Vampire Princess

by Rosemary A Johns

  I plucked at the hem of my sleeve. ‘I won’t hurt him—’

  ‘Fool, like I said.’ Drake glanced out of the crack, up and down the lavender-flamed corridor, before whispering, ‘You’ve made him yours.’

  ‘Spell it out, bro, like cake and confetti, mine?’

  He gave a bark of scornful laughter. ‘Do wives control and torture their husbands?’

  I shrugged. ‘Depends if they’re disrespecting a bitch with Man Flu.’

  Drake’s wings drooped; their blackened tips, as if they’d been transformed into a Merlin’s, quivered. ‘I’m painted in the shame of my punishment. Here.’ He bent forwards, his curls falling off his neck. I gasped at the throbbing tenderness of his tattoo. ‘The state of the Mark — our wings — are on display. We’re humiliated to remind us we’re the Marked. Does that sound like a husband?’

  Burn! Ice Genie just owned your ass.

  The Ice Genie will be on his arse if he doesn’t stop with the killer suspense and tell me what the hell Rebel is now.

  What you’ve done to the bondage punk, you mean?

  When Drake pulled back, and the tip of his wing brushed against my breast in the movement, I reddened.

  He tilted his head. ‘Amusing. Still so human.’

  I shoved him back.

  Crack — Drake’s head caught the wall.

  I winced on his behalf.

  He tentatively reached to the back of his head. When he brought his fingers between us again, they glistened with scarlet.

  Flight whined, shooting a warning lance of heat.

  ‘Accident,’ I muttered.

  Flight had been silent, still, and stone-cold throughout my time with Rebel.

  Maybe she didn’t get involved between a Glory and a Wing. Or maybe it wasn’t part of the dare?

  Drake wiped his bloodied hand down his trousers. ‘My mistake.’

  ‘I get I’m not blitzed in the Honeymoon Suite, but what’s a Marked?’

  ‘Do you not think it would’ve been wise to understand this before you took one?’ He asked, sighing. ‘I’m a Commander on the battlefield. But in your mother’s bed…? I am her favoured slave.’

  ‘But the Broken are the slaves—’

  Drake cradled his cut head, pulling at the strands matted with blood. ‘Bed slave, princess. Shall I draw you a diagram? Positions, maybe? The Marked are not beloved Wings but the bound whores of Angel World. Although I’ll kill any who dares call me thus.’

  ‘You, bro, a whore?’ I remembered his jeers of vampire whore to Ash like the idea of a shag horrified his dainty ears.

  Drake’s shoulders slumped. ‘Because you think I can’t kiss, princess, you reckon no one would wish my service. I assure you, I was promised — gifted — to the Matriarch when I was barely grown.’

  ‘You’re barely grown now.’

  His gaze blazed up to mine. ‘You are alone princess. Yet I’ve spent centuries wishing I could be.’

  Who gifted a kid to be Marked? Who’d done to Drake, what I’d done to Rebel?

  Except, they’d known what it’d mean.

  I swallowed, risking snaking out my hand to play with Drake’s fingers, steepling them between mine. And I didn’t see the shank, until it’d sliced through my shoulder.

  I shrieked, before gaping down at the curved gold handle, where it stuck out of my dress.

  No more finger cuddling; I’d rub the genie’s lamp so hard he’d still shine in a week.

  Yet when I hauled Drake towards me, squeezing his wrist, he yelped, before scoffing, ‘See? Fool.’

  The blade twisted.

  I shrieked again, letting go of Drake and scrabbling at the invisible attacker. But there was nobody there, except for the Assassin Knife burrowing into my shoulder.

  ‘Enjoying the show?’ I panted.

  Drake leaned against the wall, studying his fingernails and trying to hide the way he rubbed at his bruised wrist. ‘Perhaps there shall be clowns next?’

  My hands shook; sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. A wave of nausea washed over me from the sharp pain, as the dagger tore downwards.

  ‘Drake…’ I whispered, my hands slipping.

  ‘I am grown.’ He ticked off each point on his fingers. Had I dissed him enough that he was keeping a list? ‘I have not got girlie hair. And I can kiss.’

  He waited, examining me as if we were at a tea party, and I wasn’t being skewered by Mr Invisible.

  ‘Yeah, you’re the stud of harem boys. Now bastard help me.’

  He nodded, before diving into the corridor.

  Thwack.

  I flinched at the scuffle, but the pressure on the Assassin Knife died.

  I tugged out the shank, lobbing it clinking against the wall; I gasped at the gush of blood spurting from the wound.

  Dizzy, my legs buckled, before I forced myself upright again.

  No way I was going on my knees for Drake.

  A snivelling whining, and Drake dragged a teenage Wing with short silver hair and cheekbones sharper than any lord’s in front of me by the ear, like a Victorian school teacher. The teenager’s trousers shimmered gold.

  ‘Silence, Nathanael.’ Drake snapped. ‘Apologise.’

  Nathanael scowled, shaking his head.

  I remembered the alpha pricks in the throne room.

  ‘Seriously, bro?’ I smirked. ‘What kind of non-stealthy assassin dresses in gold and kills with it?’

  ‘Assassin?’ Nathanael wriggled in Drake’s grasp. ‘The Legion aren’t assassins. We’re more powerful than—’

  ‘Your lips are moving, yet all I hear is small dick.’

  Nathanael’s high cheeks pinked. ‘Hold your tongue, bastard Child of the Fallen. I followed my orders.’

  Drake twisted Nathanael’s ear, and he squealed. ‘Hush, you were under my orders not to attack.’

  ‘And when the Mage arrives, Brother in the Phoenix? Who do you think he will be most proud of?’ Nathanael sniffed, wiping at his dripping nose, whilst he tottered on tiptoe to ease his sore ear. ‘What will he do when he hears of your disobedience?’

  Drake shoved Nathanael away with a shake of his head. ‘Apologise.’

  Nathanael bowed, his silver hair covering his eyes, but his smile was sly. ‘My apologies, princess. And Commander…? I shall enjoy listening to your howls. Again.’

  ‘Enjoy this.’ I snatched Nathanael’s arm, as he scampered towards the main corridor, swinging him towards me.

  Then I headbutted him.

  Nathanael’s eyes rolled back, before he collapsed.

  Drake offered me his arm. ‘An excellent method of silencing.’

  We strolled back into the lavender fire corridor, leaving Nathanael behind us out cold.

  I bit my lip at the jostling to my shoulder. ‘Who are the Legion? And why do your mates love to hear you howl?’

  ‘Not my mates. And not dead, merely harmed.’

  A shard of pain roused the powers inside who shook with the indignity of being shanked by an unknown cult or faction within my own mum’s court. They raged for me to go back and torture Nathanael until he bled out answers.

  Although I wouldn’t let myself do that, I had Drake: A Brother in the Phoenix.

  I slid my hands up Drake’s blackened wings, closing my fingers around his wingtips. He stiffened; his breathing became harsh.

  ‘That posh freakshow acted like his daddy had hired me as a servant.’ My fingers tightened. ‘What happened to all the cowering you Wings do before a Glory?’

  ‘He’s part of the Legion. The Brothers in the Phoenix aren’t Marked or owned. They’ve no understanding of other Wings’ torment.’

  ‘Aren’t you in the Legion?’

  Drake looked down. ‘I alone am different.’

  When I squeezed his wing, he shuddered against me. ‘The Mage is the top boy?’

  ‘The Mage and the Legion hold sway because they can give — or take away — something no one else can. And that hold is like poison. Everyone fears it. Yet
they’re forced to swallow it every year.’

  ‘Crypto, not helping.’

  He shrugged, before his expression softened. ‘Calm yourself, you’re bleeding. You’ve training tomorrow, do you not?’ I let go of his wings to press against the throbbing in my shoulder. Then his gaze hardened. ‘And if you think it shameful to be a cowering Wing or Marked bed slave, you’ve no idea the consequences of failing the Warrior Trials.’

  Fury whirlwind rose in a whooshing gust at his jibe.

  The Warrior Trials might as well have been tattooed on my arse. Broken, Imperfect, or Marked…at least they weren’t facing the Trials.

  If Drake wanted me to feel helpless, I’d bring him along for the ride.

  ‘Then I’ll need a bandage.’ I ripped down Drake’s trousers.

  He hopped comically, as the silk caught on his ankles. He tried to hold up his trousers with one hand, wrestling with me. At last, he let go, and I wrapped his dignity around my bleeding shoulder in an indigo bow.

  Flight bounced on my shoulders, like a tutting mother-in-law.

  Drake’s stare was cold and dangerous. His wings curled around his cock, as he edged closer, tilting his head. ‘I know you’re still hiding something extraordinary inside. I will discover it, princess. That’s my skill.’

  I held my breath.

  J had better hide his arse behind the walls I’d spent the last months building. But how many centuries had Drake been practicing his skills?

  I forced myself to smirk. ‘Good luck with that McBareBum. Bounce, bro.’

  Drake snarled with hurt confusion.

  I didn’t bastard care.

  Why the hell did I bastard care?

  ‘Tomorrow is the last day before your dare is settled,’ he bit out, edging even closer. ‘Maybe I shan’t kill you when you lose. And you will. Because without me — and without Flight — on your side, you won’t win the Trials. You’ll die.’ His eyes gleamed, but it could’ve been the reflected light from the ceiling. ‘Then there’ll be one less monster in these caves.’

  His cheek pressed against mine, before he twirled in a flurry of soft feathers and creamy arse.

  And I was alone, bleeding, and a bastard fool.

  Harahel had warned me about allies. Yet when had Drake changed from guard and gaoler to become my saviour in the Warrior Trials?

  A saviour who’d just judged that I deserved to die.

  13

  When I strapped Flight between my shoulder blades ready to train with Battle on the last day before Drake’s dare was settled, she weighed heavier than ever.

  The lullaby she hummed didn’t trick me. Because if I couldn’t change Drake’s mind that I was just another Glory, equally power hungry as my psycho mum…?

  Then even if Flight didn’t chop off my head, I’d lose my chance to win the Warrior Trials.

  I stepped out onto the mountain ridge and shuddered.

  Light: it shimmered through fat curtains of cloud, lustrous and warm against my face.

  Next to me, Rebel gasped, stretching his wings to catch the beams; his bent wing vibrated with the strain. I caught him in my arms, spinning him through the veil of mists on the rocky crag.

  Below, spread a country tapestry that paled London Fields: ancient woodland, lakes, and barren moorland.

  This bitch wasn’t in Hackney anymore.

  We were trapped, high above a grand and desolate world: Eryri.

  It was a shame I’d never learned how to bastard climb. And Rebel couldn’t fly.

  Suddenly, I realised Rebel was limp in my arms and trembling, and then that as I’d swung him, my hands had clasped around his neck…and over his Mark. Like a threat.

  Taking a breath, I backed away from him, humming The Sex Pistol’s “God Save the Queen”, which had blasted out, whilst we’d trained together in the glade behind the witches’ house.

  When Rebel had been my Custodian.

  He tilted his head. ‘Mind yourself, Feathers, the Glories’ll think you’re going soft on your toy. Feeding me with light and… To be fair, you’re also torturing me with your voice.’

  ‘Way to reject my serenading, Custodian.’

  He glanced up with fleeting hope. Then he shook his head. ‘I’m not your blessed Custodian.’ He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels. ‘Not anymore. If I was? I’d tell you that you’re a wally for taking these Trials. It’s a woeful risk.’

  ‘So’s losing your hands.’

  ‘Wise up! Who says we’re after being here for that? Who says we don’t escape?’

  I startled, glancing around the mountain side at the piled pyramids of boulders and shards of rock.

  What if someone had heard Rebel?

  Mist clung to my cheeks like weeping spiderwebs; I brushed the back of my hand down them, wiping them away.

  What’s making you jitter like a scaredy-cat on a tin roof, Violet-pie?

  That Drake, the Legion, Battle, the Matriarch, or any of the other angelic assholes may overhear?

  Or that your brave punk is right?

  He’s planning something. That’s why the wallad wanted back in with Ash. They’ve got some crazy-arsed plot and they’ll screw up—

  Then where’s your plot?

  Instead, you dance through their hoops: hunts, games, and Trials. But you don’t escape.

  I’m trying—

  You know, if you want Angel World — home, mother, power — we can work with that. But you need to decide.

  What’s inside me…? I’m battling to control the bitch.

  The Matriarch — this place — it’s poisoning you. And you’re swallowing every drop.

  I grabbed Rebel’s hand. ‘Drake’s our guard and gaoler; he’s always bastard watching. Pull back on the Great Escape for now.’

  Rebel scowled but nodded.

  I tugged him after me down a path, which was cloaked by cloud.

  We broke out at a circle that was tight to the mountain. It was surrounded by pyres of stones; shaggy hazel trees burst from each one. Yellow catkins hung like furry caterpillars between red-tipped buds. A warm spicy fragrance caught in my nostrils.

  Then my shoulder was caught and spun.

  Supreme Commander Battle tapped my forehead. ‘First lesson, wee madam, notice the predator, not the pretty.’

  I smirked. ‘And I reckoned you angels were all about the pretty?’

  Battle whipped back her braids. ‘Toys aren’t just for bedding, they’re for fighting.’ When she examined Rebel, crossing her arms with hot contempt, he slipped into kneel at her feet. The Mark glowed, tender and throbbing on his bowed neck. Why had I ever wanted Rebel on his knees? ‘If you’ve marked Zachriel, you don’t agree.’

  ‘We’ve hunted together; he’s a badass fighter—’

  She snorted. ‘Aye, right. Well, you’re not training with any Marked bitch on my watch, lassie. Dillon, get your bahookie here.’

  From behind the maze of hazel tree branches, prowled the giant of a Broken with short afro and smooth dark skin, who’d pinned me in his arms, before pushing his fingers into my neck.

  When I growled, clutching for Star that was sheathed at my waist, Rebel glanced up at me questioningly.

  Battle chuckled. ‘Dillon’s a head case, just as I’ve trained him to be. I ordered him to rough you up a wee bit.’ She jerked me into the circle of stones opposite Dillon, who bounced on his feet, limbering up. ‘Anyway, it’ll help a spanner like you to use the toy as your punching bag.’

  ‘Wait…? What…?’

  Battle backed out of the circle. When Rebel tried to rise and dash to me, she shoved him down. ‘Draw your sword. Let’s see if the Matriarch’s precious weapon is worth what the punters are willing to pay.’

  ‘What’s Dillon fighting with? The power of an evil stare?’

  Battle wrapped her fingers in Rebel’s hair, wrenching his head up to watch. ‘Dillon doesn’t need a sword.’

  Whack — Dillon clouted me across the cheek; bones crunched.

  I staggered
, trying to dodge, but Dillon’s second hook caught my chin, throwing me into a pyre.

  The stones tumbled and shook, as my back screamed in tremors up and down my spine.

  ‘I’m your Trainer. Don’t idiot disobey me,’ Battle’s shrill voice cut across the thunderous ringing in my head. ‘Each mistake, hit, and disobedience counts as failure and to learn from that, I discipline, madam.’

  ‘Bit busy here,’ I slurred, sliding under Dillon’s wrestler grasp.

  ‘Five,’ Battle called out.

  Any wiggle room on the sword position? Because Dillon has muscles I could ride into the sunset.

  I have one day left to show Drake I’m not corrupted. How’s taking a sword to a Broken, even this one, going to grant me Violet Brownie Points?

  And how’s being dead going to grant you anything?

  I rolled over the floor; pebbles dug into me, even through my leather armour.

  Dillon stomped, so close to my head that the dust swirled like mist.

  I scrabbled up. Then I side kicked Dillon, knocking him back with a holler. I itched to snatch Flight and gank Dillon into chunky salsa.

  Yet when Flight hummed, I let myself take a boot to my guts and tumbled out of the circle, close to the crumbling cliff edge.

  ‘Eight.’ When Rebel tried to stand again, Battle’s hand tightened in his hair.

  Distracted, I edged backwards.

  Enough of the good girl act. How could I fight if I reined in my own powers?

  Except, when I reached inside for the raging fire, it didn’t even flicker.

  J, I’m asking; I need to be Hulked violet style.

  What’s righteous about fighting a Broken?

  Dillon leered, stalking towards me.

  I knew personal when I saw it; this training had handed me in a bow to Dillon. But why were we in conflict? Unless it was the possessive way he’d looked at Gwyn…?

  Dillon stamped next to my head, and I rolled closer to the cliff face. Stones tumbled down, skittering against the edge.

  The sun caught in my eyes, blinding me. ‘For real, bro? Stop.’

  He studied me, before leaning down; his stinking sweat dripped onto my cheek. ‘Does he beg you to stop? Do you enjoy his fear?’

  ‘Gwyn…?’

  Dillon’s mouth twisted. ‘How’d you enjoy it? Being the powerless one?’