Blood Renegades (Rebel Vampires Book 3)

by Rosemary A Johns

  ‘Alright, no need to make a song and dance out of it.’ I accepted Donovan’s hand, and he tugged me bouncing onto my one good leg.

  ‘Bummer,’ Donovan examined the wound.

  ‘Chowderhead destroyed your boot,’ Sun pouted, before curling her arm around my shoulder, as carefully as if I’d suddenly transformed to china: born of my fangs, she understood.

  Even when she’d been mistress, she’d crossed the gulf of both role and species. She’d seen me.

  Those boots were more than merely the first tentative gift of love – they’d been the return of my freedom. Identity. Soul.

  As I limped slowly towards home surrounded by my strange family, I knew I was no superhero.

  The people I loved were safe, however, and that was enough to hope.

  If that was the only time I’d seen the Emo kid with his skull hoodie and bat wing vampire t-shirt, I’d have been a happy bloke.

  But it wasn’t.

  So you want a secret? Something no one knows?

  The next week I went hunting. Hunting my own kind. And emo was my prey.

  Did I tell Hartford, Donovan or Sun?

  Did I cocoa.

  They’ll have my balls if they ever find out.

  They figured I needed time in the glory of the night to work through the trauma and nightmare of our slavery.

  Thing is? You don’t work through something like that: you survive or adapt.

  I’d already done both.

  I tracked the psychopathic pillock across Southwark: along the Thames, through Borough Market, which was kaleidoscopic with the fresh scents of fish, chicken and bread, and around the circular Globe that was like a bloody UFO landing. I shadowed him through alleys, which were dives back when blokes got their jollies from bull and bear baiting, and now got them from suck and hand jobs.

  Other nights Emo would wander in the upmarket districts with their poncey bars, galleries and gated communities, which thumbed their noses at the rest of the poor sods clinging to the backsides of the housing estates.

  Emo never, however, crossed London Bridge. Maybe he reckoned the rhyme was a curse: London Bridge is falling down…falling down…my fair lady.

  I’d taken to humming it, as I stalked my melancholy ghost.

  Here’s the thing: I couldn’t work out if I was hunting him. Or if he was hunting me.

  All I knew? He wasn’t going anywhere.

  One night Emo led me along a row of cafés. It was freezing. I huddled in my leathers in front of a closed graphic novels bookshop: yeah, I can wave the geek flag. The window was bright with posters: whip-wielding heroines and scowling anti-heroes.

  Fantasies.

  I’d picked up a black coffee from a street vendor – two sugars please, luv – and its warmth was seeping into my ice-cold hands. When I breathed in that mellow wondrous scent, it burst memories through every cell: clasping papa’s large hand on a street like this outside a Victorian coffee house, surrounded by fellow scientists, as battle waged over the merits of a latest lens. Excitement and safety both in that world and with my papa.

  I shook myself. The scent of my personal specter was still fresh.

  My recovery from the sensory deprivation had sharpened my senses. They were raw, as if they’d been flayed.

  Adaptation – it’s a hell of a thing.

  I whistled “London Bridge”, before touching my mouth to the lip of the cup for my first sip of heaven.

  I didn’t notice the tiny First Lifer under the faded tumble of…all right, bloody comics…until I stumbled over him.

  There was a whimper of pain. Then I let out one of my own.

  A mangled ball of black-and-white fur had attached its jaws to my leg and was biting.

  Hard.

  At least it was above the new boots Sun had half inched from a charity shop.

  Gasping, I shook my leg.

  ‘That be wack, man; don’t go hurting her.’

  A cascade of dusty blonde curls, thin mush and too large blue peepers, like an anime hero had popped out of those discarded comics. Then he sneezed, snuffling the sleeve of his threadbare jumper across his nose.

  The poor bleeder didn’t even have a coat.

  He was fidgeting with a frayed neon and dark green friendship bracelet, twisting the baggy threads around, as if it was a talisman.

  It didn’t look like it was working.

  Passersby were ebbing and flowing around the boy like he was invisible; just another piece of London’s detritus. They were adapting around his existence, as they did the empty fast-food cartons and piles of ciggie butts: something not to be stepped in but around.

  They didn’t see him at all.

  I felt the heat of the coffee between my hands, with that drink me aroma.

  I sighed. ‘Here,’ I held out the cup.

  The kid took the coffee in his small hand. Then he gave me a nod.

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

  ‘Mutt,’ when the kid 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 I’d once craved to buy on Regent’s Street, the day I’d run from my papa.

  I peered down: the bastard had bitten right through my jeans.

  Mutt stared back at me with languid peepers.

  I glanced between them. ‘Cheers, little man.’

  He frowned. ‘Will.’

  ‘Light.’

  Will took a gulp of coffee.

  The poor sod can’t have long been a street kid. You could tell.

  Then he smiled.

  I’d been about to turn back to my hunt and the Emo kid, who was the exact negative image of this one. He could’ve been the same age when he was elected: two sides of a photograph exposure.

  But then that smile was like…light…radiance…innocence.

  Bollocks.

  There’s no such thing as innocence. Or sin. We’re born animals and what we know best is how to survive because it all comes down to evolution. Who’s the quickest, smartest or strongest.

  The most beautiful.

  We all know it; we just pretend not to. Mask the inequalities. Our world (First or Blood) isn’t fair.

  And no one is innocent.

  Will’s smile, however, called to me.

  Christ in heaven, no…

  I stumbled away from him.

  Will’s smile faltered. It was uncertain. And that hurt look?

  I’d bleeding put it there.

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

  I wanted to say…something. But what could I?

  That he wasn’t invisible? That 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 he was a new Plantagenet?

  Way to freak out a bloke.

  It 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. Then Sun had been reborn. It hadn’t been a choice. It’d been panic. A fear of loss.

  A decision – I’ll own it. Yet it wasn’t one I’d wanted. Not then and not like that.

  This, however, was like being hit – bang – with the flowing beauty of another’s Soul, feeling the weave of it cleave to you.

  Will would be a mix of all four types of Blood Lifer: thinker, beauty, warrior and leader. An individual – as dangerous as me.

  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 shook. 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,’ the posh voice jeered. Then I heard the oomph of an unm
istakable boot to the guts.

  Shocked, I leapt round to see Will sprawled in his paper bed, which was sodden now with a sea of spilled coffee, Mutt growling and a poncey git in monkey suit with a bird 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, as I dived at the bastard. He paled to a ghost.

  I slammed him back against the comic book shop’s window; his mug smashed right up against the tits of some heroine in leather. His gargled pleadings were muffled through the crimson fury hissing kill through every protective inch of me.

  I twisted the tosser’s flabby arm up behind him, ripping that expensive suit.

  He screamed.

  My mouth was on his neck; my teeth grazed his dry skin. My fangs shot out.

  One bite. Just one.

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

  Yet I was the predator: these humans were the prey.

  I pressed my fangs harder into his skin.

  Then there was this small voice tight with fear, ‘The po-po, Light.’

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

  I flung the bloke round. He was a jabbering mess. There was a wet patch down the front of his trousers; it was dribbling onto the pavement.

  I tilted my nut. ‘Who smells of homeless now?’

  I ducked under the bint’s witch claws. Then I grabbed Will and legged it down the street.

  First Lifers scattered away from us. They saw us – yeah, they bloody saw us.

  Barking at our heels. Mutt was chasing us, just like the pigs. 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. High on the adrenaline, edge and thrill. The star eyes were watching. Round and round.

  I’d run like this from the pigs down Carnaby Street in the ‘60s: it’d been on the night I’d first realised First and Blood were not as divided as I’d been taught.

  When freedom seemed…possible.

  Naïve 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. Alone.

  So I bloody laughed to the black night like I hadn’t since before Abona.

  Afterwards I leant back against the wall, lighting my e-cig. I took a drag. Then I eyed the kid.

  He stared up at me like I was a god.

  Bollocks.

  ‘That was sick. Are you…’ He cuddled tighter around Mutt; his peepers 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 – 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. ‘Dunno. 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, like, you are..?’

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

  ‘You’re not my rents.’

  The sudden thought shot through me – like hot poison. ‘Where are you parents?’

  For the first time, a guarded expression closed off Will’s mush; his mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘I don’t got none.’

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

  But here’s the thing: the poison cooled to soothing balm at his lie.

  No parents meant less guilt when I stole Will.

  When, see? Not if.

  That must’ve been what it was like for Ruby with me. An obsession. Every emotion amplified to agony.

  I needed Will, the same as I needed the rest of my family: the bonds we form, tie and control us. They 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 over 150 years to begin to understand that.

  ‘The streets are dangerous. You should be home.’

  Will snorted, giving me this funny look. ‘I ain’t got no home, bruv. Why you think I out here on my ones?’

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

  ‘You should be with other…people.’

  ‘I ain’t going no shelter: piss, stinky feet and crazy-assed--’

  ‘Not out on the street then. There are predators. All sorts. 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, his hands burrowed in his threadbare 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 cramped alley in the arse end of Southwark. I buzzed with it.

  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 – he was mine.

  That’s how we control and are controlled – biology, evolution, family or love – call it what you like.

  Secrets: they silence us. The more they snare us, the harder it is for us to spill our Souls.

  So I didn’t tell them - the others. About Will.

  Because I wanted to hold the secret precious and safe for just a while longer.

  Hope, promises and love.

  That night? I burst with them.

  And the Emo kid? I forgot all about him. The hunt. Being hunted.

  I forgot to fear.

  That was my biggest mistake.

  NIGHT 3

  No blood but black coffee. Again?

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

  Enlighten me.

  Sleep deprivation. Caffeine? It lights up the nerves like fire.

  Torture was Ruby’s cup of tea - not mine. She’d swum in those dark waters since the Inquisition; I remember her playing with this one poor sod, feeding him mug after mug of coffee. Agony amplified until he was aflame.

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

  I’m only surprised you don’t have the Jade Spider pulling the wings off me. I’ve heard the rumours about that bloke.

  Shame you’ll have to put up with me.

  All the cruelties of the slavers..? Your Author taught them everything they knew.

  Captain loves to see his own species burn. Family? What the buggering hell does that mean to him?

  Yet he didn’t betray his family. Unlike yours.

  Do harp on about that, don’t you? Where is Captain? Wanker hasn’t spent his quality torture session with me yet.

  What..?

  Don’t tell me 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--

  I’m not killing. Not human.

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

  I have a solution to your little problem. We anticipated your squeamishness; you will drink fresh human but not kill.

  First I want your secret.

  You’re an emotional vampire, you know that?

  I’m a barrister.

  Guess I’m right.

  It’s society that teaches us the rules: who to help or ignore. Strangers? Foreigners? Who’s fagged if an earthquake or famine does in thousands of those blighters? 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 peepers to it – First or Blood – you’ll never see your life the same way again.

  SEPTEMBER 1866 LONDON BRIDGE, LONDON

  ‘We are gaining supporters to the League every day, sir. My brother says the vote seems like to go in our favour.’

  I studied the bloke’s earnest bespectacled mush, as he weaved his small hands animatedly. A single brunette curl fell over his right peeper; 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.

  We 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; my nostrils stung.

  I dragged my overcoat closer around me. It was new and shimmered like a seal’s skin: I’d half inched it last month from some poncey bloke, who got his jollies from sightseeing on the poor: roll up, roll up and see the freak show! When we’d 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.