Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

Yet I knew in the choice between fight and flight, I’d chosen flight. I’d decided that safety was more important than escaping the shadows. When you have family, it’s a Siren call.

  Suddenly, there was a swing of red braids, and Aedan threw himself chimp-like at Hartford, who stumbled back and then laughing, twirled Aedan around: A First Lifer clambering up a Blood Lifer like he was trying to climb the evolutionary tree. They were giggling, whispering and pawing, as if they were two kids escaped to a playground.

  Sun hissed, but when I licked up her neck, it turned into a sigh. Then I watched over Sun’s shoulder in shock, as Donovan dived off the stage and ripped Aedan away from Hartford. Was that jealousy darkening his expression in a way that I hadn’t seen for decades?

  Buggering hell.

  Aedan’s arms were windmilling, as Donovan’s mouth pressed closer and closer to Aedan’s throat.

  “Sodding git…” I elbowed my way through the crush of sweating, sexed up bodies, whilst their blood pumped beat – beat – beat. I could smell it in every blood bag, beneath their skin.

  I could drain every one of them dry. Ruby and I would’ve made a crimson soaked tempest night of it. I closed my eyes; wet pricked their edges.

  “For crying out loud, what’s your problem?” Hartford wrenched Donovan by the hair, ripping him away from Aedan’s neck.

  Was Aedan bitten?

  I panted with the shock or…horror?

  Aedan looked dazed. He was rubbing his throat. I caught him around his waist before he could fall. He didn’t seem paralyzed.

  Please, please…just…sodding please…

  Why did I care if one First Lifer died? Only Kathy (my Moon Girl for over fifty years), had ever truly crossed the divide of species. Why was my heart beating so hard that my bloody chest ached?

  Hartford was still dangling a naked Donovan by his dark tumble of hair; Donovan was howling like a trapped animal. We were putting on quite a show. The other dancers were glaring at us now: they looked pissed. After all, they loved Aedan, and they liked Donovan. What must they think? The punters simply seemed amused at the extra entertainment.

  “Outside,” I snapped, before reconsidering. “Clothes on and then outside.”

  Hartford nodded, before he pushed a path off the dance floor, caveman dragging Donovan squirming and squealing after him.

  When Aedan stroked my cheek, I looked down. “Now tell me that you don’t know who’s Batman and who’s Robin?” Aedan wriggled in my arms. “I’m not a damsel in need of rescuing; you can let go now.”

  “Right, sorry.”

  I backed up. Had Aedan been bitten? I ran my fingers down his neck.

  Aedan jerked away. “Stop being a cock-tease.”

  My eyes widened. “I wasn’t—”

  Aedan waved it away. “Like Donovan wasn’t?”

  He thought that Donovan had been trying to kiss him…? I flushed. At least that saved me trying to come up with an excuse, but if we all lost our jobs on one night we were buggered. “About that…” I looked up at him from underneath my eyelashes. “I mean, are we alright?”

  “You mean: are you fired?” Aedan’s gaze had hardened.

  I sensed Sun at my shoulder. When I glanced back, she smiled, and all at once, I knew what it was not to be alone.

  Aedan shifted, and his gaze flickered between Sun and me, before he shook his head. “This is your home. Now go and sort out those two idiots of yours.”

  When I found Hartford and Donovan in the alley behind Peter Pan’s, where the pyramid of rubbish bags spilled stale beer bottles and used condoms, Hartford had Donovan slammed against the wall, with an arm against his throat…and he was royally narked.

  “We do not eat friends,” Hartford ground his arm into Donovan’s throat harder with each word.

  I leant against the wall, crossing my arms. Donovan glanced at me, as if for help. I simply raised my eyebrow.

  “Since when were First Lifers friends? Your friends?” Donovan rasped.

  When Hartford lowered his arm, Donovan fingered the blossoming bruises. “Pipe down, will you? Aedan’s a good guy. Can’t you see I’m balled up right now, baby? So, Light says no humans, and that means we’re all on the wagon-avous.”

  Donovan’s features gentled. “Yeah, man, I understand-avous. But…friend? After First Lifers tortured and raped…” He swallowed carefully. “We’re still slaves inside. You freak out over nothing and then there’s your nightmares and Light’s.”

  Hartford couldn’t meet his eye or mine. He was shaking. “I need this. I just…”

  I wished that Donovan would shut up or that Sun would hurry up.

  What we needed was a good hunt.

  All right then: a pretend hunt to get the blood rushing and the predator roaring. We needed to bury the ghosts because they’d never vanish, only fade. You have to learn to live with the unwelcome lodgers.

  That’s when I sensed him: the other Blood Lifer.

  He was lurking (and anyone who lurks is suspicious in my book), at the end of the alley behind the recycling bins, watching us. I was already coiled for the hunt. I didn’t even hesitate; I shot off into the black.

  The bloke, however, was ninja fast. I only clocked a hoodie patterned with skulls before he was gone. Me? Luckily, I could leg it with the best of them.

  I buzzed with the predator freed, leaping over walls and bike racks. I was clouted when I shoved by a pug-faced john with a hooker on her knees. I spun but didn’t even pause, as my eye swelled: the gap was closing. The Blood Lifer was leading me through rabbit warren alleys; the tang of the Thames was sharp on the breeze. Polish music bled from cars into the still of the night. Inside my brain, however, Echo and the Bunnymen was playing on loop, jabbering how sodding strange I was. I’d have beaten my head bloody on a lamp post, painting it scarlet — of course I know I’m strange, have some of that — if I hadn’t been so close to catching my prey.

  Then I caught a glimpse of the Blood Lifer: a slice of black. I hammered my fist against my forehead and sped up.

  For one brief moment, the Blood Lifer’s slim figure was silhouetted against Southwark Cathedral. He was peeking back over his shoulder at me as if he wanted me to follow…

  I stumbled, before catching myself.

  The bloody cheeky bastard.

  So, the Blood Lifer was playing cat and mouse…?

  I prowled back the way that I’d come under the death-white moon, working my way round. Drunk First Lifers weaved in rowdy bands. The night stank of beer and desperation.

  It was a typical Saturday night in London then.

  I ducked down, jumping over the last wall and discovered the Blood Lifer leaning against the huge gleaming finger up to the sky, which they call the Shard.

  He would be — the wanker.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets as I swaggered up behind the Blood Lifer. When I tapped him on the shoulder, he jumped a bleeding mile like he hadn’t even sensed me. He could barely have been authored because he had no true instincts at all. When he spun around, I saw that he was a kid. He was a bloody Emo, dressed in a skull patterned hoodie, black and white striped socks, and matching scarf. He even wore a t-shirt with a cartoon vampire: cute fangs and bat wings.

  Perfect, he had a sense of irony too.

  Emo flicked his long black fringe, which was sprayed green like a moldy skunk; his eyes were rimmed with enough eyeliner for one too.

  Donovan would want to swap tips.

  Then Emo crossed his arms and tapped his foot, as if I’d been the one who’d been caught out being a bad boy. And yeah, I was bloody bad but I’d proved that I was no boy.

  I frowned. “Who the bleeding hell are you?”

  Emo just smirked.

  That did it. No more Mr Nice Light.

  “Look, you pain in my arse, why were you watching us?” I growled. “Can you talk to me or do you have to go get your daddy first?”

  The Emo’s smirk widened. Then he head-butted me.

  Crack — there went
my nose.

  Hand strikes followed — one, two, three — so rapid that I didn’t have time to think more than: Emo kids knocking the stuffing out of you with Kenpo Karate…? Now that’s not something that you experience every day.

  I choked on the pain that exploded in hot shocks where his small hand sliced.

  No more Mr Nice Light? All right then.

  I grabbed the end of Emo’s scarf and twisted. It was his turn to choke. Gasping, Emo hesitated, which was my in. Because here’s the thing: I know karate too. And the moment that Emo realized it was blinding.

  I slammed an elbow strike, followed by swift knife-hands, driving Emo crashing back against the glass Shard. It trembled. Emo kicked my legs; I gritted my teeth but didn’t lose ground. Close now, I went for a flurry of strikes, until all I could hear was his soft grunts and the hit of flesh on flesh.

  I’d missed this: fists and fangs. You can’t tame a predator, and I’ve never pretended to be a hero.

  Battering that cartoon vampire with its ironic batwings? Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.

  Reluctantly, I eased back, but kept my hand pressed to the brat’s chest. Emo was panting, yet he still had that not bothered expression.

  I tilted my head. “Now that’s out of your system, let’s try this again. Why are you spying on us? Who do you reckon you are? Bond?”

  It was Emo’s turn to tilt his head as he assessed me, before he sniggered. Confused, I glanced down at my dinner jacket and bowtie.

  Sodding hell.

  I sighed, easing back from him. “Names Light. Just…Light. Now, whatever this is? Can we get on with it? It’s been a long night. I need a kip and a quick shag. That’s not an offer, by the way. I have a girl…”

  That’s when Emo pulled out the gun.

  For a long moment, I simply stared at it — sleek and dark — between us. Emo’s face had suddenly stilled; it was strangely blank.

  I blinked. “You’re having a laugh.” Emo cocked the shooter, resting his finger on the trigger. Not having a laugh then. “Stop waving around that cock extension. Unless you’re figuring on shooting me through the heart, it can’t kill me.”

  “You’re right,” Emo sounded so sodding young, stood there with a gun and fangs but no clue as to the true power of either weapon, “but it’ll hurt. Won’t it?”

  Bang.

  I screamed.

  The bleeding buggering bastard….

  I hunched over, struggling not to hurl at the searing agony. Emo had shot me in the foot. He’d totally destroyed my boot.

  Grayse — before she was Sun — had given me these boots. I was going to pay Emo back for taking that from me.

  I stared up at Emo, astonished. “We don’t use guns; they’re the humans’ toys. Don’t you know anything about being a Blood Lifer?”

  Casually, Emo shrugged, slipping the shooter back into the waistband of his jeans. “I was told that you were a rebel,” sneer — there was definite sneer in his tone, “but you don’t sound like one to me.”

  Emo intently examined the gaping wound in my foot, whilst his eyes lit with enthusiasm. “How does that feel?”

  “Bloody awful, you little bastard.”

  Emo nodded, as if this was a valid answer that he was storing for future reference. I shuddered, before trying to leap at him with my fangs out but only ended up — clang — against the front of the Shard, gasping with the pain of my shattered foot, when Emo casually sidestepped, mooching away towards London Bridge.

  “Oi, come back here…” I hollered, punching the glass and then regretting it.

  Throbbing hand, foot, and a long way to limp home…? It wasn’t exactly how I’d seen the night ending. Then there were footsteps, running, and Blood Lifers. My family had found us. Here was to facing the gallows…or a boot to the balls.

  “Bollocks,” I grunted, as I hit the floor hard, rolling side to side; I curled fetal around my…yeah, bollocks.

  I peered misty-eyed up at Sun, and then wished that I hadn’t. Her eyes flashed with as much fire, as her expression chilled me.

  “That’s for running off and leaving me behind,” Sun snarled.

  “Point taken,” I gasped, still massaging my privates, as if somehow, I could wank out the pain.

  Sun was breathless like she’d sprinted halfway across…

  Bugger it.

  I peeked up at Donovan and Hartford, who were sauntering towards me with their arms casually wrapped around each other’s waists.

  I reached up my hand, as if Hartford would drag me to my feet in a show of male solidarity, but he batted it away. “Swell. Now we don’t have to kick the poor little bunny too.”

  “That’s lovely.”

  “You’re screwy.” Hartford’s disappointment kicked me in the balls with as much strength as Sun’s rage. “Still thinking that you’re the superhero?”

  I rolled my eyes, slumping onto my back. I didn’t know what hurt more: my shot foot, bruised bollocks, or Hartford’s words. No, the sight of the hole in my motorcycle boot, that did it. I could’ve bleeding bawled.

  I clenched my jaw. “A bit of sympathy, there’s a man down here.”

  “And who’s fault is that?” Donovan’s shadow was dark over me. I squinted up through the agony. Did it make me a freak that I didn’t totally hate that they all cared that I wasn’t dead, even if they had painful ways of showing it? I’d never thought that I’d have that again. “It’s not cool that you’re always pulling these reckless stunts. You’re not alone; none of us are anymore. We’re tight, which means no more secrets or craziness. We need you and—”

  “Alright, no need to make a song and dance out of it.” I accepted Donovan’s hand, and he tugged me bouncing onto my one good leg.

  “Bummer,” Donovan whistled, examining the wound.

  “I’m sorry that your boot’s destroyed.” Sun’s expression finally softened, before she curled her arm around my shoulder as carefully as if I’d suddenly transformed to china: born of my fangs, she understood what that meant to me.

  Even when I’d been a slave and Sun had been my mistress, she’d crossed the gulf of both role and species. She’d seen me. Those boots were more than merely the first tentative gift of love, they’d been the return of my freedom, identity, and Soul.

  As I limped slowly towards home surrounded by my strange family, I knew that I was no superhero. Yet the people that I loved were safe and that was enough to hope.

  If that had been the only time I’d seen the Emo kid with his ironic bat wing vampire t-shirt, I’d have been a happy bloke.

  But it wasn’t.

  So, you want a secret? Something that no one knows? The next week I went hunting but hunting my own kind…and Emo was my prey. Yet I didn’t tell Hartford, Donovan, or Sun, and they’ll have my balls if they ever find out. They figured that I went out on my own because I needed time in the glory of the night to work through the trauma and nightmare of our slavery.

  The thing is, however, that you don’t work through something like that: you survive or adapt, and I’d already done both.

  I tracked the Emo across Southwark: along the Thames, through Borough Market, which was flooded with the fresh scents of fish, chicken, and bread, and around the Globe that was like a bloody UFO landing. I shadowed him through alleys that had been dives back when blokes got their jollies from bull and bear baiting, and now got them from suck and hand jobs. Other nights, Emo would wander in the upmarket districts with their posh bars, galleries, and gated communities that thumbed their noses at the rest of the poor sods clinging to the backsides of the housing estates.

  Emo never, however, crossed London Bridge. Maybe he reckoned that the rhyme was a curse: London Bridge is falling down…falling down…my fair lady.

  I’d taken to humming it as I stalked my melancholy ghost, although I couldn’t work out if I was hunting him or if he was hunting me.

  One evening, Emo led me along a row of cafés. It was freezing, and I huddled in my leathers in front of
a closed graphic novels bookshop: yeah, I can wave the geek flag. The window was bright with posters: whip-wielding heroines and scowling anti-heroes.

  Fantasies.

  I’d picked up a coffee from a street vendor — two sugars please, love — and its warmth seeped into my ice-cold hands. When I breathed in the coffee’s mellow scent, it burst memories through every cell: clasping papa’s hand on a street like this outside a Victorian coffee house, surrounded by fellow scientists, when I still trusted in both that world and my papa.

  I shook myself. My recovery from the sensory deprivation had sharpened my senses. They were raw, as if they’d been flayed.

  Adaptation — it’s a hell of a thing.

  I whistled “London Bridge”, before touching my mouth to the lip of the cup for my first sip of heaven. I didn’t notice the First Lifer who was nested under the faded…all right, bloody comics…until I stumbled over him.

  There was a whimper of pain, and then I let out one of my own.

  A ball of black-and-white fur had attached its jaws to my leg and was biting.

  Hard.

  At least it was above the new boots that Sun had nicked from a charity shop to replace the ones that Emo had destroyed.

  Gasping, I shook my leg.

  “Don’t go hurting her,” the bloke snarled, curling his hands into fists.

  I stared down at the First Lifer’s cascade of dusty blond curls, thin face, and too large blue eyes, like an anime hero had popped out of those discarded comics. Then he sneezed, snuffling the sleeve of his threadbare jumper across his nose. The poor lad didn’t even have a coat. He was fidgeting with a frayed neon and dark green friendship bracelet, twisting the threads around, as if it was a talisman.

  It didn’t look like it was working.

  Passers-by ebbed and flowed around the First Lifer like he was just another piece of London’s detritus. They were adapting around his existence, as they did the empty fast-food cartons and piles of ciggie butts: something not to be stepped in but around. They didn’t see him at all, and I knew just what it was like to be invisible.

  I felt the heat of the coffee between my hands and smelled its drink me aroma.

  I sighed. “Here.” I held out the cup.