Vampire Princess

by Rosemary A Johns

  He flinched back again, but Rebel only nodded. ‘Thanks for protecting her, whilst I was in tatters.’

  Drake cocked his head, and I knew I missed something in the way their gazes met. ‘I never professed to be any good at it. Now, help me up. I shall need to return to my room and rest: brutal torture in the morning. Excuse me.’

  When Drake slipped past me, I called out, ‘No way you have a tiny dick because what you did today took massive balls. And kinky as it’ll now sound, you haven’t disappointed me.’

  He gave a curt nod. ‘Sleep, princess, tomorrow shall not be easy for any of us, I fear.’

  Buzz kill.

  In the morning, I blinked awake to the sharp light. My head pounded, and I hadn’t even drunk those tequila shots. Slumping back in the feathers, I swept my tongue around my dry mouth.

  Yet something felt…wrong. Like it was missing.

  At least Gwyn had stripped me out of the bird dress last night; nudist was becoming my thing.

  Gwyn…who was pacing in a tight circle the same as Drake had been last night. Except, without the curls, wings, and nipple clamps.

  His small face scrunched up like he was about to burst into tears.

  ‘What’s with the dawn dramatics?’ Hell, I needed that shot already.

  Gwyn paused mid-step.

  The white-haired Broken hadn’t known I’d been awake yet. And he didn’t wear guilty well.

  He shifted from foot to foot. ‘Carry on, you, everything’s fine.’

  ‘Don’t ever play strip poker. Now try again without the fat fib.’

  He fell to his knees. ‘I’m sorry, princess, please, I only—’

  Violet curled at his cringing fear. I pushed down hard on the frustration.

  ‘Don’t you know me better yet?’ I brushed my fingers through his silky hair. He leaned into me. ‘What’s the word on the street?’

  ‘Zachriel,’ Gwyn murmured. I startled. Why hadn’t I noticed his punk arse wasn’t still nestled next to mine? And why wasn’t I bastard surprised? ‘He said I didn’t need to do all the work no more. That he was no different to me and should take on more of my duties. I told him he was wrong because I was only a Broken,’ he finished in a frantic rush. I kissed him gently, and he calmed. Then he dipped his head, adding, ‘So, I told him about your morning chocolate—’

  ‘It’s called breakfast, nutritionally challenged elf.’

  ‘B-breakfast. And he went to collect it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not seeing the problem.’

  He cast me an anxious glance. ‘He never came back.’

  I shoved myself upright in a cloud of feathers. ‘He’ll have been distracted by something shiny; he’s an Irish magpie.’

  Gwyn nodded, but I caught it: the deception.

  When I tilted his chin, I let the stern bitch out to play. ‘Princess or your new best mate: choose.’

  He met my hard gaze. ‘We toys hear things seeing as Glories talk as if we’re invisible. I searched for Zachriel and I couldn’t find him. But I heard… They’re blaming him, see, for what you said last night. That a Son of the Fallen has corrupted the princess.’

  Had Rebel been snatched as reprisal for my speech? Or by the Mage?

  I clasped Gwyn’s chin so tightly he eeped.

  I soothed the bruise in apology. ‘What aren’t you still telling me?’

  ‘I don’t know nothing I don’t, not for certain. But toys don’t lie to each other. We don’t keep secrets. It’s a code between us seeing as we have no one else to trust. And I don’t trust Zachriel.’

  Rage rushed through me wildfire, shocking me awake.

  I tumbled Gwyn back in a wide-eyed heap, leaping for my silk dress. Slipping it over my head, I growled.

  Suits you better than your party frock. Costume department at Mad Max have called and they need it back.

  Stick it, J. Punk boy’s missing, and I have to go find his arse.

  Missing? How many times has the punk run from you again? Or run…period?

  That’s messed up. He wouldn’t abandon me.

  Like you wouldn’t force him to kneel? Or Mark him?

  You’ve been showboating your power over his Irish arse from the moment you pulled him out of the dark.

  Last night he said he was wrong to ask me to escape.

  Oh, girl, and that didn’t ring the suspicious bells?

  He’ll have bastard gone to rescue Ash. They’re escaping without me. Leaving me here alone.

  I dragged on my knee-high boots in violent jerks, blinded by tears.

  When I felt Gwyn’s tentative hand on my shoulder, I shrugged it off. ‘Stay here.’

  I stormed out of my chambers to catch Rebel and make an angel scream.

  I crouched against the wall in the cave that glowed sea green with gem stones.

  I shuddered in the dank freeze, wrapping my arms around myself, before edging across the slippery ground.

  I soared on my righteous rage. It narrowed the world to flames.

  And the cold intent of a predator.

  The crashing waterfalls fizzed: ten spitting mouths foaming over the sparkling walls and thundering onto the sharp toothed rocks below. And Rebel, soaked under the water of the closest fall, hidden behind a rock.

  The wallad had no idea he was being hunted.

  Rebel peered in the opposite direction, down a thin stone bridge that led over a chasm to an archway high above. His trousers were transparent in the wet, no longer in his pretty whore outfit from my ceremony; his hair was plastered down by the water.

  Pale, shivering, and beautiful.

  I’d marched down to the cells, flying on a toxic mix of fear and betrayal, to stop an escape attempt and save Rebel.

  The cells, however, had been guarded and quiet.

  Yet the stench of copper candy with something off that made me gag had drawn me into a corridor I hadn’t seen before.

  The corridor had wound deeper, until like in the hunts with Drake, I’d been crawling through gaps in the crystal walls and clambering down rock faces.

  Then I’d discovered it: this waterfall cavern. And Rebel, hiding behind a boulder in the spray.

  Was he waiting for someone? To plot or meet…a lover?

  My breath caught.

  Hell, why hadn’t I even thought of it before?

  Rebel had visited Angel World for centuries. Of course he wanted to see those he’d lost.

  I bent over, clutching my guts. Lights zigzagged through my temples. My heart pounded in my chest.

  Silently, I drew Flight.

  Then I stalked through the water, which pounded on my head and shoulders, weeping down my face until I could barely see.

  I wasn’t bastard crying.

  I pressed the blade’s tip against the back of Rebel’s neck.

  He stiffened, before slowly standing at the urging of my sword. His skin nicked; the blood snaked away under the spray.

  ‘I know it’s you, Feathers,’ Rebel’s voice wavered; his poker face was no better than Gwyn’s. ‘Will you put away your sword. Then you can eat my head off for being a muppet.’

  ‘Turn around.’

  He shuffled round, Flight still at his throat. His mascara had run in black tears, and he shook in uncontrollable tremors.

  I whacked him across the cheek with the flat of my blade. He cried out, sprawling across the boulder.

  ‘Secrets,’ I sheathed Flight, before pressing Rebel against the boulder with my boot. ‘I reckoned we’d had our little chat about why angels didn’t disrespect with lies and secrets.’

  ‘I wasn’t doing a flit,’ he raised his hands to grasp my boot that pressed against his ribs but didn’t push it away.

  ‘I’d be on the believe bus with you if you weren’t hiding here all shady.’

  ‘I’m a bad angel but I’m no snake.’ He shifted; his ribs creaked. ‘I was searching for someone.’

  Fire sizzled around my boot.

  Rebel yelped, as my footprint seared into his chest.

/>   ‘This the type of someone you snog?’ I ground my burning heel harder into his chest; he jerked. ‘Shag?’ The flames licked brighter. ‘Kneel for?’

  Rip — I pulled back my boot with a tearing of blistered skin.

  Rebel slumped to the ground; water beat against his bowed back. I stared down at him. I hardly noticed the candy copper wrongness. Now the violet and black had died down, I was hollow.

  Empty.

  ‘Wise up! This is what the Mage wants: to divide us,’ Rebel panted.

  ‘Why do we need the Mage? You’re doing it all yourself. Is that why you’re playing at mates with Gwyn? Because you’re in love with a toy?’

  He raised his head, and for the first time, his eyes sparked. ‘Don’t use that word.’

  ‘Toy?’ My lip curled. ‘This isn’t my bastard world. Or are you blaming me…?’

  ‘Dry up. I’m not blaming you, princess, but you are blind.’

  I blinked the water out of my eyes; Rebel had straightened, no longer curled around his scorched chest. ‘I can see you’re still hiding something. When’s your next betrayal?’

  Devastation.

  He recoiled, his whole body shaking from wounded shock.

  I wished I could take back the words. But I couldn’t.

  ‘My Da owned many slaves,’ he rubbed his hands up and down his soaked trousers. ‘When I turned five, I was given a toy the same age as me. A newly initiated: Mihr. At first, it was deadly brilliant. A best mate to play with. But I made a hash of it because I wouldn’t whip Mihr’s arse. Why would I want to hurt him? We’d grown up together; I was always in woeful trouble for not lashing him…or seeing him as less than me.’ He dragged himself up against the boulder, breathing in agonized wheezes. ‘Here’s the thing of it: it was the Mage who’d said he was lesser. That bad bastard tests all Wings at birth for mental and Angelic Powers, and if they’re…banjaxed…in any way, they’re after being taken from their parents and trained as toys. Then the Legion’s Discipliners own them, until they’re chosen by Glories.’

  I wiped my drenched hair out of my face.

  The Mage was the Emperor because he could steal everyone’s kids.

  Who’d stand up to the bloke who could decide your child should be made a slave?

  ‘The bastard blackmails the whole of Angel World.’ I squinted at Rebel. ‘But you didn’t Fall. So, why the sudden anti-slavery campaign?’

  He flinched, before locking his hands together, as if it was the only way to stop himself falling apart. ‘One day, when I was thirteen, Mihr spilled some water.’ Suddenly, I remembered Rebel in the witches’ house, spilling my goblet and his terrified panic. ‘My Da told me to whip him; I refused. So, Da snapped Mihr’s neck.’ He looked down; tears trembled on his cheeks, as he whispered, ‘To teach me a lesson. And sweet Jesus, I learnt it. After that? It didn’t matter how Da threatened me, I’d never take another under my power as a toy.’

  ‘You took me prisoner,’ I muttered.

  ‘Get on with you, I protected you.’ He spread his wings; his gaze turned to steel. ‘And it doesn’t matter how you threaten me either. Levels of Perfection, orders of angels, the swings of power at court: they mean nothing. Any idiot can see that.’ He cocked his head. ‘Except, are you the one holding the whip now? What lesson do you want to teach me, princess?’

  He stepped closer, his lips brushing against mine.

  ‘Don’t,’ I warned.

  ‘I’m only a toy,’ he breathed, his breath cold against my wet lips, ‘break me.’

  Rebel shoved me, and I fell behind the waterfall onto the dry ground. I yelped, as my hip smacked against the stone. Then he was on me, pinning my hands above my head. I writhed, booting him in the balls.

  He howled, loosening his hold, and I twisted him, pressing him down face first. He squirmed, but I ground onto him, panting with the thrill of the struggle and the fight.

  Rebel’s Mark glowed crimson: VZ.

  He struggled harder, but I held my hand over his Mark, and he instantly stilled.

  A quiver ran through his body.

  I scraped a fingernail around the letters.

  ‘Please…’ He scrabbled against the rock.

  The Mark sang to the monster inside. The one that bellowed discipline: for Rebel’s attack, disobedience, and lies.

  For wanting someone who wasn’t his Marked and bonded Glory.

  It flamed through me: I dove into the fire.

  I punched the Mark, whilst pouring into Rebel every rage-fuelled emotion.

  Until Rebel’s screams died to silence, and in the green glow of the waterfall cavern, my toy lay broken.

  20

  An orphaned kid in Jerusalem Children’s home had to watch out for three types of bastards: the violent, the indifferent, and the kind.

  All had power over you. And sometimes, the kind were the worst.

  Sandy hair, soft hands, and a gentle laugh. He’d listened, noticed me, and cared…

  Even though J had never left me when those soft hands had touched, singing his tone-deaf lullabies to block out the bastard’s grunts, as his sandy hair swung in my face, I’d sunk into the same blankness as Drake.

  I’d hidden, whilst something I could never get back had been stolen.

  Men were bastards; they tricked you with kindness.

  Rebel lay broken underneath me on the frozen ground.

  I shuddered with the cold, wet, and horror.

  Rebel had wanted to open my eyes. And congratulations, because no more blindness for this bitch.

  I was the Matriarch’s shadow.

  I heaved Rebel towards the back of the waterfall, away from the fizzing spray. The silence in the sea-green cavern, apart from the thundering falls, was like having sunk to an undersea world. A screwed sideways Atlantis, where I’d just murdered a merman.

  I dropped Rebel in a limp puddle, curling next to him.

  I pulled my arms over my head and keened.

  Keep it down: you’re splitting both our heads, Violet-juice.

  Or should I just call you killer?

  How can you…? Don’t take the piss about this or—

  You’ll make me scream and not in the rocking the bed to heaven way?

  Don’t worry about your Irish toy, worry about the Legion brat coming over the bridge.

  Sprouted a third eye now?

  If you weren’t wailing like a kid yourself, you’d hear the true babes wailing.

  The punk’s a tough sugary cookie, and you’ve nibbled his edges but you haven’t swallowed him whole.

  Yet.

  Uncurling, my shoulders twinging with stiffness, I turned Rebel on his back, before clambering over his still body. I pulled myself up behind a boulder.

  Sobbing.

  Two tiny Wings in crimson silk trousers stumbled across the stone bridge. Their black mops of hair and tearful faces were identical.

  Twins?

  They wrapped their wings around each other in a desperate hug.

  Nathanael marched in front of them, holding his nose in the air.

  A second teenager with shoulder length hair gently ushered the boy Wings. His trousers were brown sackcloth like a penitent’s.

  What sin could a kid younger than Jade have committed?

  Except, when they reached the end of the bridge, the sackcloth kid glanced towards my boulder: a miniature Rebel.

  Flame-red hair, pale white skin, yet two perfect wings.

  Hell, Rebel had family.

  I gasped, before slamming my hand over my mouth and peeping over my shoulder at Rebel. He was blamed for corrupting me, and if I left him here I was serving him up on a platter.

  But then one of the twins caught his foot on a rock and stumbled.

  Thwack — Nathanael twirled, slapping the boy in the face.

  The kid’s head snapped to the side, and his brother enfolded his wings tighter around him to stop him falling.

  No bastard way.

  I was marching around the boulder towards Nathana
el, sparks crackling aura-like around me before I’d even decided to move.

  Mini Rebel had pressed himself between Nathanael and the boys; his head was ducked respectfully, but I saw it: the same courage.

  And attitude.

  Closer, the bruises purpling his cheekbones and swelling his right eye were more obvious, as was his beauty.

  Yet he was about to get dashed again to protect the Broken.

  ‘Are newbie kids your new sparring partners? Maybe the others felt bad kicking your arse and want to give you a fighting chance?’ I called, tearing across the cavern and leaping up the shelved ledges of gems to block Nathanael’s way.

  Troll’s at home, bitch.

  Pink dotted Nathanael’s high cheeks. ‘I believe you shan’t wish to witness the Initiation, princess. An orphaned freak may not understand its importance.’

  I fluttered my eyelashes. ‘You’ve memorised my speech, fanboy. Do you moon over my poster too?’

  ‘Saviour…’ Mini Rebel darted to me, kissing the back of my hand, before enfolding me in his vanilla-scented wings and swooping me round.

  I tensed, before laughing, caught in the first true explosion of innocent joy since I’d been entangled in the briars of Angel World.

  Mini Rebel giggled against my neck but then yelped as he was dragged backwards by his long hair.

  Nathanael shook him. ‘Do you wish to also lose your wings today?’

  The twins whimpered, pulling their small wings over each other as if they could hide.

  ‘Allow it!’ I stalked to Nathanael, shoving him back from Mini Rebel, before stroking my hand across the twins’ trembling shoulders. ‘No one’s plucking a single feather.’

  A smug smile spread across Nathanael’s face. ‘Haman is a Son of the Fallen and a servant of the Legion. You may indulge your toys as you wish, allow us to deal with ours the same. And today…’ His gaze slid to the quivering twins. ‘…is the Ritual of the Wings. The Initiation into the Broken. I shall do far more than pluck feathers.’

  I gripped Nathanael by the throat, slamming him with a roar against the cave wall. The stink — coppery sweetness with a hint of rotten decay — was stronger here.