Red Grow the Roses

by Janine Ashbless

  ‘Let me go,’ he gasps, his stomach knotting with hunger, his teeth sliding to sharp points. Even as he says it, he’s straining to lick at the blood.

  Naylor takes a step back, but his eyes have a surer grasp even than his hands. He directs Wakefield’s own gaze down. ‘Look.’

  There’s blood on his feet. Naylor is clothed but his feet are bare, and Reynauld’s blood has splashed on the tops of his feet.

  ‘Oh, my good God …’

  ‘Lick it,’ he says, and his voice is like velvet and iron and the implacable press of a hundred million years of black silt, pushing Wakefield to his knees. ‘You want his blood. Lick it up.’

  Limbs buckling, Wakefield goes down and presses his mouth to Naylor’s feet, tasting heaven.

  * * *

  Rosa ‘Burning Desire’: bright-red, hybrid tea rose

  Dimly, Reynauld hears Naylor’s voice – ‘Come on then. This is what you all really want, isn’t it?’ – as at the same time lines of fire are scored down his ribs. Naylor’s cutting him, he realises; using his nails to make the blood run. And of course the younger vampire is right in what he says. They’re all pressing in now, mesmerised by the sanguine flow. The temptation is too alluring. Even with his eyes shut Reynauld can see them all around him, glowing violet against the darkness inside his head. They can’t resist. No matter their personalities or their loyalties, whether they prefer him to Naylor or the other way round, they need by their nature to feed. They are, at core, predators. And in the end blood is the only thing that counts.

  The Second Noble Truth of Buddhism: all suffering arises out of craving.

  He can feel Roisin at his throat, gentle as a leech, offering no succour. Naylor sits astride his waist and bites into his chest. Then come more bites – Wakefield on the inside of his upper right arm and Ben on his left armpit, gnawing at the tears Naylor’s nails have made. Bliss storms through his body, an invading army, taking the pain and turning it to arousal, taking the weakness and dressing it as euphoria. All the defences of his body, all the instincts that would make him struggle or flee, are subverted. Every nerve turns collaborator. He can’t fight, any more than a human pinned by a single vampire can fight. He doesn’t want to. He wants …

  Estelle moves on him last of all, taking his cock in her mouth and biting that. It takes seconds for him to hit his first orgasm. He comes blood and semen, and it doesn’t stop. He thinks he might be screaming, but he can’t tell.

  They will empty him of every last drop.

  * * *

  Rosa ‘Heartbreaker’: cream-pink blend, miniature rose

  ‘Whoa whoa whoa!’ Naylor is suddenly annoyed. ‘Somebody is enjoying this far too much. That won’t do at all.’ Sitting up, he strikes at Wakefield and Ben and they release their bites, backing away to lick their chops, looking dazed and angry. Wakefield even lifts a hand in frustration, but thinks better of it as he recognises the look in Naylor’s eye.

  ‘That’s right,’ Naylor hisses. Twisting, the slender man lashes out back-handed at Estelle, smacking her across the face. She jerks away from Reynaud’s bloody flesh and bares her teeth in a silent snarl. In less than a second Naylor is on his feet between Reynauld’s spread legs with her, face to face since they are almost the same height – Estelle a few inches taller. For a moment they glare at each other, and it looks as if Estelle is going to spit. Then she drops her eyes in submission. Naylor smirks, cups her jaw in his hand and reaches up to lick the blood and semen from her lips. He smears it over her cheek with his wet tongue.

  Estelle holds herself motionless, as stiff as a board. Even when he reaches down and gropes her pubic mound through her dress, his fingers pinching cruelly hard.

  ‘Good girl,’ sneers Naylor. Then he turns back to face Reynauld. Estelle can wait for later. Roisin he leaves to her own thing, though, and she continues lapping at the pinned man’s throat.

  ‘Can’t have you enjoying yourself, can we, Old Man?’ he croons. Blood has run down his chin and is streaking his bare chest.

  Reynauld responds with a groan. Naylor doesn’t think he’s dying, not quite yet. It’s an interesting question though: can a vampire die of blood-loss? Naylor suspects not. He thinks if he goes too far Reynauld will just pass into some sort of coma. Which would mean he’d miss all the vengeance Naylor has planned for him.

  ‘You know what? Change of plan: I’m going to flay you raw and lick you like a popsicle until the sun comes up. I’m sure you’d like to stay awake to see that. The weatherman says it’s going to be a beautiful day, Reynauld.’

  The glass will provide no protection, he knows. The bastard’s going to burn to ashes.

  ‘But first,’ Naylor adds, ‘I’m think I’m going to tear your knob off. Then I’m going to cut you a hole and fuck it.’

  He reaches in. His attention is on his victim’s face though; he’s relishing the anguish he’s about to cause. So he doesn’t notice Estelle’s shift of stance, the fluid movement that brings her up at his shoulder. He doesn’t notice until the blow hits him from behind and by then it’s too late, far too late; he looks down in shock at his own bare chest and sees the ribs heave, forced up by the pressure from within. He opens his mouth but the gush of black blood chokes his words.

  And then Naylor burns. His body turns black, the tissues disintegrating into charred wet flakes like wadded paper that’s been thrown on the fire, his face peeling into a myriad fissures. Tiny blue flames erupt from those cracks and dance down to the splayed tips of his fingers. Shock registers in his eyes. He screams, a thin noise like steam venting. There’s a crack as his jaw falls off and bounces off Reynauld’s chest and away across the boards, spitting chemical sparks.

  Then quite suddenly Naylor is gone, his body crumbling apart into flakes of ash as if it had never been a living thing but rather one of his sculptures, a papier-mâché parody of human form. There aren’t even any bones. Reynauld is deluged in black flakes. From the smouldering debris a plume of smoke rises to lick the glass overhead.

  That’s when Roisin lifts her head, as intent as a greyhound spotting a hare, and launches herself straight up at the roof. There’s no light source here where they are except for the last of the pale and guttering flames; it’s hard to say for sure what is reflected in the glass. But she vanishes into the mirror-world without hesitation.

  ‘What just happened?’ Ben asks, as he and Wakefield back away.

  * * *

  Rosa ‘The Dark Lady’: dark-red, shrub rose

  And that’s when Estelle, who’s had her arm thrust to the elbow inside the cavity of his chest like a ventriloquist with a dummy, unclenches her hand enough to reveal Naylor’s bloody heart still grasped there. It’s the only thing left of his body: a potato-sized knot of blackened muscle. She brings it to her lips and licks it, openly luxuriating in the taste, her whole body shuddering as she arches her back, pressing her pubic mound against Reynauld’s pelvis, barely able to keep herself upright. Her fingers grind into his flesh.

  She’s coming, Reynauld realises: she’s just torn Naylor’s heart out and she’s climaxing.

  In other circumstances he’d be horrified, but he’s too weak with shock right now to feel any emotion. He can only watch as her face twists and she moans with triumph.

  When Estelle’s eyes open again, they’re red from lid to lid. She peels her lips back to show her extended teeth in a grin that looks like it would like to devour the world. ‘Well,’ she says, her voice bubbling and thick. ‘He wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ says Ben faintly – and then he bolts, right over the edge of the platform, not even bothering to climb down. Reynauld hears the thump as he hits the concrete below and then the sound of his pounding feet fading into the distance.

  ‘What about you?’ she asks Wakefield, who looks like a man facing a firing squad.

  ‘Me? M-madam, I am delighted, believe me.’

  ‘I think you should leave too. Right now.’

  Wakefield isn’t the lea
st inclined to argue. His departure is swift and soundless.

  Then they are alone. Reynauld looks up at Estelle and tries to moisten his throat to speak, but nothing happens. His last ember of hope flares up into life again.

  Then it dies for good as she drapes herself down full-length on his torso and sinks her teeth into his neck.

  * * *

  Rosa ‘Times Past’: pink, climbing rose

  ‘It’s nothing personal.’ She’s had to slap him back into consciousness. She spits his own blood into his mouth to moisten his lips. ‘I never had any objection to your regime, Reynauld. It had the great advantage of stability. I just want to be the one on top.’

  He’s still pinned, still in agony. He’s not even capable of lifting his hanging head now, but when he closes his eyes he can see her propped up on his chest, Naylor’s heart tucked under her chin like a clutch purse. The damned object glows in his inner vision, white hot. With effort he manages to whisper, ‘You always did prefer it that way.’

  She smiles. ‘And as I remember, you love it.’

  He can’t string together a cogent riposte, only the ghost of a moan.

  ‘Do you remember Leysin, Reynauld? The Rhone Valley spread out below us? The sun setting over the Alps, turning the high slopes gold? No, of course you don’t. I watched that alone, didn’t I? – all bundled up on my couch on the terrace, coughing blood into my handkerchief. I remember, even then, thinking that it was a weakness of yours: this fear of the light. When someone is so strong, it’s best to be aware of their weaknesses. I’ve kept a list of yours, over the years. Perhaps I should have warned you how dangerous they were. The way you trusted that Amanda, for example. Not wise. But I imagine you realise that now.’

  ‘Estelle …’

  ‘Does it hurt, lover?’ With lingering voluptuousness, she licks the sweat from his blistered skin. ‘I can fix that, you know.’

  He tries to draw a deeper breath, but there’s no strength in his lungs. ‘Don’t leave me to burn,’ he whispers.

  ‘Actually, I think I’m going to let you go.’

  Reynauld opens his eyes. He can’t see her from this angle, just an upside-down view of girders and glass, and the sullen orange urban night beyond.

  ‘Call it sentiment,’ she muses. ‘For old times’ sake. You gave me my second chance, remember? But if you’re still within the city limits when I come looking for you at dawn, I will kill you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘They all drank your blood. You’re finished here.’

  ‘I know.’

  * * *

  Rosa ‘Gift of Life’: yellow-pink blend, hybrid tea rose

  Dismounting from him, she lays her free hand on the steel cable supporting his left leg, and watches with interest as the strands turn to rust and disintegrate. ‘New tricks from old dogs,’ she says with a smirk, giving Naylor’s heart a little squeeze.

  When his leg drops the pain is horrible; when the second falls it feels like his back is breaking. Estelle leaves him lying there, walks round to his right arm and frees that too.

  ‘Let yourself out, Reynauld.’

  He doesn’t watch her go. It takes him a long time to gather himself and roll on the crossbeam, hauling his body by pulling down on his pierced wrist. He has to grope his way up to the bolt and for a nasty moment he thinks it isn’t going to let go of the cable end. After that the cable has to be pulled out through the wound, inch by agonising inch. The first thing that happens when he’s free is that he falls on to the boards and lies there winded.

  He licks splashes of his own spilt blood from the rough wood.

  He can’t climb down; he’s too weak. He simply crawls to the edge of the boards and drops into the darkness, landing on the tracks. Fortunately falls don’t injure him, but it takes nearly ten minutes for him to get up on his feet and climb up on to the concrete passenger platform. It’s quite dark down here now, quite silent. Human senses would be nearly useless, but his inner vision is sharpened by desperation. Naked, filthy and injured, his first need is blood. Hunger is the only thing keeping him conscious now. Hunger is his strength, and it doesn’t fail him. He can sense rats out there in the darkness, little flickering bulbs in the blackness, their rapid heartbeats like the twinkle of red stars. But there’s something else too; close by. Something much bigger and warmer. Reynauld grinds his knuckles against the concrete and starts to crawl toward it.

  There: huddled in the dark against a tiled wall. Bleeding a little, but still aglow with life despite everything. He’s close enough to smell her.

  ‘Amanda,’ he rasps. Relief claws the inside of his throat. His voice doesn’t sound like his own, but she recognises him.

  ‘Reynauld? You’re all right?’

  She’s nearly blind in this light; she reaches out toward his voice, her hands shaking. He takes them and presses them to his face, lets her feel her way down his chest and arms. She weeps, repeating his name. Inside him, the hunger roars.

  * * *

  Rosa ‘Mother’s Love’: yellow-pink blend, miniature rose

  ‘Oh, God, Reynauld. I’m so sorry!’ The words sound utterly pathetic to her, though she means them with all her heart. Her tears are falling on his raw and bleeding body as if remorse itself could heal him. She wants to hold him tight, but she’s scared of hurting him more. She wants to break her heart open and pour out her guilt and her anguish until he sees only the love.

  ‘You let them in to take me.’ His grip, descending on her shoulders, is far from gentle: he might be weakened but he’s still strong enough to make her gasp. ‘Why?’ he demands. ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘I didn’t want to!’

  ‘But you did it anyway.’ His voice has dropped to a growl. Anyone else would recoil from the threat in it, but Amanda is not afraid. Now that Reynauld is somehow, miraculously, safe again, nothing in the world can make her afraid.

  ‘They have Tim,’ she says hoarsely. ‘I heard him on the phone – they’ve taken him hostage. Oh, God, Reynauld. They threatened to kill him unless I gave you up!’

  Reynauld’s voice is a barely human snarl now. ‘And you chose him over me?’

  ‘Reynauld –’

  ‘You don’t even see him!’

  ‘He’s my son!’ Her cry is full of pain. Reynauld knows all about the broken, distant relationship between Tim and her. He knows, but he doesn’t understand how much it has hurt her, or how inexorable are her instincts. He can’t feel what she felt, and despair makes her cry out, ‘How could you understand? – you don’t have children. You’re immortal!’

  He grips her jaw like he’s going to break her neck, but she manages to lift a hand and lays it on his cheek. She knows what he’s going to do.

  * * *

  Rosa ‘Forever Yours’: dark-red, hybrid tea rose

  For Reynauld, rage and hunger are now indistinguishable.

  ‘Just drink,’ she gasps. ‘Take it all. I love you.’

  And Reynauld wrenches her head to one side, baring her throat, and bites down savagely.

  * * *

  But here in the City, all the roses grow red.

  9: Two, two the Lily-White Boys, clothed all in green-O

  Once upon a time there was a girl who fell into a fairytale.

  Her name was Shanella and she came from a poor family; her father was a sailor on a merchant ship and she hadn’t seen him since she was a little baby, and her mother needed help to keep food on the table. So Shanella went out to work, and because she was a brave girl and not scared of anything she ended up working in the house of a witch.

  The witch was named Estelle. Despite being very beautiful she had a reputation for wickedness, but she wasn’t cruel to Shanella herself: perhaps she was too busy thinking up bigger badder mischief to notice a servant girl. Oh, the witch certainly made her work hard: up at dawn making the beds and cleaning and fetching the shopping and serving at table, all the way through to midnight when she fed the six Siamese cats and crept to h
er own bed in the attic. But Shanella did not complain. Shanella wasn’t the sort of girl who complained or worried. She was glad to have somewhere to live and plenty to eat, and when she had a moment’s free time she would just sit and admire all the pretty things in the witch’s house, all the jewellery and the paintings and the furniture; and with a smile on her face she would dream of the day when she owned a house of her own and beautiful ornaments and perhaps one little Siamese kitten. When her father came back from the sea, she told herself, he would bring all the money with him he had made over the years, and make her and her mother rich and comfortable for the rest of their lives.

  One night Shanella was just getting ready for bed in her room at the very top of the house when she was called by the Housekeeper: ‘Quick as you can, Shanella – go to Madame’s bedroom, find the black lacquered box by her bed, and take it to the Green Room.’

  ‘But I’ve taken off my dress and I’m all in my petticoat,’ protested Shanella.

  ‘I don’t care if you’re naked, girl! Madame wants that black lacquered box right now, and don’t you keep her waiting. Trip-trap!’

  So Shanella, all in her petticoat and with her feet bare and not even her stockings on, ran trip-trap down the stairs to the witch’s bedroom to fetch the box for her. Estelle liked to have this particular box at her side most of the time when she was at home: while she ate or entertained guests she wanted to keep it to hand, and would often stare at it. Nobody in the household knew what was inside, Shanella least of all. But she knew better than to keep the witch waiting.

  There was a man lying on the bedroom floor when she went in, but he didn’t have any clothes on so Shanella was careful not to look at him. He must be asleep, she thought. She went straight to the dresser where the black lacquer box rested and took it up so that she could run back, trip-trap, all the way to the Green Room. But as she picked it up she felt something inside the box give a leap and a thump, and it startled her so much that she dropped the whole thing on the carpet.