Vampire Mage

by Rosemary A Johns

  Sibyl glanced at Ash, even as she leaned closer; her coiled black hair swept across my cheeks. “Pet 52 knows what it is to be blinded. He pretends to be a brave little solider, but if you put him in the dark, he breaks the same as the delectable Addict.”

  Cold tingled across my skin; the rush of the witches’ red wine scent made me want to hurl.

  Ash had lain in the alley in Hackney beneath hunters, who’d later tipped bleach in his eyes, taking blindness as his due for loving me.

  Yet these witches had already blinded him.

  Did Ash think that’s what love was? That he had to prove his courage? Lack of cowardice in the face of pain? Sacrifice?

  That I’d demand it of him?

  Had I?

  Sibyl’s lips curled. “The monster child finally perceives. Maybe not so blind…?”

  “Retract your bitch claws.” At least my voice didn’t waver: I’d take small victories. “Because here’s a truth train and it’s thundering towards your tied to the tracks arse: you’re going for the Morgan le Fey vibe but you’re coming across Worst Witch. These are my fam, and I’d sacrifice myself for them, just as much as they would for me. They’re not my slaves: they’re legends.”

  Ash barked with laughter, but I didn’t miss how intently both Rebel and he had been watching me.

  Listening.

  I stiffened, waiting for the squelch and shrieking pain of nails into eyes.

  Instead, Sibyl giggled, twirling away. “The monster has bite! Shadows, silver, and spark. I like this one: she’ll be years of fun.”

  Elinor nodded, nibbling on Rebel’s earlobe.

  “Hmmm, and you brought back our children. My sister has taken quite a liking to Zachriel,” Sibyl pondered. “She thinks up horribly imaginative games. They’ll play very well together.”

  Rebel’s startled gaze met mine.

  “Stick it, bitch, your freaky sister’s banned from play dates.” I wrenched my wrists against the shackles; scarlet snaked down my arm.

  Sibyl merely clucked her tongue as she raked her nails down Rebel’s chest; he gasped. Yet he didn’t tremble, until he studied her wolf fur coat. Had he known a wolf familiar? By his sudden, panted breathing like he was holding back sobs, I’d go with a big fat, hell yeah. “My sweet pudding angel doesn’t need to fear little me.” Sibyl preened. “We’ll be such friends.”

  Elinor’s hands splayed across Rebel’s arse.

  Growls: I realised they came from both Ash and me.

  “You’ll be friends with Elinor too, won’t you?” Sibyl crooned, whilst Elinor blinked up at Rebel like she was a saint and wasn’t kneading his naked buttocks. “I get angry when our angels hurt her feelings. You should be the happiest little sinner because you’ve upgraded from mutt to thoroughbred.”

  The cheeky bitch.

  Yet why was there the smallest part of me that feared Rebel wanted this? The safety of a witch family like he’d had before I’d torn it away from him by causing his family’s deaths. Even though he was an Addict, he was still an angel. He wasn’t a vampire or a mage: the witches’ enemies. He could have a home here.

  Would it truly be so much worse than the nightmare of Rahab’s Legion?

  What if he chose the Wynter sisters over me?

  “It’s like this,” when Rebel smiled at Sibyl, I stiffened, “not only do you talk shite but you both have heads like busted cabbages. Wait now, I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I?”

  Sibyl stared at Rebel in shock. Then she hissed, clawing her nails down his cheek.

  I grinned, even as I flinched at the bloody lines scored down Rebel’s face. He grinned back at me over the witch’s shoulder.

  “Rule Number Three,” Ash bit out, “no heroics.”

  “Worth it,” Rebel and I answered in unison.

  Sibyl snatched Rebel by the chin so hard that her nails bit crescents. “Don’t grieve for your lost family anymore, Zachriel. You have us now. The Deadmans were always so greedy; they refused to share you. I wonder, did your Da ever tell you how delightfully he screamed in his training?”

  “Dry up! Don’t be after talking about my Da,” Rebel’s eyes sparked. “He was hardly more than a babby—”

  “He was a male witch.” When Sibyl scowled down at Mischief, who was defenceless on the wooden floor, I swallowed, holding back the howl to not touch him…because the more the Wynter’s knew I cared, the more they’d hurt him. “A mage, misfit, and monster…” She spun to me, pulling her fur coat more firmly around her shoulders. “Just like our latest acquisition in our collection of the bizarre: our monstrous zoo.” I flinched. “What strange sensitivity. You are a monster, are you not?”

  “You better believe it, wicked witch of the buttugly.”

  What had she said about hurt feelings…?

  Sibyl’s grey eyes flashed with silver lightning; it streaked through her hair, crackling in electric waves. She rose up, levitating off the floor. Her mask of youth dropped away, until all that was left was an ancient power. I quaked, chained before it.

  Elinor slinked behind Rebel, glaring at me as she slid her hand down his bare arm.

  “I need not be kind.” Sibyl’s soft voice had deepened, sizzling with power. Hell, that had been her being kind? “Shall I show you the second path?”

  “Don’t bother with the demonstration. I’m not a visual learner…”

  Rebel hollered.

  Where Elinor had rubbed over his arm, scarlet glowing words had risen up out of the skin, as if they’d always been there: BAD ANGELS ARE PUNISHED.

  Rebel whimpered, sweating like the words were burning him. When he gritted his teeth, Sibyl tssked. “Say it.”

  Rebel shook his head.

  The words glowed brighter, and Rebel wailed.

  “I told you enough heroics,” Ash barked. “Say what they want. It doesn’t change you. They can’t—”

  “They can,” Rebel whispered. “They have.”

  How did they both know what was going on? Had those words always been carved there?

  Bad angels are punished: it’d always been Rebel’s mantra, or maybe one that his adopted witch family had forced on him.

  The words throbbed again. At last, Rebel screamed, “Bad angels are punished.”

  Finally, the agonizing words bled back into his forearm.

  Rebel stared down at the ground, avoiding my gaze. His shame booted me in the gut through the bond.

  Sibyl glided closer, stroking over Rebel’s arm where the words had been. “My, you don’t remember your daily lessons, pudding candy? So sad. I shall have to increase it to hourly until you do. Am I still talking shite?”

  When Rebel shook his head, she gripped him by the base of his neck, and his eyes widened. “The game is to answer with words, and we call our kind new adopted mama: Mama Wynter.”

  Rebel bit his lip. “Yes, Mama Wynter.”

  Rebel couldn’t have hidden that daily ritual from me, could he? Made to recite his shame…badness…every day to take away the pain? To see it carved in his own flesh?

  Yet I’d heard him say it — mutter it — and I’d merely thought…

  Rebel had been tortured every day, and I hadn’t seen it.

  I couldn’t stop it.

  “Sparkles, levitating, and schoolboy lines,” Ash rolled his eyes. “I’ve been Lucifer’s personal whipping boy, so let’s just say you gave this whole Evil Dead thing your best shot, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “What happened to Rule Number Three?” I demanded.

  Ash shrugged. “Who says Rebel should hog all the glory?”

  Sibyl floated to Ash, whilst Elinor couched over him, clasping her arms around his shoulders and sucking purple bruises along his bowed neck.

  “Charming that a Seducer can still imagine glory for himself: how self-deceiving.” When Sibyl scrutinized Ash, a storm built around her; the static spat and jumped. “The apprentice you deceived to free you, wailed your name, whilst we burnt her. Do you think she truly believed that you loved her?�
�� Ash blanched. “One more added to your list of sacrifices, dark Brigadier.” She bent down, sniffing him, just as her sister snuffled along his throat. “Death. I haven’t supped on such darkness for centuries. You shall make the fiercest familiar, Pet 52. Although…”

  The lightning died, and Sibyl landed back on the floor.

  Clap — at the clap of her hands, a fluffy white cat with sapphire eyes fell through the ceiling and into her arms.

  Sibyl cradled the cat like a baby. “Pet 19, sweetums,” she cooed. The cat lay unnaturally still like it’d been trained. I was no cat expert, but surely even their tails twitched. Then its gaze met mine, and I realised that it was a familiar. And it was bastard terrified. “I’ve always liked the idea of my sister owning a black cat. You’ll be as pretty as Pet 19.”

  Elinor nodded eagerly, winding around Ash to lie her head in his lap like she was the cat.

  Ash’s expression darkened, until I thought he’d spit lightning. The way his gaze lingered — anxious and guilty on Pet 19 — yeah, he knew the furball. “Sorry, but kinky pet play just doesn’t do it for me.”

  “Silly, Pet 52.” Sibyl dropped Pet 19 at her feet, before running her nails through Ash’s hair, scraping his scalp. “What does it for you no longer matters.”

  “That’s where we have what I call a conflict, bitches.” I waggled my hands in their shackles.

  Sibyl barely even glanced at me. “Then maybe you shouldn’t watch…? Pet 52 had such awkward notions of control, the first time he delighted us with his rebellious presence. Do you know how to curb a defiant child?”

  “Chocolate and computer games…?”

  “Tough love. You take away what’s precious to them.” Sibyl tilted her head in thought. “Lamechial so hates to have his words stilled. But you…? I believe you fear the loss of sight.”

  I stared at her. Was she threatening to pluck out my eyes again? Yet she hadn’t moved towards me…

  Instead, there was a sudden pressure on the back of my eyeballs. I whined, my breath hitching, as black pressed down.

  “Please, I’ll obey,” Ash urged, low and intense. “I’ll do your tricks, perform for you, become your kitty. Just don’t do the same to Violet as you did to me.”

  Pop — the pressure burst like a bubble, and I hollered.

  And everything became black.

  I blinked desperately, but my vision didn’t clear. My eyes were open, but I couldn’t see.

  How couldn’t I bastard see…?

  “I stole Pet 52’s sight for two weeks to train him,” Sibyl’s voice sliced across the dark with a smug slyness. “By the end, he was a broken doll, rocking and weeping. Not much of a soldier. You know, maybe I should change him into a mouse, rather than a cat. Pet 19 could hunt him. What splendid games we could have!”

  I growled, but it echoed too loudly in my head, like my breathing, pulse, and the clinking of the chains above my head.

  When cold lips explored my neck, inhaling deeply along my skin, and a hand grabbed my hair, wrenching my head to the side to give them better access, I startled. Lost in the dark, everything was more intense: every caress and blow. Only by the cranberry scent did I know it was the sisters.

  Until Sibyl whispered into my ear, “Little monsters shouldn’t wander uninvited into a witch’s house. Not unless they want to be played with.”

  Tears pricked my eyes. How could I battle these ancient spell casters, when I’d been blinded?

  16

  Black, black, black…

  I gasped, blinking rapidly, but it didn’t clear the night pressing on my eyes.

  Chained in Honesty Tower, how many hours had passed since my sight had been stolen?

  The backs of my wrists itched, as if the dried blood was burrowing its way back in, I could taste sickeningly rich berries, and I choked on my own saliva.

  Too much, make it stop, make it—

  Are you asking, girl?

  J…?

  Do you know any other fabulous bitches who’ve raised you and taught you to hold your own against the world’s freaks and floozies?

  They’re the Head Coven. No one’s ever—

  You’re not no one: you’re the Bitch of Utopia.

  If you hadn’t shied like a shy virgin from the magic gift that the Fae Underserving gave you, then you wouldn’t be the one hanging in darkness.

  You’d be the Queen of Chaos and Shadows.

  The Silver Queen.

  My magic curled at the name, stroking me in reassurance. I sighed, brought down from my panic. For the first time, the silver didn’t feel alien but part of me, twining with the shadows.

  Until I started at the sound of footsteps and a gasp. “And there I was feeling quite left out.”

  Mischief: raspy and low.

  I grinned, flooded with such joy that I forgot I couldn’t see and blinked hard, as if that would clear my vision and I’d see him: alive and punking the spell casters.

  Wait, punking the spell casters…? What was it with my fam and heroics?

  “Let’s call it an epic fail on following your rules, Brigadier.” I booted the wall.

  “Don’t worry, monster, we shall help you learn to love rules. And you, prickly but pretty mage? We brand male witches with the letter of our house,” Sibyl’s taunting voice dripped with sadistic pleasure.

  “You wouldn’t dare… T-that’s sacrilege…to inflict on a magic user… Your own magic would cry out to denounce you. B-better to take my h-hands or my head…”

  My heart ached at Mischief’s tears. I’d never heard such devastation: he’d been broken at a threat.

  Sacrilege?

  What the hell were the bitches going to do to him? Brand him?

  “Allow it,” I growled. “The pretty prickly one is my fam and not into branding or any other type of witchy freakery.”

  “How rude of us to allow you round to play, then stop you watching the fun.” I jumped at the soft stroke to my cheek. Sibyl’s lips mouthed against mine. “So, watch.”

  There was a sudden pressure on the back of my eyeballs; grey bled into the black.

  Pop — when the pressure burst, I whined.

  Light streamed in an agonising burst. I screwed closed my eyes, panting. At last, I cautiously opened them again, as the lights haloed.

  Rebel and Ash, paler than before, studied me anxiously. Mischief, still tied facedown on the wooden floor, writhed — not asleep, poisoned, or dead. He was horror-struck, however, as Elinor straddled his back, pulling aside his hair to reveal the base of his neck.

  Sibyl’s porcelain doll face smirked, close to mine; I craved to shatter it. “My busy, busy brain has been pondering all night, why do you fight on the side of nasty mages?” She tilted her head like she truly wanted an answer. “Hide as you like behind your childish insults, but we’re not the wicked witches, or haven’t you worked that out yet?” Her tongue darted to wet her lips, lizard-like. “We battle vampires, save Addict angels from themselves, and fight mages who resurrect angels from the dead. Now then, who sounds evil? Maybe it’s you who’s on the wrong side?”

  “There’s nothing as simple as sides.” I met her intent stare. “Or evil.” I smiled at Rebel, softly. “There’s only righteousness, and you, bitch…? You’re not righteous.”

  And that’s how to shatter a mask.

  Sibyl’s eyes lightning flashed. She snarled, backing towards Mischief. Only then did I notice the small silver wand in her hand, which was topped with a white-hot brand: M in coiled snakes.

  “Men possessing magic is unnatural.” Sibyl crouched over Mischief. When he tried to pull away, Elinor held him tighter. “M for male, mage, misfit, monster… I’ll lock away your magic, pretty, where you’ll never harm a witch or use your perverted powers again.”

  The brand sizzled as it pressed into Mischief’s flesh, flashing silver.

  Mischief howled, drumming his legs — thump, thump, thump — on the floor.

  At last, the brand was lifted, although the flesh beneath throb
bed red and blistered. Elinor slid off Mischief, carding her fingers through his hair, whilst he sobbed.

  Sibyl knelt over him, running her thumb through his tears. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Your magic there but…out of reach.” Mischief whimpered, convulsing. “Only if you’re a truly good boy will you ever play with it again.” She smiled, coldly cruel. “Maybe we’ll never let you out of your magical chastity.” Mischief quivered, torn apart between two witches. Elinor licked down his ear. “Maybe we enjoy you frustrated.”

  A sacrilege, which one magic user should never do to another. I got it now: the darkness of their binding. Ripping away part of your soul, no different to taking someone’s mind or memories because the magic was Mischief. He hadn’t learnt to access it, like me. Instead, like Rahab, he’d known the truth of his magic from the moment he was born, and now suddenly it’d been torn from him.

  He’d been blinded. Except, his mental powers made him who he was. And the witches wanted to punish him for that?

  The slivers of Mischief’s magic, which he’d transferred inside me, howled at the assault on their kin; they rose in fury, surging through me, until I trembled, breathless. They whipped the shadows and violet fire into an equal spiralling rage: I was the Queen of Chaos and Shadows.

  I was the Silver Queen.

  With a roar, I snapped the cuffs that shackled me.

  The Wynter sisters’ looks of surprise that their caged zoo exhibit had broken free would’ve been comical, except my shadows had already reached out and caught Elinor, pinning her against the waves of clothes and smothering her, until there was nothing left but a tarred witch.

  Then Sibyl’s expression flickered between fear, grief, and rage.

  High on the silver, whilst the shadows whispered revenge on the sacrilege, Sibyl looked tiny. A doll. Even as she crackled with fire, I merely grasped her by the throat.

  Sibyl choked, as I rammed her against the wall. Her youth withered, and she became as ugly as Rebel had said.

  Sibyl wheezed, shoving at me with wizened hands. “There are sides, monstrous child.” Her cracked lips burnt; her words sounded as ancient as a prophecy. “Magic frees us to rise or Fall. The mages have those confused, as do you.”