Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  For him, I understood finally, to forgive me.

  At last, one evening when Master was feeding me cold blood through the bars in stony silence, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Master, may I?”

  Master started to shake his head but then seemed to change his mind. “Aye, boy.”

  Shocked that I’d been given my shot, I collected my confused thoughts. I no longer knew what was acting and what was real, as if too many layers had been peeled back for the masks to remain. “Your slave is sorry it let you down, Master. It’s learned its lesson.”

  “You’ve learned it when I say so,” Master’s tone was sharp but his expression had softened. “You mustn’t have secrets from me. Tell me what you wish.”

  I shook as I clenched my hands. “Your slave wishes…to be allowed out of this cage again.”

  “Why?”

  This time the words came from somewhere deep inside me that I didn’t know existed, ventriloquist-like. “To serve you.”

  That’s when I tumbled down to a dark place, clutching my name like a rope.

  Light, Light, Light…

  Yet the more I repeated it, the less it felt like my name and the more it sounded like a nonsense word, with no connection to the slave crawling out of the cage and gratefully kneeling at its smiling Master’s feet.

  34

  SEPTEMBER 3

  If that’d been all the wankers had stripped away from me, then it wouldn’t have taken so long to fight my way back to you.

  But there’s always more to lose.

  One evening, before Master led me to the training room, I knelt in silence at his knee, as he lounged in the high-backed armchair, perusing his newspaper and indulging in a cigar.

  With my eyes downcast and holding myself perfectly still on the Victorian Oriental rug, I gazed at the reds and faded whites because they reminded me of the rug in my childhood drawing room. The thought unsettled me with memories of kneeling at my papa’s knee, as he puffed on his clay pipe and shook the billowing pages of the Times. When I counted the rug’s threads, I lost myself, caught in the numbers.

  Hours passed, as if I’d slept.

  “Good boy,” when Master stroked my hair, I glowed, leaning into his touch.

  Yet it was as if I knew that I should be screaming, shouting, and swearing. But that I wouldn’t. Instead, I continued kneeling there, happy to be by the warmth of the fire and free from the cage or pain. Most importantly, content to have pleased Master.

  And that’s the first moment that I let myself hide too deep in the dark. Only I didn’t know it then.

  When Master left to answer the harsh trill of the landline, I didn’t even glance up. It was only when I heard my name — no, my slave name — that I was suddenly alert.

  My true name — my Blood Lifer name — was one of the many things that I’d let fade to black.

  My name is… My name is….

  “Slave shadow’s a darling goog now that he’s been learned. The auction’ll attract high bids.” My head shot up at Master’s words, but Master’s back was turned. I tried to calm my panicked breathing. “Aye, we’ll put on a party here at the Estate for the Blood Club. It’s the best tack to boost confidence, after that unfortunate incident at Abona…”

  Master continued to chat about business, as if he hadn’t been nonchalantly planning to sell me.

  No one’s having you but me. No one’s touching you but… I mouthed the words because I didn’t have the bottle to holler them at Master. I no longer understood why I’d minded you saying them.

  The collar around my neck (which I could feel every time that I swallowed), read: SHADOW: PROPERTY OF CAIN. Your family already owned me.

  A slave has no direct desires. But I did desire you, desired to be safe back with you at home in Primrose Hill. When I lay in my cage, it was all that I dreamed about.

  But an auction…? To be sold to the type of bastard who got off on the specialized extras that Master was offering...?

  When I heard Master pace back to the armchair, I tried to still myself. Master tipped up my chin, forcing me to meet his steady gaze, so tenderly that the last thread of me unraveled. Then the tears fell. “You must always tell me your thoughts and secrets,” Master murmured.

  “Your slave is frightened of being sold, Master.”

  “Why?”

  “My Mistress owns me.”

  “You’re my property to sell.”

  “Master, may I?”

  “Aye, boy.”

  “It would do anything to serve her again,” I pleaded.

  I could see Master’s apparent satisfaction, as he nodded, even though his face was grave. “I don’t know; you’ve been a bad slave for my daughter.”

  I lowered my gaze. With every submissive atom of me, I tried to convince Master that I could do better.

  Master seemed to understand because he let go of my chin and petted my hair. “Maybe if you continue to be obedient, I’ll inform my daughter that I’ve learned you your lessons. Then she can come from across the water and decide. Will you try harder, if I arrange that?”

  “Yes, Master, thank you.” I was panting like an over-excited mutt.

  “Remember, if you’re bad, then you’ll lose the reward and the auction goes ahead.”

  From that moment on, I was lost.

  Whether it was something in my file, or by watching the way that we’d acted together at M.C.’s, Master had known to exploit my greatest weakness: love.

  I was desperate not to be separated from you and flown, like another one of those glowing lights, somewhere around the globe to be a billionaire’s plaything. It wasn’t a lie, what I’d told Master: I’d have done anything to get you back. A month’s undercover work now looked like the least of it; I’d be lucky if I ever saw you again. Terrified by that prospect (the stick), and thrilled about seeing you at last (the carrot), I jumped through every hoop and endured every humiliation. And the more times that I did, the easier it became, as if my mind was being subtly reshaped.

  Soon, it was a struggle to even imagine that I’d once sworn at Master, fed from anything but a bottle, or slept in a bed, rather than a cage.

  One night, I was in the training room, placed in nose (a position that I bloody hated): facing the wall on tiptoes with my wrists tied behind my back, and my nose delicately holding an old Isle of Man penny with a triskelion motif — whichever way you throw, it will stand — to the wall.

  If I let the penny fall, I was in for a bleeding sore arse.

  When I heard Master behind me, I tensed, but he only removed the coin. “When Grayse was little, and Marlane wasn’t yet a woman,” Master unfastened my cuffs roughly, “my wife loved riding in the evening by the coast.” To my surprise, Master was also clicking open the cuffs’ clasps; they clattered to the floor. I jumped. Then Master rubbed at my sore wrists. “This yarn I’m spinning, it’s remarkable but all true.” He fixed on new cuffs, which were leather but softly lined with suede. If I hadn’t been so tense, I’d have luxuriated in the comfort. Master shoved me hard onto my knees — crack — before working on my ankle cuffs too. “She didn’t come back, so at day-lift, I grabbed my shotgun and took a sight up the coast.” One ankle now had the leather cuff on, instead of metal; Master clutched the other, his fingers biting hard enough to bruise. “I found her. Heart attack, they said. Still,” he pulled the last cuff on tight, before spinning me around and slamming me to all fours, “no one could say why the horse was dead right next to her, its heart stopped just the same: until the Blood Life Council spun me a yarn, which was even more remarkable.” He clicked on my leash. “She’s here.”

  Master dragged me after him, without looking down.

  I shivered at the thought of returning to Master, after what he’d just told me about his wife.

  I’m sorry…but you should know the bloodied truth, even if you hate me, as much as your dad hates Blood Lifers. Even if you punish me for your mum’s death.

  At that moment, the wisp of hope that I clung
to was that you’d arrived. My heart hammered with joy and nervous anticipation.

  Please let you decide to keep me.

  How could I not be wary of your reaction to…whatever I was now? You’d always said that you didn’t want a broken thing…

  Yet I’d survived, and you’d come for me: in the battle of wills, your dad might’ve chipped away at me. But he hadn’t shattered me.

  I was surprised when Master stopped at one of the bedrooms. When I’d had a look in here before, it hadn’t struck me as your style: a spherical bed in the middle, in satin scarlets and blacks, trapped by glass screens that were printed with erotic photos of Blood Lifers.

  Master unclipped my leash. “She’s waiting for you. Be a good boy and remember your lessons.” Then — clump, clump, clump — he retreated to the snug, firmly closing the door.

  I was dead excited, yet something held me back. I was ashamed when I realized what you’d see: me, naked, collared and in cuffs, crawling like an animal. I told myself that you must know what to expect, but that didn’t take away the bite.

  Too ashamed to raise my head, I crawled slowly into the bedroom.

  The first thing that was wrong was the smell: not gorse and sunlight but leather and sweat.

  Alarmed, I looked up.

  The second thing that was wrong was the footwear: not Fendis but army surplus boots.

  I scrabbled back against the wall.

  “Dad told me that he’d learned you, little leech, but it seems to me that you be still a proper disrespecting bitch.” M.C. stepped towards me, studded and spiked from head-to-toe; the only flesh showing was filmed through her mesh top. I suddenly felt twice as naked. “Kneel.”

  Conditioned now, even through my horror, I folded into position.

  M.C. smirked. “Good bitch.” When she slunk towards me, I battled to stay still: to obey. M.C. stroked down my cheek with her black-nailed fingers. “See? It just needed the right discipline to train you.”

  I kept my mouth shut, even though my brain was whirring.

  Why hadn’t you come for me?

  Christ, I felt…abandoned.

  M.C. prowled around me, trailing the back of her hand across my shoulders, as if assessing a purchase. “The spoiled Boston brat never could share her toys.”

  I stiffened. Sod it — M.C. wasn’t Master and she wasn’t my Mistress — she wasn’t you. I shredded the wankering Rules for Blood Lifer Slaves and gave the bastard slave voice a hiding. “I’m Grayse’s,” I whispered.

  M.C.’s fingers transformed to claws, slicing into my shoulder and anchoring me to kneel. “You what?”

  “I’m hers — not yours — to touch.” Expecting a thrashing, I licked my lips in a quick, anxious swipe.

  M.C., however, only let go of me with a shove, before caressing my cheek again. “You be no one’s, you get me? An unwanted goog, sold to the highest bidder.”

  “But Grayse—”

  “Made her decision.” M.C’s smile was cold and cruel. “She be gone back to that geek Professor at Harvard. She don’t want the Cain Company and she don’t want you, you feeling me?”

  And yeah, I felt her, down deeper than anything Master had done to my body. This was different because for the first time, I felt it deep in my mind.

  You were what I’d been holding onto. My safe haven, freedom, and love.

  But if you didn’t want me...? If you wanted Fernando instead...?

  I’d opened your First Lifer eyes to the truth of the world, as I had for Kathy. Yet instead of embracing the darkness, you’d run from it. You’d chosen a life in the sun, which only Fernando could offer. I could’ve shared with you the wonders of a whole new reality, but it hadn’t been enough: I hadn’t been enough…and in the realization of my worst fear, my mind began to break.

  “Liar,” I hissed.

  I could see the sudden alarm in M.C.’s eyes; she reached for the tracker. Then she relaxed, sniffing. “What, little leech? You reckoned that she’d come running to save you? The slave has a crush on its Mistress, innit?” Humiliated, I bit my cheek hard, tasting the tang of my own copper blood. When tears pricked my eyes, I fought for them not to fall but I failed. M.C. leant down, wiping the tears away, before lifting them to her lips, as if savoring their saltiness. “You ain’t fool enough to reckon that my sis loves you? Grayse has never loved no one.”

  I shook my head, as if to deny M.C.’s words, but they stung.

  “Look, here’s the truth of it.” M.C. slipped out her mobile, shoving the screen in front of me. All I could process was message after message between you…and Professor Zuniga Sanchez.

  I didn’t know how M.C. had got hold of them. You and I should’ve known, however, that your family were monitoring us.

  M.C was right. You hadn’t come back for me after the month. You’d let your sister have me instead: because of Fernando.

  That’s when I stopped resisting. What was the point?

  M.C. noticed the change in me. She prowled to the satin bed, which was between glass panels of male Blood Lifers. Then she patted the space next to her.

  “Lie down,” she ordered.

  Dazed, I crawled up and onto the bed. I lay on my back with my legs spread and my hands at my side. You’d chosen Fernando… You’d left me here… You’d handed me over to your sister… When M.C. straddled me, the spikes on her bondage trousers dug into my naked flesh and her scarlet-tipped hair swiped my cheeks.

  “Maybe I’ll buy you, but you’d better show me how happy that would make you.” When M.C. clicked something to the side of the bed, the Sex Pistol’s “Submission” blasted through the bedroom. I wanted to howl. “Your file said that you’d find this tune heavy, yeah?”

  Was she truly attempting seduction even in the midst of…this?

  M.C. gave a feral grin as she licked her lips. Then she snogged me, ferocious and fierce, biting my lips and fucking my mouth in fierce jabs.

  You were gone… Back to your old life, whilst I was betrayed to slavery. This was no longer undercover: it was real.

  M.C. savaged my lip, sucking at the beaded blood.

  Had you always known what this mission would mean? Always known that my choice to return here would mean my abandonment?

  I sank lower and lower, locking what was left of me tight and safe, where it couldn’t be touched.

  I stared up at the bright cloud light on the ceiling above the bed, as M.C. explored my body with experienced hands. I lost myself in the twists of nylon tube wires and tiny lights that had no edges, as if they were of infinite size. Soon, I was flying in the unreality of the sky above, as down below a punk in leather violated my body.

  And unlike you, she didn’t stop.

  She didn’t bleeding. Stop.

  That’s when it started…when I broke.

  Everything gets hazy after that, as if I was blanking out…breaking down…broken. Fragments left, only…successions of sensations and emotions…agony, fear, hunger, warmth, contentment and comfort…but each one in Master’s power to give or take away. Only what he desired mattered. Ghosted, I didn’t exist, except to serve Master’s pleasure or take his pain.

  My snatches of understanding were briefer still… Good boy… Bad boy… Crawl… Lie Down… All were limited to conditioned positions, orders, rewards or punishments.

  Flayed truth? Once I’d stopped fighting, life became simpler — easier.

  It flares me with shame but I’d retreated…somewhere else, and what was left knew how to obey, accept punishment, and submit.

  I was learned: a good little doggy. Not a hero at all.

  A true slave.

  35

  SEPTEMBER 4

  I still forget that you read this — not Reader you, the imaginary figment — but the real you.

  This afternoon, when I was burrowed under my duvet, you came barreling into my room, shaking this opened journal at me.

  I tumbled out of bed into automatic kneel.

  “Sodding hell…” Furious at myself, I made
to stand, but you dragged me up with trembling hands, crushing me to you.

  I stared down at the journal, which was crumpled between us.

  Then I remembered: what I’d written about your mum’s death. I didn’t know for sure whether she’d died a natural death or at the fangs of a Blood Lifer. The Blood Life Council wouldn’t have only exploited the weaknesses of Blood Lifers: there’d also be a fat file on you Cains as well.

  “I’m sorry…” We both said at the same time.

  Then you shook your head. “Naw, I’m sorry…that Marlane…that you were…for everything. I didn’t abandon you, Light. I’d never abandon you.”

  Too surprised to know how to react, I let you clutch me, as finally, I smiled. At last, it felt like I was back home.

  You’d saved me, when I was lost.

  When the pine crate was first delivered into your sitting room at the end of the month that I’d spent on the Estate, I remember thinking, as the red nylon ropes were torn away and I was hauled out, that I hoped I’d please my new Mistress, as I had Master.

  Master had stood over me on the last day, stern but patting my head in the way that I loved and ordered me to be a good boy.

  There was bright light sharp in my eyes from a plastic chandelier of bottles and fishing lines, before I dropped to kneel. I shivered: it was colder here than it’d been in Master’s snug. There was no rug, just a mahogany floor, which made me sad. I was careful, however, to keep my expression blank, like a good slave.

  “Are you a bit parky?” My new Mistress laughed.

  Confused, I hesitated. I didn’t understand, so it was best to be honest and face the punishment. “I don’t know, Mistress.”