Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  The bloke took the coffee and then he gave me a nod.

  The ball of fluff was still making a chew toy out of my leg. I hopped up and down significantly.

  “Mutt, let go.” When the First Lifer tapped his thigh, Mutt gave my flesh one final munch with a growl, before padding back to curl next to his master.

  I remembered the spaniel pups, which I’d once craved to buy on Regent’s Street on the day that I’d run from my papa. I peered down: the bastard had bitten right through my jeans.

  Mutt stared back at me with languid eyes.

  I glanced between the lad and his dog. “Cheers, little man.”

  He frowned. “I’m Will.”

  “Light.”

  Will took a gulp of coffee. He couldn’t have been a street kid for long. You could tell, and that was dangerous.

  I’d been about to turn back to my hunt and the Emo kid, who was the exact negative image of this one (making them two sides of a photograph exposure), when Will smiled shyly at me.

  And his smile was like…light…radiance…beauty. It called to me in a way that made my blood pound and my hands shake.

  Christ in heaven, no…

  I stumbled away from him.

  Will’s smile faltered and became uncertain. And that hurt look? I’d sodding put it there.

  Will ducked his head, cupping his hands tighter around the coffee.

  I wanted to say…something. But what could I? That he wasn’t invisible because I saw him? That I’d tasted his Soul and knew deeper than my heart — in my very DNA — that he belonged to me because he was meant to be born of my fangs? That I knew he was a new Plantagenet, if only he’d allow me to elect him into Blood Life?

  Way to freak out a bloke.

  The desperate craving to Author him was nothing like the way it’d been with Grayse, which had been a slow awakening; a love growing, until her death had forced my hand, and then Sun had been reborn.

  Sun’s election hadn’t been a choice. It’d been panic: my fear of losing her. It’d been a decision, but it hadn’t been one that I’d wanted. Not then and not like that. Yet this with Will, however, was like being hit with the flowing beauty of another’s Soul and feeling the weave of it cleave to you. I was certain that Will would be a mix of all four types of Blood Lifer: thinker, beauty, warrior, and leader. An individual as dangerous as I was.

  Bugger it, I couldn’t catch my breath.

  It wasn’t love: not like Ruby, Kathy, or Sun. Yet it was love of family. I could smell Will’s blood. Sod it, I wanted to taste…

  My hands trembled. I twisted away, grateful not to see Will’s pain anymore, as I bent over a bench.

  I must’ve looked a right berk.

  “Stinking homeless bastard,” a posh voice jeered. Then I heard the oomph of an unmistakable boot to the guts.

  Shocked, I leapt around to see Will sprawled in his paper bed, which was sodden now with a sea of spilled coffee, whilst Mutt growled at a gentleman in a suit with a lady on his arm, no doubt on their way back from a night of Shakespeare at the Globe, getting in a quick beggar beating.

  Everything. Turned. To. Red.

  I roared, diving at the gentleman who paled to a ghost. I slammed him against the comic book shop’s window; his face smashed against the tits of a heroine in leather. His gargled pleadings were muffled through the crimson fury hissing kill through every protective inch of me. I twisted his flabby arm up behind him, ripping his expensive suit.

  He screamed.

  Then my mouth was on his neck. My teeth grazed his skin, and my fangs shot out.

  One bite. Just one.

  The bitch was shrieking and bashing me on the back with her bag — thud, thud, thud. Bruises burst, but even that pain was muted. Her nails were scratching, slicing, and scrabbling…

  Yet I was the predator: these humans were the prey. I pressed my fangs harder into his skin.

  Then this small voice tight with fear urged, “The police, Light.”

  It was like being dragged back into my own body. When I hastily pulled in my fangs, I could hear the thud of police boots.

  When I flung the bloke round, he was a jabbering mess. There was a wet patch down the front of his trousers; it dribbled onto the pavement.

  I tilted my head. “Who smells of homeless now?”

  Then I grabbed Will and legged it down the street. First Lifers scattered away from us. They saw us now…yeah, they bloody saw us.

  Mutt chased us, just like the police, barking at our heels. It was all a game to her, as we snaked back through Southwark: hunted now, instead of hunting. When Will collapsed, I scooped him up and over my shoulder. It was glorious: the cold and dark, and we were free. I was high on the adrenaline, edge, and thrill. The star eyes were watching.

  I’d run like this from the police down Carnaby Street in the ‘60s. It’d been on the night that I’d first realized First and Blood Lifers were not as divided as I’d been taught and when freedom had seemed…possible.

  Naive prat, right?

  Then Will was giggling, Mutt was yapping, and I was laughing. I tumbled Will to a heap on the floor of the alley. We were hidden and alone. So, I bloody laughed to the black night like I hadn’t since before Abona.

  After, I leant against the wall, lighting my e-cig. I took a drag and then I eyed Will. He stared up at me like I was a god.

  Bollocks.

  “That was sick. Are you…” He snuggled closer around Mutt; his eyes were crystal blue and so bloody large, “….an angel or something like that?”

  Like an angel then, was it?

  I gave him a full twirl with my arms out: vintage gold ace of spades leather motorcycle jacket, black jeans (with bite marks), and pompadour. “Do I look like a bloody angel?”

  Will glanced at me sideways. “I don’t know. What do bloody angels look like?”

  “Oi, watch your language. Angels wouldn’t like it.”

  Will pulled up his slight frame as he gave me a sly smile. “So, you are…?”

  “Not even close.” Embarrassed, I shuffled my feet. “You know, you shouldn’t be out here by yourself at this time.”

  Will’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not my dad.”

  I rolled my eyes, before a sudden thought shot through me like hot poison. “Where are you parents?”

  For the first time, a guarded expression closed off Will’s face, and his mouth tightened into a thin line. “I don’t got none and I’m old enough to look after myself.”

  I didn’t believe him. He knew that I didn’t believe him. See the games that we play?

  But here’s the thing: the poison cooled to soothing balm at his lie because no parents meant less guilt when I stole Will. When, see? Not if. He already felt like he was part of my family. That must’ve been what it was like for Ruby when she first saw me in Victorian London: an obsession. I needed Will, the same as I needed the rest of my family: the bonds that we form entangle us in a web of need, drives, and compulsions.

  Being alone makes us strong. Yet when you’re alone, you’re also the weakest creature alive. It’s taken me centuries to begin to understand that.

  I shook my head. “The streets are dangerous. You should be home.”

  Will snorted, giving me this funny look. “I ain’t got no home. Why do you think I’m out here on my own?”

  Of course he had no home, at least no home that he’d admit to: another game. Why else would he be out here in this cutting breeze with no coat and half-starved?

  “Then you should be with other…people.”

  He shuddered. “I ain’t going to no shelter.”

  “Not out on the street then.” Of course I’d be drawn to such a stubborn rebel. “There are all sorts of predators. You need to find somewhere—”

  “Says who?” Will squared his shoulders, tossing his curls defiantly.

  He had some balls this one.

  “Says me.”

  Will scrunched up his nose, before giving me that blinding smile. “Alright, safe.”
He trotted backwards with his hands burrowed in his jean’s pockets, as if following an order from God. Mutt jumped after him. “See you around, Angel of Light.”

  Then he was gone.

  The little git. My little git.

  And that was the problem, or my new hope.

  I’d never felt so alive as I did in the crisp air of that alley in the arse end of Southwark, and all because of one young First Lifer. I made a promise then to protect Will, to save him, and (Christ help me), to elect him.

  Because I knew — I bleeding knew — that he was mine.

  Secrets: they silence us. The more that they snare us, the harder it is for us to spill our Souls. So, I didn’t tell the rest of my family about Will because I wanted to hold the secret precious and safe for just awhile longer.

  Hope, promises, and love. That night? I burst with them. I forgot all about the Emo kid, the hunt, and being hunted. My biggest mistake of all…? I forgot to fear.

  3

  NIGHT 3

  No blood to drink but only black coffee. Again?

  You can’t trick me, sweetheart, I know what your game is.

  Enlighten me.

  Sleep deprivation: caffeine lights up the nerves like fire. This is more torture than simple interrogation.

  Torture was Ruby’s cup of tea — not mine. She’d swum in those dark waters since the Inquisition, and I remember her playing with this one poor First Lifer, feeding him mug after mug of coffee…just like you’re trying with me.

  Isn’t that how you take it? Black with two sugars?

  I’m only surprised that you don’t have the Jade Spider in here yet, pulling the wings off me. I’ve heard the terrifying rumors about that bloke.

  Shame that you’ll have to put up with me.

  Your Author, Captain, taught the human slavers every cruelty that they knew. He loves to see his own species burn. Family? What the buggering hell does that mean to him? It makes me wonder…what does it mean to you?

  Yet he didn’t betray his family. Unlike yours who betrayed you.

  You do harp on about that, don’t you? Where is Captain? The wanker hasn’t spent his quality torture session with me yet.

  What…? No one’s hurting you because you’re under my authority.

  I’m sorry, was it meant to be a secret? Don’t tell me that you’ll have to waste ink redacting...?

  Lies don’t suit you. You shouldn’t say things like—

  Redact?

  This is a serious inquiry, Mr Blickle.

  I’m being serious. Tell Captain to get well soon and I miss him.

  No one’s fed you?

  Don’t need to make it sound like I’m a bleeding pet.

  Tell me what I want to hear, then I’ll ensure that a First Lifer is brought to you.

  I’m not killing. Not human.

  You still think that you’re in control? You truly are cute. We’re Blood Lifers. It’s a shame to see that it’s true: you’ve been tamed.

  I have a solution to your little problem. We anticipated your squeamishness; you’ll drink fresh human but not kill. But first, I want your secret.

  You’re an emotional vampire, you know that?

  I’m a barrister.

  Then I guess I’m right.

  It’s society that teaches us the rules: who to help or ignore. Who cares if an earthquake or famine kills thousands of strangers? Yet if your sister gets a cold, then you’d better post it all over the sodding Internet.

  We’re as connected to every other individual on this planet as we choose to be…or don’t. That’s the secret truth, which it’s easier to ignore, because once you open your eyes to it — First or Blood — you’ll never see your life the same way again.

  Shall I open your eyes?

  SEPTEMBER 1866 LONDON BRIDGE, LONDON

  “We are gaining supporters to the League every day, sir. My brother says that the vote seems likely to go in our favor.”

  I studied the bloke’s earnest bespectacled face, as he weaved his small hands animatedly. When a brunet curl fell over his eye, he brushed at it with a quick smile. Not quite up at Oxford yet, Edmond was only just younger than me.

  Yet it felt like centuries separated us.

  Edmond and I strolled in the early autumn evening along London Bridge, which arched elegantly across the Thames. The moon was masked by mist. The air was sharp, and my nostrils stung.

  I dragged my overcoat closer around me. It was new and shimmered like a seal’s skin. I’d nicked it last month from some First Lifer who’d got his jollies from sightseeing on the poor: roll up, roll up and see the freak show! When Ruby and I had shown him some true freaks? He’d been less keen.

  It was a blinding coat.

  Even in the dark the roadway was alive with bustle and roar: broughams, growlers, whinnying nags and drivers hollering.

  My London: thriving and thrusting.

  Women hurried with bundles of umbrella frames and cages of hats, mingling with dirty coster girls and oily sackmakers with huge piles of sacking balanced on their heads. Waifs. Strays. Roughs. Working men and women ebbing and flowing across the great river, whilst the rich rode in their carriages.

  Then there was us: one First Lifer and one Blood, in the black freeze of the evening.

  I paused against the lip of the bridge, resting my arms on the granite. Surprised, Edmond stopped. In his top hat and velvet collared evening cape, he looked like a startled but posh bat.

  I avoided his eye, gazing out instead over the Thames. A chaotic shock of houses overhung the water. Through the fog rose the pencil outline of railway station and cathedrals: chimney pots and cupolas, steeples, gables and towers.

  London.

  A shrouded ghost.

  I couldn’t help smiling.

  All right then, so here’s the truth of it: this was the end of a game that Ruby had set in motion a fortnight before.

  Ruby and I had been in The Anchor, which clung to the banks of the Thames, sprawling in a beer stinking nook, with etched glass and emerald tiles, when we’d overheard the blathering of a pompous ass: George Darrington.

  Darrington was the puffed-up leader of the Reform League and had been spouting nonsense to a rapt audience. I’d seen Ruby’s eyes spark. When her body had coiled, snake stiffening, Darrington had transformed to prey.

  Suffrage for the common man? Democracy? That was the trendy cause back then.

  Yet Darrington was a hypocrite. He didn’t believe in the working man or his vote. Even in the democracy, for which he was battling.

  Ruby? She wanted to show the world: unmask him. Seduce, change his vote, and then kill.

  That was the game.

  Anyone could be manipulated to change their beliefs. Love? That was the weapon, and Ruby was the queen of that sport — and my mentor.

  Ruby had sashayed round to Darrington’s table. Darrington had been stiff in starched formal suit, with a ginger beard and mustache, like an overgrown ferret. When he’d seen Ruby, he’d licked his lips and grown a stiffy. He’d been hooked.

  But George? He had a brother: Edmond.

  It was my job to discover Edmond’s weakness, turn his beliefs, and then…

  Tentatively Edmond plucked at my sleeve. “Even Gladstone—”

  “Oh, let’s not waste a fine evening speaking of Gladstone; your brother has entertained us quite enough.”

  Edmond chuckled but then hung his head. “My sincere apologies.”

  “Who taught you to apologize all the time?” Edmond blinked, his hands fluttering in confusion. “Frightened of your brother? Of another caning?”

  Edmond’s butterfly hands flew automatically to the back of his trousers. Then he reddened. “Sir, I—”

  “Your brother’s a brutal man. I’ve seen him blow up at you and I am more than acquainted with the type; I’ve suffered them.” I couldn’t help the shiver. The memory of everything that I’d endured at the orphan school because my uncle hadn’t sent for me, threatened to overwhelm me. I swallowed. �
�Now, however, you’re a man. The same as your brother. What are you campaigning for if not freedom? Choices and opportunities? Where are yours?”

  It was Edmond’s turn to shrug. “He’s family.”

  “Bugger family.” I don’t know where it came from, this…tidal roar rage against… Except, that’s the bollocks because deep down…? I did. When I met Edmond’s gaze, it was understanding. He suddenly looked older than me. Then it was my turn to redden. “Believe me when I say that it’s not safe,” I urged softly, “the affairs that he’s leading you into. He doesn’t believe in the League. It’s just for the thrill. The chase,” I gave a bark of laughter, “and I’m one who lives by such games. Truly.”

  “It’s nothing but a diversion. Men’s lives are pawns to be played with, between the brandy and cigars.” When Edmond leaned in closer, I felt his breath warm against my cheek. “I comprehend this, sir. They rant and discourse, but then they guffaw, decrying the working men as brutes.”

  Edmond whispered the last word, as if he’d be caught out and whipped. His eyes were wide at his own daring; his pale face delicate and beautiful. His ever-moving fingers worried at the buttons on his evening cape.

  I’d done it.

  It’d been so easy. Beliefs are as intangible as mist. They shift and vanish in the light just as swiftly too. It’d taken so little to transfer Edmond’s loyalty.

  To break him.

  Now to the next step.

  I had a glance around the bridge.

  A policeman was directing traffic in the center. The bridge was blocked. Steaming horses stamped, their hot breaths spirit white, as drivers flicked their reins. A bloke with bruises staining his naked chest, weighed us up as he limped by; I glared, and he turned away.

  Too many witnesses.

  I’d lure Edmond into Southwark. There were plenty of narrow alleys there, which would do the job.

  I should be elated. This was it: time to feast. Yet I couldn’t shake this squirming sense of unease.

  I could tell Edmond was waiting for me to say something. I forced myself to still his hands, before they pulled off one of those expensive buttons. “I know that you have pluck, but men like your brother? They incite rebellion. Then when it gets bloody? They walk away.”