I tried to smile. “Don’t worry, you won’t miss them. But pissed off as you are right now, family is…family. And when we do this…? Donovan and Hartford, they—”
“Are my family now. Like you.”
First Life and Blood alike, I now had family, and the thought of that warmed me in a way that I hadn’t thought would be possible since the death of my own papa ripped my family apart. Yet to keep them safe, I’d first have to risk them all and then I’d have to kill your papa.
37
SEPTEMBER 9
Donovan is insisting that I bear witness. He says that I’ve already written so much in this grotesque journal that I must keep on until the bloody end.
Yeah, I know that he’s right.
I sodding hate that.
“It’s a darling goog now; I learned it myself.” When Master proudly patted my rump, I fought not to flinch.
Naked, wearing only my slave ring, leather ankle and wrist cuffs, and collar — SHADOW: PROPERTY OF CAIN — I was kneeling in kowtow. My arms were outstretched with the palms down and crossed, whilst my forehead rested on my forearms. I was the sculptural centerpiece on the ebony table, which ran the length of the Estate’s main reception.
One hundred white and black candles (both the candles and their candleholders cast in wax), had been ranked with white on one side of my pale arched back and black on the other. Now it’d darkened outside, the dour-faced servants had lit the candles. They flamed and consumed themselves as they burned, like I was on a sacrificial pyre.
I heard the First Lifer’s animated chatter increase around me, the clink of Champagne glasses, and hoot of laughter, whilst the candles scorched me, melting en masse into dripping pools of opposing white and black: the spectacular theater of destruction. I couldn’t help remembering how Vesper’s skin had melted too, just like I’d once been caught candle-like in the sun, before Kathy had saved me.
When I’d first crawled into the main reception at your heels, I’d had a sneaky peek at the party preparations: servants bustling with Champagne flutes and miniature hors d’oeuvres on silver trays, whilst the crystal chandelier spiraled B – L – O – O – D - C – L – U – B.
Master had positioned me on the table, as Cain Company employees, corrupt Independents from Tynwald and Chief Constable Quayle (Mann truly was Master’s fiefdom), as well as Russian oligarchs, sons of Arab princes, and brats of Silicon valley, arrived by chauffeured private car, yacht or helipad, or stayed as guests for the weekend on the Estate.
M.C.’s Crew, in leather, tartan braces, and tattoos prowled the edges as Security, coordinated by Red Mohawk and his mate Aviator.
Here was the Blood Club, gathered for the first time.
Your dad was holding court, showing off his power, which had been diminished since the hullabaloo at Abona, with both his grownup daughters at his side.
And me: the sample product.
The fact that not every member would’ve attended made me uneasy: all those glowing lights still existing around the world. I’d also scanned for Captain or any other representative of the Blood Life Council, but they either hadn’t turned up or hadn’t been invited.
“It took strict discipline: leeches need to know who’s in control.” Master was stroking my hair. It took all I had to remain motionless. A ring of Blood Clubbers huddled around Master: their guru. “But there’s not a leech who I can’t train. Our family have been slavers since Roman times. The Anglo-Saxons had no laws stopping us selling darling fair-haired boys and girls to Dublin. See, this isn’t about race or species. That’s why the Blood Club is in safe hands. My family know what works and we’re not fearful to do it. We’ve traded with the brutal Norse traders and now with the Blood Life Council, leeches that they are. It’s all merely business.”
“What a good boy the little chap is now,” a genial voice gave an oily chuckle, which oozed through my consciousness with memories of lying strapped on a table at the mercy of the silver bearded man.
When Master’s hand paused in its petting, I forced myself to relax. Even though you were nearby, I wished that I could see you. You’d promised that you’d never leave me here alone again.
I tried to block out the sensation of Master’s caresses and the thought of the Doctor, by imagining that you were with me: you’d be bloody stunning in the strapless crimson Alex Highbury-Lord dress, which I’d picked out as your glamorous disguise for the night.
It was never going to be easy to pass myself off as the same broken slave who Master had packed off in a crate to you.
No, not bloody Master, not anymore: Mr Finlo Cain, slaver and all round tosser. But never my Master. In fact, he was no one’s Master. Mr Cain was only a First Lifer playing at it with the toys in his training room.
Well, soon he’d meet some true Masters, and then he’d be the one sodding learned.
Mr Cain’s grip twisted tightly in my hair: a warning not to fidge. I couldn’t help the instant tension that I’d hear the tap on his belt buckle. I held still, falling down into thoughts of deep submission.
Gradually, Mr Cain’s grip loosened.
Yet my heartbeat thundered when I smelled M.C.’s sweat and leather, and her fingers fondled my bollocks. “It be a good slut now. I’ve taken it for test runs.”
“This Blood Lifer, slave shadow, I believe? He’s quite the specimen,” a deep man’s voice praised. “Is he up for auction?”
When I stiffened, M.C.’s hand squeezed my bollocks, until my eyes watered.
“Naw, he’s mine.” I heard you at last, somewhere in the throng.
“But you could offer the goog’s services,” Mr Cain’s gruff suggestion (and no way could you miss his underlying order), “as a premium bonus for valued members like our Chief Constable here for a night or weekend?”
“Na-ah, that’s—”
“Grayse…?” It was gentle but your dad’s warning was as obvious as his hard grip in my hair.
“I guess important Blood Club members can play with him, you know, for goodwill.” You conceded reluctantly.
“Thank you,” Chief Constable Quayle was giddy with excitement; I bet he couldn’t wait to get his flabby hands on me. “A weekend with shadow would be much appreciated. Plus, the extra services...?”
Mr Cain smiled. “Access to the training room is included, of course. Grayse, there are many of the bettermost men here who I intend you to meet.” Mr Cain patted your arm. “MPs and aristocrats; you should think on marrying soon.”
M.C. snorted as she gave my bollocks a final twist, before letting go. Even though I knew that you wouldn’t look at any of the Blood Club wankers with anything but loathing, I still hated that your dad was husband hunting for you.
“First though,” Mr Cain turned to M.C., “time for a demonstration. Marlane — lights, please.” Suddenly the main lights dimmed, until only the guttering of the melted candles and their holders, in puddles of black and white wax, like a chessboard with pieces ranked ready for war, remained flaming. And me — the sacrificial slave in their center. “Slave shadow will put on a show for us.” Mr Cain’s announcement echoed through the hall.
I heard shuffling, as First Lifers entrapped me on either side.
Donovan, Hartford, Ashanti, Ashanti’s girl, Vesper, marie antoinette, the Blood Lifers at Abona and every Blood Lifer who’d ever been enslaved and then treated as entertainment by the Blood Club: I thought of them and I found the strength to endure.
I only understood then that a slave can’t have a true conscience: you were right when you once threw at me in anger that I’d used you and maybe you’d have done the same but it didn’t make it right. If you’re not free, your choices can never be truly your own. But you’d freed me, so now I was empowered to make my own choices and this was my choice: your choice, my choice, and Donovan and Hartford’s too. First and Blood Lifer united.
So, I endured.
“Kneel.” I knelt up on the table. Mr Cain waited only a moment before he barked, “Inspect.”
I could hear the Blood Clubbers discussing me and although it does a bloke’s ego good to know he’s admired in that department, it’s less reassuring to overhear the uses others intend to put you (and that part of your anatomy). Let alone the excited chatter about the nights with you, which they’re already penciling into their busy schedules and debates over whether blood and breath play are permissible (that’s a yes, by the way).
Then Mr Cain began shooting positions at me so fast that I almost stumbled. He intended me to because the first mistake I made would give fair reason to punish me.
Except, it wasn’t fair, was it?
I wondered how many other situations Mr Cain, when he’d been my Master, had engineered for me to fail, just so that he could condition me to feel that I deserved discipline and even to ask for the punishment myself. If Mr Cain wanted to punish me tonight, however, I intended to make it difficult for him, moving to each position as fast as he said it.
I glimpsed Mr Cain’s frustrated face from underneath my lowered lashes.
“He is indeed a good boy.” The Chief Constable congratulated, before patting Mr Cain on the shoulder, as if Mr Cain would be pleased that I was keeping up with his gunshot rapid orders.
These naïve wankers didn’t know the truth behind the Blood Club with its Champagne and slaves.
But they would: they bloody would.
I couldn’t help it. I looked up, straight at Mr Cain…and smiled.
Mr Cain’s hand flew to his bastard belt, working at the buckle that had filled so much of my narrowed world.
The dark wave of Blood Clubbers, however, took Mr Cain’s sudden silence to mean the end of his circus show and they clapped: a polite ripple of applause.
That was when the screaming started.
My smile widened to a grin.
Mr Cain stood there, with his belt wrapped by its buckle around his fist, frozen in triumph like he was unable to believe that he’d lost control on his own Estate. But then he saw the look in my eyes. If you break a man, you know him better than he knows himself, and Mr Cain knew that I was no longer his, nor was I a true slave. He understood just what he’d unleashed.
Like a herd of terrified wildebeest, snapped at by the jaws of submerged crocodiles, the Blood Clubbers crowded together, hoarsely calling to each other in their distress. The ones trying the doors or windows found them locked, which viral-bloomed their panic, as did the personal bodyguards, who hurled chairs at the reinforced glass windows: they didn’t shatter.
I knew how that felt.
The systems were on lockdown, except for one single back entrance, which we’d opened — or Fernando had. He’d hacked in, using the codes that I’d memorized.
It turned out, the Professor was a decent guy.
The M.C. Crew snarled into walkie-talkies (pointlessly for the most part), because in our plan they were the first targets. There was nothing on the other end now but dead air. M.C. stalked through the swarms, rallying the remaining punks.
Mr Cain frantically scanned the hordes to work out who the invisible enemy was, whilst the Blood Clubbers — his acolytes only moments before — plucked on his sleeves, demanding information. Help. Freedom.
It sounded so bleeding familiar that I still couldn’t wipe the grin from my face.
Mr Cain wrenched himself away from the Chief Constable, who was wheezing in anxious gasps if this was all part of the demonstration?
Then Mr Cain glared right at me. “You, boy. This is you.”
Belt tense between his hands, Mr Cain prowled towards me.
Let him come.
I swung my hands forward from behind my back, clenching them to fists.
Mr Cain hesitated, stumbling.
There was a sudden surge of First Lifers away from the atrium: they fell over white chairs, shoving each other over chaise longues and slipping on the black rugs. Both Mr Cain and I glanced up into the shadows of the atrium’s high entrance way, and there they were: the fanged faces of Donovan and Hartford, full Blood Lifer and no mistaking. When they stalked from the shadows, they weren’t naked, collared, or submissive.
Even I shivered.
I waited for Mr Cain’s attack on them or me to defend his Blood Club, Estate, and daughters.
Christ in heaven, my every nerve sang Halleluiah because I was ready for it.
Stunned, I watched as instead Mr Cain made a run for it. He hurled the oligarchs, Arabian princes, and Silicon Valley brats out of his way, like playthings, as he struggled through the terrified throng.
The bloody coward.
All the agony and terror that Mr Cain had forced me to face. And yet what kind of man was he? Give me Mr Cain, the training room and one day, and I knew now that the man who’d been a god to me would break.
He’d shatter into smaller shards than I had.
I sprang off the table to start after Mr Cain but then I caught Donovan’s eye. Hartford nodded at me and all three of us Blood Lifers grinned. Mr Cain could wait; I had the jugular of the Blood Club to rip out bloody.
After that? All was crimson and whirlwind death.
We were Blood Lifers unchained at last. This was a Long-lived’s revenge for over a decade’s abuse and it was glorious.
I trapped the sweating Chief Constable against the brocade wallpaper: the strange thing was that he didn’t seem so keen to get up and personal with me now.
“Good boy,” Chief Constable Quayle tried to placate, licking his dry lips, “good boy.”
“I’m not a boy and I’m definitely not good.” I seized the Chief Constable by his shirt front, before bashing him against the wallpaper — bash — his head smashed ripe — bash — crimson stained — bash — he slumped down in a heap of arms and legs.
Donovan (magnificent in indigo velvet and mauve eyeshadow), was letting Hartford take the pick of the Blood Club members. Hartford finished off the Blood Clubbers with such frightening relish that the kills must’ve been personal. When I remembered the photos of Hartford on the Dark Web, I hoped that Hartford made the johns bloody feel it. When I saw a flash of silver, weaving the same way Mr Cain had fled, I wondered if Hartford had seen the Doctor too.
Donovan and I tag teamed what was left of M.C.’s Crew.
My blood zinged, as I spun in circles, letting out every instinct, uncensored at last. I took down a punk in tartan trousers, jabbing and getting in an elbow strike. He staggered, before I swept out his legs from under him. Donovan dived on the punk then, fangs out. I watched fascinated, as Donovan’s newly grown fangs pierced the First Lifer’s throat, pumping venom into his bloodstream. Paralyzed, the punk jerked, as he fought it for the final few seconds. It’d been awhile since I’d seen the death of my true prey up close.
I wondered if I’d recovered enough of my fangs. It was fear…or shame…that I still wouldn’t be whole, which had kept me from trying.
Suddenly, I was dragged backwards by a burly arm around my throat, which was crushing my windpipe and stopping the blood to my brain. White bursts of light danced in front of my eyes. I clawed behind me at my attacker but reached only thin air. Desperate, I stamped down. Even with my bare foot, I caused a grunt and a weakening of the hold. I wrenched both arms off and twisted the joints back. The grunt increased to a shriek and — pop — the elbow joints went.
The bloke — Aviator goggles, red-faced and snarling — fell to his knees, spitting curses.
I booted Aviator over onto his back. Then I straddled him, wrapping my fingers around his neck: his limbs flailed, whilst his eyes were hidden fly-eyed. He scratched at me and kicked, but I didn’t let up, not until he was as motionless as I’d been, whilst the centerpiece on the table. Then I saw the combat boots of red Mohawk standing over our bodies: one dead and one — me — having just strangled the life out of the other.<
br />
I slowly stood to face the bastard who’d started all this: Head of the Retrieval Team in Bangkok. The bloke who’d hunted me on his monstrous motorbike and trashed my Triton. He’d kidnapped me but not like a person, rather as if I’d been a wild bird that’d been trapped and sold into captivity. A pet to be tamed and trained, presented in a gilded cage on some rich man’s wall.
From the moment Mohawk had shot me full of tranquillizers, I’d been a slave.
My blood roared louder than those motorbikes. It wasn’t terror I trembled with any longer: it was rage.
Mohawk’s eyes were darkened, glancing from his broken friend to me.
We circled each other. How great a disadvantage I was at being naked, however, was illustrated when Mohawk’s first attack was a groin strike. I doubled up, before I was caught to the kidneys. Trained by M.C in the cage, Mohawk fought dirty: he seized my bollocks in a vice-like grip, crushing and twisting, until I reckoned that he was going to rip them off.
Talk about irony: gaining my fangs but losing my balls.
I began to sweat…one more twist and… I bit Mohawk, with my ordinary, blunt teeth. I sank them deep into the wanker’s chin. The zip of fresh human blood hit me kaleidoscopic.
Mohawk yelped, instinctively dropping my bollocks and prising at my jaws like you would a rabid dog. He hopped from foot to foot as he tried to force me off. I kept my teeth clamped down, however, working Mohawk back towards the central table. Then I let go of his chin.
Mohawk staggered, his hands flying to his injured chin. Like the Manx tattoo over his knuckles, the bite was a marking: for every Blood Lifer that he and his Crew had bagged. Before he could recover, I roundhouse kicked him in the chest; he crashed backwards into the puddled candles.
Mohawk screamed, as the flames caught his mesh top on fire, and the wax stuck in pools to his skin. His scarlet Mohawk shot up, like a colored birthday candle; he shrieked, writhing with the agony of being burned alive.
Vesper, I thought, an offering for you.
It was then, however, that I saw you, crushed against the far wall, watching as my family tore and bit their way through the terrified First Lifers — your own species — who you’d betrayed.
Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series Page 52