Vampire Princess (Rebel Angels Book 2)

by Rosemary A Johns

  ‘But I bitch slapped that battle.’

  ‘My daughter, that’s a teardrop in an ocean of grief. The war grows worse. That is why you need to learn power and control.’ Her hand tightened in Drake’s mane. ‘Wings are fighters and breeders; we harshly subjugate them for their own good.’

  Their own good? Was she for real?

  Rebel had told me why the angels had Fallen. But why hadn’t he been waving the flag of revolution?

  The Matriarch ran her fingers down Drake’s shivering spine. ‘And the two most effective controls? Pain and pleasure.’

  I sat back on my heels. ‘Don’t spoil me. Another mother and daughter sadism session already?’

  ‘I’m offering something much sweeter. But it is passed down, mother to daughter, you’re right.’ Her fingers trailed back to Drake’s golden curls, and he stiffened. ‘Do you wish to know the secret to control an angel? To force Rebel to his knees? Always?’

  My nails bit into my palms, slicing crescents. My mouth was dry. But I couldn’t hear the shrill call of the Merlins or feel the hard stone under my aching knees because one thought had chased everything else out: the secret to control Rebel.

  Until Drake’s hand shot out, snatching my wrist. I glanced at him, startled.

  ‘No,’ Drake mouthed at me, ‘don’t.’

  My breath quickened. But I was already lost to the uncoiling of the powers who claimed Rebel but didn’t trust him. At least, not the angel who’d awoken in my nest and rejected me.

  Changed.

  Except, why did a prickling sense, somewhere far back, scream that I was the one who’d changed?

  When I nodded to the Matriarch, Drake let go of my wrist, casting me a look of cold contempt.

  Ki-ki-kee — a broad chested Merlin dove through the sunshine and Glory eddies, landing on the ledge next to the Matriarch, before shuffling closer.

  With the hand not pinning Drake, the Matriarch stroked the Merlin’s head. ‘Good girl, Caron.’ Then she caressed Drake’s curls, and he sagged. She smirked, ‘Good boy, Duma.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not down with the treating blokes as pets, and I don’t reckon it’d tame Rebel. More like I’d have a spitting wild cat biting my arse.’

  ‘That’s not the trick. My Wing hates it, which is why it’s so delicious, but here’s the secret. You Mark them.’

  She swept Drake’s hair aside from the base of his neck.

  He twisted away. ‘Please…’

  She slapped him on the side of his hip, pulling him back into place. ‘How do you think I control him?’

  I pushed myself up, leaning over Drake’s neck.

  My skin tingled. A vibrating, buzzing static.

  I gasped.

  A tattoo of two scarlet initials, entwined in the shape of pluming feathers: MD.

  Dillon’s fingers pressing into the back of my neck had been like shards of ice, ripping me apart.

  What the hell had it felt like to be tattooed there?

  I reached out to trace over the skin, but the Matriarch caught my hand. ‘Only the Glory who Marked him with her blood may touch him in such an intimate place.’ The freaks used their own blood to tattoo; I reckon otherwise it wouldn’t take with their accelerated healing. ‘Once Marked, they’re bound by both pleasure and pain because their sensitivity increases a thousand-fold.’

  ‘Why drain the juice from your soldiers?’

  ‘Only on the Mark and only to their Glory.’ Her serious gaze met mine. ‘See?’

  Hell, no…

  The Matriarch lightly swept her little finger over the M, and Drake yelped, whilst the tattoo glowed. Then she pressed her thumb into the D, and he sobbed. Finally, she scored her fingernails across both initials. And he screamed.

  Drake’s wings flamed, before blackening like they’d been seared.

  I recoiled. ‘Allow it. I get the idea. Curb stamp a bastard through the pretty pictures on his neck.’

  Drake had never hurt me, only lesser angels. And now? I knew why.

  The Mark was an invisible leash, tying him to the Matriarch.

  How many of the angels were controlled like this?

  Was Harahel?

  The Matriarch pursed her lips. ‘You see only the crudest use. I may punish with a thought and not even need to touch. Love, pleasure, passion…sung to make your Wing dance as you please. Emotion forced through the Mark is as potent as pain.’

  She circled the feathered initials.

  Drake squirmed and panted; his face flushed as he tore at his lip with his teeth. His wings, which hung down in sad shivering points, pulsed, whilst he whined.

  Titters — a gang of Glories, barely in their teens, had swooped lower to watch the show.

  The humiliation of their Commander.

  I launched towards them. ‘Bounce, angelic brats, or are you waiting for your turn over the Matriarch’s knee?’

  The teen Glories did the flying equivalent of backpedalling with outraged squawks.

  When I turned to Drake, he was glassy-eyed and humping the Matriarch’s lap.

  The Matriarch arched her eyebrow, every bit as smug as the Glories I’d chased away. ‘You have the power. Isn’t that what you want?’

  Was it?

  I didn’t bastard know anymore.

  ‘Stop,’ Drake begged, sweat dripping down his back, whilst he writhed. ‘Please, stop—’

  ‘If you wish them to know how far they’ve fallen?’ The Matriarch’s expression darkened. ‘Bad,’ she hissed, pressing on the M. Even I shrank back at the intensity of her displeasure, which she projected through the Mark. ‘Never tell me to stop.’

  Drake’s desperate desire was drenched as if in ice-water. He keened in terror, tumbling off the Matriarch’s lap and falling to his face at her feet, like the Wing in the throne room.

  Drake was in agony from a scolding.

  I stared at him in shock.

  When the Matriarch nudged him with the toe of her stiletto, I craved to ram it down her throat.

  Drake quaked, weeping.

  Unlike all those times when he’d come to my room, with lash marks, and I’d held him, stroking his curls, this time I knew the identity of the monster who was hurting him.

  There were no masks or games to hide behind.

  The Matriarch gripped my elbows dragging me so close our noses touched. My breath hitched. ‘This is the secret. Rebel will be yours in every way.’

  On earth, Rebel had rejected me. He’d betrayed and abandoned me.

  Why not take charge and keep us both safe?

  After all, I was the princess who was risking my arse in the Warrior Trials.

  Then Drake’s weeping dragged me back into the land of Saneville.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m not even dating the punk. Getting him inked in my blood...? It stinks of eau d’bunny boiler.’

  ‘Your choice.’ Still the Matriarch didn’t release me. ‘But if you don’t control the Addict, I’ll put him back in the dark. One rebellious Wing may cause others to Fall. I cannot allow one to shadow the path of others.’ She smiled slyly. ‘Have you considered it’s what he wishes? The vampire, over you?’

  I flinched, looking away because despite Drake’s frantic no and his agony, I knew I’d Mark Rebel.

  It was the only way to save him from returning to the dark…and being taken away from me.

  ‘Let’s get the punk inked.’

  The Matriarch kissed my cheek. ‘Baby bird, you’re learning.’

  Then why was I trembling?

  I could use the Mark to flood Rebel with only pleasure and never pain.

  Yet the ancient powers growing inside, howled to bring Rebel to his knees.

  Rebel hung, naked and blacked out, from the leather bonds strung between the fang-like rocks in my chambers.

  Gwyn had tightened the ones that stretched Rebel’s wings taut, working fast in the plum crystals’ light, but his gaze had been cast down, caught between an anxious and furious scowl, as his lip had trembled.
r />   And he hadn’t said a word to me.

  I’d missed his happy twittering.

  Gwyn’s shoulders had slumped with relief as soon as I’d told him I didn’t need him for the evening.

  A Glory’s first night with her Marked wasn’t for sharing.

  Exhilarated, I soared. Our blood was mixed; Rebel was mine. And I was no longer alone.

  I scented along Rebel’s chest, snuffling up his collar bone and into the hollow of his throat. Our sweet blood woven together was rainbows, unicorns, and candy world heaven.

  I craved to lick, taste, and bite.

  I sighed, draping my arm around Rebel’s neck to play with the flame-red strands of hair tickling the tattoo, which stood out tender, high on the back of his neck above his spiked collar.

  VZ: the skin was still raised and inflamed.

  …Rebel howling, scrabbling to shy away from the tattooist… The gag rammed between his teeth... His pleading gaze…

  I blinked back tears.

  What is this? String Up a Punk Day?

  I’m not hurting him. Instead, I’ll take away the pain. What the other bastards did to him.

  My slutty mistake. It’s Tell a Whopping Fib to Yourself Day.

  First you bond with the leprechaun rebel. Then you Mark him.

  When should I prepare the sparkly baby shower ready for you to pop out a red-haired bitch baby?

  It means nothing. It was the only way my psycho mum would trust him in Angel World. Or trust me.

  This nothing ties you together. Always.

  Hands you the reins. Always.

  Let’s you make his pretty ass scream. Always.

  Then he’ll be screaming with pleasure, hooker.

  Oh girl, the Ice Commander didn’t sound like his dick was on Paradise Highway.

  I know you’d never have let the skank queen pull your puppet strings into Marking Rebel if he’d knelt for you.

  What if I do want power? What if it’s the best way to beat the other bastards? Save Drake’s Kid Army? Escape? Find my sister?

  Then the question is, whether you’re ready not to abuse that power?

  I smiled, circling my initials, which were knotted with Rebel’s in crimson feathers.

  At last, Rebel stirred, weakly raising his head.

  When he blinked, his gaze was unfocused and lost, just as it’d been from the moment the gag had been thrust into his mouth, and the needle had lanced his skin.

  He studied me like he didn’t even know who I was. Then he tried to pull down his wings to shield himself. Startling, when he discovered he couldn’t move, he moaned at the pressure on his bad wing.

  I shushed him, spider-walking the tips of my fingers down his chest, whilst my other hand continued the light circling of the Mark.

  Rebel squirmed, wide-eyed.

  I hadn’t expected it…to be like this.

  Did it even count if one of you didn’t know the other’s name?

  ‘It’s me, wallad. The bitch with the List of Asses to Kick?’ I smirked, but Rebel whined. ‘I’ll make this better for you, I promise. I’m not my freakshow mum.’

  Emotions burst through me and into the bond. Everything I wanted to say but didn’t have the words. A beam of carolling joy, vibrating with a silky edge of possession.

  Intense pleasure.

  Rebel would never forget me again.

  He moaned and arched. Finally, he stared at me, as if he was seeing me for the first time since he’d been taken out of the cell. ‘Feathers?’

  I clasped onto his shoulders. ‘Yeah, bro?’ I whispered, petrified he’d wake up and remember everything.

  ‘Why are we here?’ His confusion shanked me. He tugged at the leather around his wrists. ‘Some git’s tied me up. And I’m mortified but I…’ He blushed, as his stiffie strained skywards. ‘Help me?’

  What the hell am I meant to do now?

  You got yourself into this steaming mess, Violet-kitty, you get your own peachy ass out of it.

  Cheers, bitch.

  Kiss my perky behind.

  Why do you think Drake set you that dare?

  You’re a monster, but sometimes it takes an angel to be truly monstrous.

  I raked my nails down Rebel’s back, whilst I battled with the violet surging inside.

  Control, the powers hissed, claim.

  I shook my head, forcing myself to stroke my palms down the back of Rebel’s straining arms instead. ‘I can’t let you out. You’re…’ Hell, this was hard to say, worse than waking up in Vegas and telling someone you’d married them whilst they were too blitzed to remember. ‘…mine now. Imperfect and Marked.’

  He reared back as far as he could in the bonds, before struggling. Then his gaze lost its focus again. He nodded, his eyebrows furrowing. ‘Bad angels are punished.’

  ‘No, that’s not…’ I wiped angrily at the tears streaking my cheeks. ‘You’re not being—’

  ‘She’ll remember,’ Rebel muttered to himself, tipping his head back, as his wings vibrated with desire. ‘W-won’t forget. Then she’ll save…save me. Save the bad angel. Bad angels are punished…. Feathers, Feathers, Feathers…’

  I’d finally done it: I’d broken him.

  ‘Shut the hell up,’ I howled, slamming my hand over his mouth.

  This was control? The secret handed down from mother to daughter? How Glories dominated Wings?

  Then I didn’t want it.

  Rebel was nobody’s bitch.

  I pressed my thumb into the Mark, forcing through in a rainbow explosion every aching feeling from the sixty-five days I’d been stranded alone without him.

  He reckoned I’d forgotten him? Then he was as crazy as a box of frogs.

  And this time, as I’d promised J, Rebel screamed.

  A pearly arc erupted from his prick, marking his stomach. He broke into shuddering sobs, staring down at the floor. He didn’t dare to look up.

  I grinned. ‘See? I’d never forget the angel who fell into my lap.’

  Slowly, he raised his head. Plum tears trailed in fairy tracks down his cheeks, reflecting back the crystals’ light.

  I took a step back; my grin faded.

  Rebel shook, devastated with humiliated hurt. But also, with a savage rage I’d never seen directed at me before. He was lucid now and he remembered everything.

  He met my gaze. ‘I’m a muppet. But sweet Christ, do you truly hate me that much?’

  I stumbled, blanching.

  I’d tried to show him pleasure, yet all I’d ended up with was showing him pain.

  I’d been gagged, tied up, and held prisoner. I’d fought against it too.

  How had I forgotten that?

  I wrapped my arms around my middle, backing away from his accusing stare.

  And his pain.

  Every day in Angel World my angelic side gained strength, and I forgot what I’d learnt in my twenty-one years living amongst humans.

  Why was Rebel shamed for being a Human Addict, when he didn’t want to be driven by these cruel urges alone?

  ‘Princess…’ Rebel said, more softly than before.

  The powers inside hissed to claw and slash my toy’s Mark, until his feathers flamed to ash.

  Instead?

  I howled, wrenching at my hair. I twisted away, abandoning Rebel.

  To save an angel, I had to run.

  12

  Why does anyone run, when you can’t outrun your bastard self?

  I stormed into the dim corridor, which flared with lavender-scented flames in a whooshing swell along the stone roof.

  Warmed by the soothing waves, whose light danced across walls stencilled with wings, where the fire had burned their outline in prehistoric times, I pushed up my sunglasses to dash away the tears.

  I was abandoning Rebel again.

  This time, he was bound, distressed, and alone.

  Because how the hell did I do aftercare with an angel I’d Marked…and who hated me?

  I didn’t raise you a jackass. You know bett
er than that.

  After what I did? The saints would line up to kick my arse.

  So will your angel in eyeliner but right now he’s a little tied up.

  Yet hate’s just love’s slutty twin: you don’t get one without the other.

  Drake snatched my shoulder, spinning me.

  Shocked, I slipped, as he dragged me backwards down the corridor, my boots skidding on the black floor.

  There was no way Drake hadn’t been eavesdropping on the Rebel Doesn’t Love Violet Show.

  He hurled me into a crack, which split up the side of the wall, before prowling after me. In the gloom, he stalked closer. His hands shook, as he placed them either side of my head.

  I flinched back.

  ‘Are you flying, princess?’ He asked. I shivered; water dripped from tears in the rock, trickling down my neck. ‘Already learnt Zachriel’s trick of abandoning those you hurt?’

  I couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘I’m too dangerous to stick around.’

  The angelic side? The one Drake and J had warned me against? That the Matriarch had fed, so I’d become her shadow?

  I could feel it now: fat and feathered. Moving, Alien-style, inside. Waiting for the right moment to explode in a spitting spray from my guts, unless I could find a way to become the Monster Princess I’d proclaimed myself on the battlefield.

  No one’s bitch but my own.

  Drake snorted. ‘Lie.’ He leaned closer. ‘We’re all too dangerous. You’re a fool.’

  ‘And you have girlie hair.’

  His eyes widened with outrage; he swiped his hand through his curls. ‘I don’t have…’

  I sniggered.

  He took a breath, before smoothing my hair, which I’d dishevelled in my distress, with efficient motions; I don’t reckon he even realised he was touching me. ‘Had the Matriarch not done a good enough job of breaking Zachriel that you had to Mark him?’

  ‘What’s with the acting like I’ve turned into the Big Bad?’

  ‘Was your mother’s demonstration not thorough?’

  I licked along Drake’s cheek; frankincense exploded in ancient richness, raging through me. ‘You should be happy. The Addict — your prisoner — is controlled now, just like you.’

  ‘Be silent. You know nothing of Zachriel and my… What honourable Wing would wish another to be Marked?’