Donovan made to rise to follow him, but I caught his arm and shook my head. “Some things a bloke’s got to do on his own.”
For the first time, Sir backed away. He pressed his remaining good hand, which was gory with Ashanti’s blood, against the courtyard wall. At last, he was trapped in the corner.
“Kneel,” he blustered, “down.” Sir could see in Hartford’s eyes at last, however, what he was. What he’d always been. And what Sir could never truly tame. It’d only ever been buried out of the need to protect Donovan: his own love used as a weapon against him. But now Hartford had been freed — he was a Long-lived. Sir had unleashed him. “Cupid…bad boy…”
“My name is Hartford.” Hartford launched himself at Sir.
In the hush of the courtyard, as Donovan and I grieved over the fallen body of Ashanti, Hartford tore Sir limb from bloody limb. Who needs fangs when you’ve got murderous grief? It was every one of my revenge fantasies come true. It was…justice. Blood Lifer justice. Not your human law.
It felt like absolution for us all…even if it didn’t yet save us.
28
JUNE 15
Hartford’s still grieving; I had to tumble him out of his sleeping bag to get him up tonight. He’s drunk half the time on the booze, which Donovan brings him. It’s not like I can give him a hard time. He lost Ashanti because of me.
I may be head of this screwed up family of misfits (and don’t ask me how that happened; it seems some of the Spartacus rubbed off during the rescue), I’m still not telling a Long-lived what to do. Hartford was locked up for so long that it’ll take time for him to cope with walking in the world again.
I know I did.
Yet when Hartford does, he’ll soar above it, like a bleeding butterfly.
Now Donovan…? He’s already strutting his stuff. He sprawls on our ratty sofa as if it’s luxury leather or swings back to the squat with cardboard boxes of take-away: Chinese, Indian, or battered cod from the chippy. He buys our blood from a range of butchers, so that we can’t be traced. Then we feast. I’ve never seen Donovan happier, than when he’s watching Hartford drink the blood that he’s provided unrationed.
We don’t have our fangs back yet, which means I know Donovan can’t also be feeding on First Lifers. Do you reckon, however, that I’d restrain him? Donovan’s earned the right to stalk the night unfettered.
Maybe I’ll persuade them to blood abstain, like I do. After all that time on pigs’ blood, it’ll be easier than the struggle I went through, cold turkey.
Here’s the thing though: I made a promise to rescue Ashanti’s girl and every last one of them at Abona. And I’m a man of my word.
Sir’s dead.
But you Cains? The Blood Club? It’s still delivering strong profit margins.
If I save one slave, another will simply be hunted to take their place.
Plus, the specialist, individualized market, which nets the billionaires? That’s buried on the Estate with Master. As long as he’s training Blood Lifers none of us are safe.
We can’t run forever. We either stand and fight now, or First Lifers will become the apex predator.
The only question left is: will you help us? Or your family?
29
JUNE 16
“Don’t,” Donovan clutched my arm; his nails scored into my flesh. When I met his gaze, I recognized the pain in his eyes but hadn’t expected it. “Please, man, we’ll find a way.” He glanced back at Hartford, who was still wormed in his sleeping bag, only his tufted blond hair — no longer a sleek helmet — visible. “Not Hartford. He’s done. My baby’s given enough. But you and me?” Donovan licked his lips nervously. “Whatever this suicide mission is? Rescuing Ashanti’s chick? Then we’ll—”
“It’s the bloody tracker.” I pulled Donovan’s fingers away from my marked skin, playing with them between my hands soothingly. “If I don’t go back to Grayse, she can track me. To you. I’m not going to risk that.”
“Then we run together.” Donovan was rigid — so bleeding tense — yet I didn’t need that to know how much his offer was hurting him. How much he was prepared to sacrifice for me. “Leave Hartford behind. Then at least he’s safe.”
I tried to smile. “Cheers, mate, but I’m not running. And as I told you before, Hartford needs you.”
“Not cool,” Donovan burst out, “I won’t let you be a slave, whilst we’re free.”
I gripped onto Donovan’s hand more tightly. “We don’t have a choice.”
30
JUNE 17
So, I’m back here at Primrose Hill — your S.L.A.V.E — are you happy now?
Business is sorted; loan paid in full.
When I arrived this evening, you were out.
I had a look around the apartment, stroking each of the Manx because it’d felt like I’d abandoned them but now I was…home.
I’d only just strolled into the sitting room, sprawling on the sofa, when I heard the click of the front door. My first instinct was to run, like some lovesick puppy conditioned at the sound to hump your leg. With an effort to appear cool, I restrained myself.
I hopped up hurriedly, however, when M.C. mooched in ahead of you in studded tartan and denim, with a messenger bag glittering with skull-and-crossbones slung over her shoulder. I only caught a glimpse of your ashen face behind her, before I had a face full of enraged punk, pressing me down onto the sofa by the front of my t-shirt.
All right then, consequences time.
I’d reckoned that at least I’d get to talk to you first. But life’s a bitch like that.
I hadn’t expected your voice, cold as bloody ice, from behind M.C., “Don’t touch him: he’s mine.”
The pressure on my front eased. M.C. scrutinized me. “It be proper suspicious that this leech’s cousin and its bitch done run.”
“My Blood Lifer doesn’t know anything. I’ve questioned him, remember?”
“That’s what it says. But if I spend some time—”
“Na-ah,” you insisted. I heard you step closer, as M.C. shook me once more, before standing. I let out a breath, unbunching my hands, which I’d unconsciously fisted into the sofa.
M.C. clucked her tongue. “Where’ve you been hiding the leech?”
“He was locked in his room. It was a punishment.” There were bruised shadows under your eyes like you hadn’t taken slept since I’d left; your black A-line shift was crumpled. “I’m training him now like daddy wants.”
M.C. sucked on her teeth. Yeah, she wasn’t buying it. “This leech at Abona says it saw your bitch on the day of the escape…when Mr Yates was messed up big time. Why would it say that?”
My heart was bloody galloping the Grand National.
You shrugged. “Maybe the slave’s trying to shift the blame onto someone who’s not there to be disciplined? Or avoid trouble for themselves? What’s the CCTV show?”
I flinched at the realization of what this would mean for marie antoinette. Then I remembered how she’d bustled to boil the water for Sir and I didn’t feel half as bad.
“CCTV was down, innit?” M.C.’s gaze flickered to mine. “Don’t worry, sis; my crew will retrieve the bad leeches. And then…?” M.C. licked her tongue over her lips, as her gaze met mine. She wasn’t reassuring you; she was threatening me. Then she smiled. “Are you saying your little leech’s trained?”
Your eyes widened. “Naw…I mean…yah…but only…”
“Kneel.” I slipped to my knees next to the coffee table at M.C.’s command. I hoped that you understood the game I was playing. “Looks like it be learning,” M.C. sounded proud, as if her kid sister had passed the first grade of Mistress School, “but the dirty bitch was on the furniture. That’s disrespect big time.” Thwap — thwap — thwap. I knew without being able to see that M.C. was pulling out her studded belt and lobbing it to you. “Going to learn it?”
“Later,” you replied briskly. I hoped that was you catching onto the game and not a promise, as you tossed the belt next to me.
I forced myself not to sneak a look at it. “Now, let’s see if we can’t get my training done.”
I glanced from underneath my eyelashes, whilst you both settled on the sofa.
M.C. took out a laptop from her skull-and-crossbones bag. I let myself sink deeper into my thoughts — safe in them — as you threw figures back and forth. The numbers swirled radiantly.
Donovan and Hartford were free.
They’d look after each other: I’d made them swear it, until with a laugh, they’d insisted that they weren’t kids.
I was a slave again but I was alive, whilst Sir was dead.
Count your blessings and all that.
“The Blood Club’s a product business, you get me?” M.C.’s lecturing shocked me back to my body. I was numb with holding still so long, kneeling at your feet. Product business? “Every product business uses the Internet to cut costs, keep stock of inventories and customers’ needs, desires, and shit.” You were scribbling away on the pad of paper that was balanced on your lap. I gritted my teeth. M.C. had pushed her laptop back into the messenger bag and was lounged amongst the sofa cushions. “It be costing more to tailor the product, but that’s what makes you unique. That’s the premium return and big cash.”
“At the Estate?” You paused with your pen poised.
For the first time, M.C.’s smile was genuine. “You be proper learning. The Internet teaches us the personal needs of the private sales, and Dad conditions the leeches to meet the needs.”
“Needs?”
“Anything Blood Clubbers ask for, they get.” M.C. pointed at you; her gaze serious. “Dad’s the best. Don’t worry about it, sis; we got this. You don’t—”
You leant forward. “But I want to understand. You were right: I’m a Cain. I know that now.”
Bloody hell, I hoped that you were acting.
M.C.’s expression softened. “You’re going to make dad proper proud.” I shifted on my painful knees and then froze, when I realized that I’d drawn M.C’s attention. “I be letting you deal with your leech now. Alright sis, see you tomorrow.” M.C. nudged her belt, which still coiled darkly next to me, with her boot. “You don’t be needing to give that back until then.”
I forced myself not to watch, as you walked M.C. out of the apartment.
I was suddenly nervous to be alone with you.
I’d come back, but so much had changed. I didn’t know what I was to you: more or less than the non-boyfriend who you snogged when the need burned.
Whether you were now firmly back under the wing of your family, and I was nothing but a product, belonging to the daughter of Cain.
You paced back to the sitting room, skulking in the doorway. No way to read that then.
Still, you hadn’t gone for M.C.’s belt, so if I was going to take a guess…
Bugger this.
I launched myself at you, sweeping you around, as you yelped in surprise.
Then you clasped your arms around my neck and held on, repeating my name, as if I’d vanish in a puff of smoke if you didn’t, “Light, Light, Light…”
At last, I let go.
You stepped back, looking suspiciously like you were wiping wetness from the edges of your eyes. “Do you know how many lies I had to tell?”
“Not as many as I’ve told.”
We stared at each other, before I dropped my gaze. “Cheers, for… It’s done. My family are free—”
“Yah, kinda got that.” I hadn’t been prepared for the bite in your tone.
I flushed. “A bit more acid in that, sweetheart; you didn’t quite melt me.” You pushed past, but I pursued you, confused. “What’s...?”
When you swung back, I realized just how ill you looked. “Are you...? Has all this…been about nothing but surviving?”
“I’m a slave,” I explained, “everything’s about survival.”
“I thought you trusted me?” You whispered.
“It’s not about trust.”
“It’s like…making me feel…manipulating me into helping you?” I winced. “What I want to know is if you used me to free your family?”
The instant denial caught in my throat. Lies wouldn’t work. Not when your flint eyes were considering me so intently that you were flaying me raw. “Wouldn’t you?”
I saw the hurt flash, before you buried it. “You know what? Yah, I would, so I guess that I can’t blame you. But it doesn’t make it right.”
“Neither’s kidnap, torture, or rape. That never stopped you lot. It never stopped—”
“It did,” you said quietly. “I stopped. I…” Then you darted from the room — bang — there went the bedroom door.
Abso-bloody-lutely blinding: not one night back and I’d botched things up.
Sighing, I collapsed back onto the sofa. My leg knocked against M.C.’s skull-and-crossbones bag.
Now wasn’t that interesting?
Remember how I told you that it wasn’t snooping: it was spying...?
I glanced at the door, but the apartment was quiet, lit not by the salvaged chandelier but rather by fig and mango candles. I relaxed into the exotic aromas as I sneaked my hand inside the bag. I slipped out M.C.’s laptop, before balancing it on the coffee table. I flipped it open; M.C. hadn’t even shut it down. I clicked through her browsing history: punk music, motorbikes, and finances.
Then I opened another section, which was marked Blood Club. I was immediately plunged deeper into the Internet. It was when I came to a sequence, which included onion that I hesitated.
I knew that this would lead to the Tor Network: a hidden network of encrypted websites on the Dark Web, which like an onion, had many layers, all deeper and harder to find. Anonymous too, so they said, for its users.
I figured, if you were selling slave Blood Lifers, where better to advertise?
At its best, the Internet can emancipate the individual, yet here it was at its worst: enslaving a species.
My finger hovered over the link.
I remembered M.C. flicking through photos of naked Blood Lifers…the same ones that she’d flaunted, projected on the dining room table. Now I could guess why they’d been taken. After all, this was a product business, and you used the Internet to make sure that you were meeting the customers’ needs, desires, and shit.
I clicked and waited, impatiently bouncing my knee, as the website loaded slowly, and the information was bounced around the globe.
Buggering hell…
I clutched onto the sofa to stop from cursing. I glanced back at the doorway: you were still in your room.
There was Hartford, strapped to one of Abona’s four-posters, his back, arse, and thighs striped and bleeding. Underneath was written every fetish that I’d ever heard of (and a few that I hadn’t). The prices were eye watering. Then there was photo after photo of the things that Hartford would never talk about. Now I understood why: I wished that I didn’t. I clicked on as fast as I could.
Then I stopped. Everything stopped. Even my sodding heart.
You were planning to sell me.
Because there I was: at Sir’s feet and again at Inspect. Dazedly, I read the list of kinks, which I could be trained in (if my new owner wished), whilst at the Estate.
I don’t know how long I was staring at that screen, lost in the terror of it. When I looked up, you were at my shoulder, studying the screen too. And frowning.
I scrambled away from you. Startled, you reached out to me, but I held you back. “Why? What have I bleeding done to…deserve that?”
I didn’t understand the way you hesitated, as you twisted back to the screen.
You looked like you were ready to puke, once you’d scanned it. The photos didn’t seem like they were doing it for you. “You’ve got it wrong. I wouldn’t ever let them do that. No one’s having you but me. No one’s touching you but…” You looked away, whilst pink crept up your neck. “I didn’t even know—”
“You never do, right? But that’s what your daddy’s planning for me and all the other prod
ucts. How can I do nothing when… How can you?”
Frustrated (and I didn’t know at which one of us more), I shoved past you, slamming into my cell and crashing shut the door.
Except, it’s not a cell (I’ve felt that for a long time). It’s just stuck in my throat to write anything else. You’ve given me sheets, which are as soft as your own, this beautiful bedside table and the neon blue ivy, so that I can tell between day and night.
Yet even a palace is a cell, without true freedom.
I know now that whilst the Blood Club exists, I’ll never be free: of fear, guilt, and this consuming desperation to help…all of them.
The Lost.
We’re not slaves. We’re the next evolutionary step, with as much right to this world as you.
The only thing that I can’t figure yet is how to cut off the head of the snake: The Estate itself.
I threw myself onto the bed on my stomach. When I heard shifting footsteps outside my door, I stiffened. But you didn’t come in. I breathed in deeply the scent of gorse and sunlight.
No one’s having you but me. No one’s touching you but…
What the bloody hell was that? I’ve had my fill of possessive love; I know that I’m an obsessive git myself.
But whatever this is between us…?
It wouldn’t win the medal for healthiest relationship of the year. It’s controlling and destructive, and I’ve already had that with Ruby, cheers. It didn’t end well.
Neither of us are free.
Not to mention, I’m not your boyfriend, remember? Can never be your boyfriend?
Now isn’t that a ringing endorsement?
I’m sorry that I let you think I used you to free my family. It’s not that it’s untrue — especially at the start — yet the feelings part of it...? I didn’t figure on that. Bloody daft falling for the First Lifer who owns you.
I’m not free to love because when you’re a slave, nothing can be a true choice. It’s always forced: out of fear, conditioning, or survival.
Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series Page 46