BLOOD ROSE
Natalie Aejaz
Copyright 2019 Natalie Aejaz
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY NATALIE AEJAZ
CHAPTER ONE—HELA
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
ROSE NEARLY DID IT last weekend.
Died.
She sat on her bed with a packet of sleeping pills in her hand and a glass of water on the bedside table. If she had swallowed those tasteless bits and gone to sleep, she would never have woken up to this miserable life again. But she chickened out of it, like the coward she was.
Will it ever get better?
Probably not. And now there was the additional misery of tonight. It was Friday, and her boss Barry had arranged a night out at a trendy bar in central London. The packet of apple pies she picked up from the supermarket after work had done little to alleviate her anxiety about the upcoming torture. After getting through the pies in one sitting, she still sat at the dining table in her small kitchen, dressed in the black baggy trousers and loose cotton top she wore to the office today—clothing that somewhat concealed the pounds she had steadily gained. The trousers would do, but she had to change that top before going out. Everyone else would dress up, and she planned to make an effort, too. She checked inside the fridge and cupboards, but she had finished any food that did not need cooking so headed to the living room instead to pick up that new blouse, an optimistic purchase, from the pile of clothes on the sofa.
She squeezed into the top before going to the bedroom and forcing herself to check her appearance in the mirror. The fake silk blouse emphasized a deep cleavage—wasn’t that supposed to be a good thing?—with the red setting off her pale skin. With her dark hair and light green eyes, she used to be pretty before the depression and layers of fat took over. She turned away from the mirror, unable to bear her reflection any longer. With her various attempts at dieting being non-starters, she would not manage much better than this outfit. It was not as if she was comfortable with her body even before the weight gain: she had covered it for years, hiding it from the eyes of men like him.
Despite the warm London evening, she wore a black jacket, a lousy attempt at concealing the fact that the blouse was too tight. With her large sensible bag by her side, made of brown fake leather and with plenty of organizer compartments, she was ready to leave. She carefully locked the door to the tiny flat where she had lived for almost six years, since she was eighteen and qualified for the council property as a homeless teenager. The dingy apartment might be in a dodgy part of East London but was several steps up from the orphanages where she spent most of her childhood and teenage years. She double-checked the locks—not that there was much worth stealing inside, but she did not fancy returning to a trashed place.
Helen came out of the opposite apartment, but Rose did not say hello, keeping her gaze fixed to the floor as they both approached the elevator. Her neighbor was also in her early twenties and when she first moved here, Rose hoped they might be friends—she did not have many of those, more like none—but a few months later, she still did not have the guts to ask the other woman if she fancied hanging out one evening. There were other tenants in the elevator, which stank of piss as usual, but nobody acknowledged her. Smiling Helen, on the other hand, got more than her fair share of greetings. When Rose left the high-rise block, it was dark, and she hurried past the communal bins and stench of rotting garbage.
“Hey, fatso!” She froze at the shout. “Where you off to?” Shit. The kids lived in the same building and often gathered outside in a group, ready to throw insults at any hapless tenant who passed by.
“Shut up, mate,” shouted another kid. “She’s looking hungry and might turn around and eat you.”
Rose kept her head down, laughter following as she passed them. Bill, a fellow resident and a pro at milking the welfare system, was returning from the local grocery shop. He gave her cleavage a good old leer as he walked past with the pack of beer he would share with his washed up wife and teenage kids. She waited at the bus stop, ignoring the teenaged boy who looked as if he would love to mug her.
All she had to look forward to tonight was Peter, a trainee lawyer at the law firm where she worked as a PA, and the only one to treat her with compassion at the cold workplace. Was he interested in her? He passed her desk more often than necessary, sometimes lingering even though he had little to say, an awkward silence between them. Maybe in the bar, outside the office environment, he would feel as if he could ask her out on a date? She only hoped the blouse looked as flattering as she imagined it did.
When the bus arrived, she took a seat near the back and stared out of the window at nothing in particular, lights and buildings merging into an inconsequential blur; little exciting her in this city that people came from all over the world to see. Half an hour later, she was in central London. The venue was in the next street, but she walked slowly, and it was over fifteen minutes before she reached it, heart pounding in her chest. She paused outside, watching a group of ladies walk past the bouncers. The women were tall, sophisticated and elegant in high heels, dressed in designer clothing that fit as if constructed to flatter their slim figures. If Rose was out of place at the law firm, where the other PAs spent lunchtimes at the gym and vacations at detox centers, then how idiotic would she look here? Why had Barry pressured her to come, insisting that as his PA she could not show him up by not coming to a work do he had organized? As if she did not suffer enough daily humiliation at the firm, with him bullying her and getting kicks out of making her do overtime without pay. Despite being her peers, the PAs she shared an open plan office with did not treat her any better, palming their tasks off on her and constantly highlighting her increasing weight and decreasing fashion sense.
A bouncer, tall and imposing, frowned at her. “Are you okay, lady?”
She nodded, mumbling, “Just going in.”
She had to stop being down in the dumps about everything. What about that technique in the self-development book she was reading? Yes, focus on blessings and be grateful for those. What do I have to be thankful for? Her own mother passed her off to an orphanage as soon as she got the chance. He was the only one who ever had any need for her, but even he dumped her after getting what he wanted. She should have just gone through with it and taken those pills. It was not as if anyone would be bothered by her death. And it would be good for the environment, too; one less person to create plastic waste and use up resources.
LOHAN WAS A FUCKING CROWN PRI
NCE, born into a lineage of royal vampires…for all the difference that made in this day and age.
Centuries ago, masses of servants pampered him, with the most beautiful of aristocratic ladies—including the mortal ones—clamoring to be his concubines. Now he lived alone in his ancient mansion, in a forest in the middle of nowhere, with his staff. His employees were once depressed humans—the most despicable variety—looking for a way out of their misery. He gladly turned them to vampiric form over the years, needing companions himself during those times. These days he avoided all company, apart from that of his butler Rian, as he tried to paint masterpieces in the opulent bedroom that he lovingly designed during a different era, furnishing the expansive space with ornate wood pieces. Once an accomplished artist, he now struggled with inspiration for his creations.
A month ago, he ordered Rian to light candles and burn incense in his chamber every evening, hoping for a relaxed experience to enhance his creativity. He now inhaled the sweet smells of sandalwood while applying a final stroke of the brush to his latest creation. That done, he stepped back to regard the painting, which had taken two weeks to complete. The colors merged to form a mountain scene that many would consider accomplished but drove him to a rage. He tore the canvas to shreds, throwing the remains into the fireplace that took up half a wall of the spacious chamber. He could not even paint anymore. The only activity that had brought any relief over the last century now kept him on edge. He sat on the four-poster bed, head in his hands and frustrated, sighing loud when someone knocked on the large oak door. Rian? “Come in!” shouted Lohan. You fucker. You just cannot leave me alone, can you?
Rian entered the room, as usual dressed in a smart three-piece. And as always, the eternal drama queen made a point of bowing. “My lord. Your cousins from Italy seek an answer.”
What could be worse than a bunch of sociable vampires? Lohan had lost touch with his ancestors, but some of them were alive and well in different parts of the world; the reason why he was still a crown prince and not a king. The visitors from Italy were distant cousins, so distant he had practically forgotten their existence. They planned to visit England for a vacation—such a despicably human practice—and wanted him, the crown prince, to open the mansion to them as if it was a damn lodging house. There was a time when supernaturals and humans thought it the greatest privilege to set foot inside the grounds of his estate, but these days they expected him to play host.
“They can stay in a bloody hotel,” he said, “And what is it with that fucking lavender kit in my bathroom?”
“My lord, it would be wonderful if you took time to enjoy the healing qualities of water—washing without enjoying the experience is such a distasteful and mortal way of doing things. I thought sweet-smelling scents might—”
“Try something like that again, and you know where that sweet-smelling lavender kit will end up.”
His butler was unaffected. “I only have my lord’s best interests at heart.” His gaze lingered on Lohan’s faded jeans and tee shirt. “As it is, my lord has not been himself over the past century or so.” Lohan once enjoyed the most lavish of clothing and made a ritual of adorning himself each morning. These days, when in the mansion, he dressed for comfort. “Regarding the subject of the guests from Rome, as you are aware, they are somewhat related to you.” Rian ignored his glare. “It would be an opportunity for you to make friends—”
“I am happy being a lonely old bastard.” The butler opened his mouth, but Lohan held out a hand to silence him. He had turned the young man when he was only twenty, a couple of centuries ago. The handsome lad was usually his voice of reason—shame he did not have that presence of mind when he decided to end his life for the sake of a bloody woman. Rian’s wish was to be drained to death, but as Lohan was in the middle of the deed, a band of human vigilantes appeared and halted the process. So he drained them instead. His vampire horde forbid drinking from mortals without consent, but he got away with it by pleading self-defense. Rian, on the other hand, was thoroughly pissed when he discovered that he would live forever. None of the gruesome methods known for disposing of vampires appealed to him, so he grudgingly accepted immortality, only truly forgiving Lohan when technologies developed and brought the age of social media—apparently that nonsense was worth living so long for. It made an idiot of the boy, but if it meant Lohan was off the hook, then so be it.
His butler was right. He could not be so ungracious as to refuse the Italian visitors’ request outright. “Offer them the guesthouse on the other side of the forest.” A compromise he resented. “Give them access to the animals, but make sure they do not lay a tooth on my pets.” He had purchased those two little white rabbits with the intention of draining them, but when he saw them bouncing around, a rare moment of affection overcame him. Now his estate was their playground.
“Placing esteemed visitors in the guesthouse when you have this mansion would not befit your status.”
“Bullshit! That is my best offer.”
“I’ll contact them tomorrow…In the meantime, if you would reconsider—”
“Fuck off!”
“As you wish, my lord.” Rian bowed before leaving.
Lohan needed to get out of this damn building. Like many of his kind, he preferred to go out in the evening, not because he would deteriorate under the sun as those idiotic mortal stories claimed, but because vampires were so used to being in hiding, they felt more comfortable in the dark. He pulled a tailored two-piece and a gray shirt out of the expansive wardrobe and then got changed. Yes, the black material of the new suit looked rather dashing against his pale skin, enhancing the coldness of his blue eyes. He was going out, and it did not hurt to dress well. His personal forest was full of game, but he craved something more tonight. In fact, he hankered after the sweet taste of human blood.
He came out onto the landing. Rian was correct, of course; there was more than enough space to host the Italian guests. Along the landing were several other chambers, each as large and lavishly furnished as his own, and a wood staircase led to an expansive hall below, which was surrounded by yet more rooms. But he was damned if he would try to be a social creature now. He jumped down to the hall and then paused for a few moments, regarding the self-portrait hanging on the wall. Completed long ago, it was his last piece of art somewhat to his satisfaction. He desired to create something new, but after painting for centuries, was suddenly frustrated by his creations, which did not help his fucking mood.
Yes, he needed blood. Human blood. And none of that processed stuff from the hospital blood banks. It had been long since he sank his fangs into a beautiful neck. Decades ago, the horde banned vampires from feeding direct from mortals, but it was over a century since he last transgressed. He would get away undetected, and if he did not, would manage an excuse. Central London was the place to go; it was Friday evening and mortal low-lives would be out, merry and willing.
He closed his eyes, using the vampiric instinct developed through centuries of practice to sift through hazy visions of suitable locations. The first venue was overflowing with pumping blood but too large for his liking. He was in no mood to navigate the mazes of central London’s gigantic clubs. Something smaller…yes, this venue would do. He focused on a dark storage room, opening to a corridor that led to the main area of the bar. As a shudder went through his body and his head became heavy, he imagined himself in the tiny space.
When he opened his eyes, he was in the exact spot he had visualized. Just a few steps and then he entered the bar, the humans so busy with their debauchery, they did not notice him step out among them. Aristocrats of old would have considered the tiny venue a hovel, but it was no doubt seen as trendy by modern society’s strange standards. Its beamed ceiling was low, the concrete floor exposed as if the budget ended before the bar’s refurbishment. The basic wood furniture was devoid of any artistry, and the cushions scattered around the venue were covered in bright cotton material. The loud music was an Eastern classical and Western rock
fusion, and young well-dressed corporate types surrounded him, out to play after a week of hard work. Bodies jostled against each other in the crowded space, and he drew a deep breath as soft skin brushed his hand. Blood, lots of it. But the code of his horde prevented him from taking it by force, and he could not risk his reputation by breaking too many oaths in the space of one night.
But how to convince someone of this era to give up blood? Gone were the days when mortals considered it an honor to feed a crown prince. Sudden longing surged through him. What wonderful years they were when he was surrounded by libertine humans keen to pleasure him. Belonging to a royal family and able to trace his ancestry back to times before mortals walked on Earth, he was born a full-blooded vampire, not cold to the pleasures of the flesh like some others of his kind. Humans freely gave up what he craved, their bodies and blood. Unlike the modern age of strict regulation, the only rule his horde adhered to in those times was resisting the impulse to take blood during sex with a mortal, which bonded a vampire to the creature. A temptation easily resisted—the last thing any self-respecting immortal needed was the horror of needing one of those despicable creatures. He shuddered at the idea of being attached to a human to the extent it became difficult to be separated, pushing away the thought before it made him nauseous.
That age was forever gone, when unlimited sex and blood meant that life revolved around pleasure. The human fanatics had come—religious fear mongers who preached about depravity and hell, scaring the shit out of the pious and crucifying the libertines. His own parents perished in the rampage when petrified humans turned on his kind, driving them underground. Vampires sought out hospital banks and animals, so successful at avoiding discovery that their existence became the stuff of myths and legends.
Blood Rose (Vampire Romance) Page 1