, I stared at you. “Not bleeding likely.”

  You huffed. “Then what? What were you thinking?”

  “That I didn’t want you to leave,” I couldn’t quite get myself to add me but I knew that you heard it from the way that you blushed, “or go to America and send me back to Abona.”

  When you surged towards me, I couldn’t help flinching. You stopped mid-step and flinched in response. “That’ll never happen; I promise.” I still, however, couldn’t meet your gaze or make myself believe it.

  Suddenly, I realized that the kitchen was hazy with smoke. I choked on the stench of burning: my stir-fry.

  Coughing, I dived for the range, twisting it off. “Bugger.”

  I stared at the blackened remains sadly: one cremated dinner coming up… My stomach rumbled.

  You spun away, with a flick of your hair. “I’ll eat out.”

  A few short steps and — bang — you were gone.

  You still haven’t come back. It’s very late.

  I reckoned that I’d sit here and wait up for you. But then, it’s not like I’m your…anything…is it?

  All I want is for you to come back. It’s silent here and I’m…a muppet, all right? I need you to understand.

  I need you.

  23

  JUNE 8

  You insisted that it was your sister who’d booked it. Yet you still didn’t stop the First Lifer who M.C. sent from waxing me full body and privates smooth again. It’s part of the Blood Lifer regimen, like polishing and waxing your prized motor.

  And it bloody hurt.

  At least she was professional, using this bubble gummy soft wax on my danglies and other private places.

  Not like the Doctor at Abona.

  It’s not as if I had any choice in it though: my body’s not my own any longer.

  And isn’t that the bleeding point?

  24

  JUNE 9

  I swore that I’d explain everything. But not tonight. My jaw and fangs ache, my wrists are purpled with bruises, and I’m lying on my stomach on top of my duvet as I write this.

  I’m trying to figure out how I got from Amy Winehouse to risking a promise, which would mean casting my lot in with you alone.

  Either I’m right to trust you, or I’m the biggest bleeding mug of them all.

  On my knees t
his morning beside the coffee table, I had your vases ranged for dusting with the pink cloth that you’d marked in the cupboard. Your indigo Italian glass vase was up next. I’d worked out your high-tech sound system and was humming along to a music channel.

  Then it’d started up…the song, which had thrown me right back to the moors, the sobbing grief, and death of everything that was good in my world. Immersed in the soulful pain of Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black”, I’d found myself on my knees, singing along.

  Kathy: my love and Moon Girl, whose Soul snared mine; I’d been enraptured by every word that she’d sung up on stage.

  Yet after we’d escaped together from Ruby and the rest of my brutal family, Kathy had learned the truth about me — and she’d never sung again.

  The truth silences you.

  In the early stages of the cruel dementia, however, which stole us from each other, I’d once found Kathy in our room, swaying to “Back to Black”, as it played on the radio. She’d been mouthing the words. For one glorious moment, I’d hoped that she’d sing again, transformed to a ghost of her youth’s transcendence.

  But hope’s the killer.

  When Kathy died, I’d buried her at night out on Ilkley Moor. As I’d uprooted the scented heather, I’d been assaulted by images of Kathy’s dad’s skeleton, rotted down to nothing but bones and rags. Burying that bastard on the moors had been the greatest proof of love, which Kathy had ever asked from me.

  As I’d dug out Kathy’s grave in lonely vigil, I’d been raging, but there had been nothing to face. No enemy but death.

  I’d whispered the lyrics to “Back to Black”, like a eulogy, as I’d laid Kathy’s body gently into the boggy grave. Then I’d tipped the soil back over her, starting at her feet and delaying the inevitable moment, until finally even her face had been covered, and she’d been lost to me, irrevocably and eternally.

  As the last earth had fallen, crumbled between my fingers, I’d broken down, weeping until the world had blurred to nothing.