There was a gang of lads, joking around and smoking outside the entrance. They were getting in the last fag before their pint in tribal camaraderie.
That’s when the craving hit: I missed my lighter. I slipped out my new e-cig and started to vape. The lighter though…it had this…feel.
Yet you gave me the e-cig. It’s the first thing you ever gave me that’s new to this life. The e-cig’s beginning to fit in my hand, in the way my lighter always did…and I don’t understand it.
I sneaked a glance at you out of the corner of my eye. ‘Anyway, I have a rule: no lists. A place has a list – sod it. No one gets to judge whether I should be on or off a bloody piece of paper.’
You nodded. That surprised me.
I pushed through into the boozer: tatty wooden bar at the back, whose shelves were stacked with different brews, spirits and crisps (none of the snazzy alcopops or flavoured vodka rubbish), round wooden tables spotted across the bare floors and emerald upholstered booths underneath the windows. An Irish flag hung limply on the wall; it looked like it’d been hung when the pub had first opened - and hadn’t been washed since.
My kind of place.
I strutted to the bar, resting my elbow on it. I was about to order, when I heard…
‘Can we get two tonics here, please?’
I caught the barman’s arm. ‘Hold on, scrub that. Two pints of Guinness, cheers mate.’
The barman, who had narrow peepers and a beard, which was so bushy, it was as if he was compensating for the smallness of his mush, glanced between the two of us. Then he gave a curt nod. The dark liquid began to pour slowly, before settling in the glasses.
I smiled innocently at you. ‘My night--’
‘Your rules?’
When the Guinness had taken its sweet time, and we finally had two pints with creamy heads in front of us, we inched into a booth. There was a tiny dish of nuts in its centre, as if this was the height of generosity. The window looked out over the street and the station beyond. We could hear the tortured squeal of the trains through the glass, and when they went overhead, the whole boozer rattled.
I raised my glass - to Donovan and the Lost.
I sensed you watching me, when I took my first sip. My peepers fluttered closed: since Abona I’d been teetotal. It’s not like I have to protect my liver. Those degenerative diseases you First Lifers fear? We Blood Lifers have evolved past such anxiety. We regenerate, or for half a millennium at least. It’s not eternal life, but I’m a glass half full type of bloke.
Opening my peepers, I smacked my lips. ‘Go on then. You do..?’
You hesitated one moment longer, before slurping a good quarter of your pint. ‘Keg parties. There were these wicked keg parties back in Boston. Fernando and me would hide all this beer on account of, you know, not being twenty-one yet. If the college authorities came, we’d book it. And this one time?’ You leant closer, conspiratorial, ‘Fernando invited me to his cuz’s house, which he did a lot on account of me having no… I mean, his whole family were out there; he’s frickin’ lucky. So I was at his cuz’s. We were drinking and swimming in his pool, and then the cops showed because of the music. We booked it outta there, over the fence, wearing nothing but…’ You snickered, as you took another pull on your pint.
‘So,’ I played with my glass, twirling it round, ‘you and Fernando are..?’
Suddenly you were stone cold sober. ‘None of your frickin’ business. Now drink up, this little outing is over’.
‘Hold up--’
‘Naw, I’m done. London’s not yours.’
I stiffened. ‘The Lost have walked these streets as long as you humans,’ I whispered, low and intense, ‘which makes them ours, as much as yours.’
I might as well have clouted you. You drew back, with a shiver. ‘You hunt here – parasitically. But England? The world? It belongs to us. You’re just…’
‘Parasites?’ I offered. You didn’t even have the decency to look away.
‘These are my streets,’ you tapped the sticky table for emphasis, in a boozer, street, postcode you’d never have ventured into, if it hadn’t been for me.
I took a drag on my e-cig. ‘Over hundred and fifty years says different, sweetheart.’
You wore that narked expression, which I’d hoped we’d left behind for the night. ‘My home. Not yours.’
‘Any reason it can’t be both?’
‘On account of you’re…’ You stopped yourself, pushing your Guinness away with a jerky shove. Your shoulders slumped. You finished softly, ‘…not human.’
‘Right. Because I’d missed that.’ I took a mouthful of nuts, munching thoughtfully. You’d withdrawn hermit-crab like, your hair falling in two curtains over your mug. ‘There were humans once, who thought like you, the last time a Blood Lifer had the courage to reveal himself to a First Lifer. It was one of my ancestors. A man of reason, in an age of superstition. He reckoned our two species could live out in the open - side by side - so I was told. These First Lifers? They thought he was the devil.’ You’d raised your nut. I could see your peepers - dark grey now - through the veil of your hair.
‘What..?’
‘They burnt him.’
A train screeched past; the smoke-stained walls shook. The tables rattled, spilling Guinness down the sides of my glass.
You were scrutinising me, as your fingers tore minute strips out of a stained beer mat. ‘But you were with a human. Kathy?’
‘And that’s none of your business.’ I downed my pint. ‘Let’s clear off then. Stop while we’re behind.’
You nodded, before downing your own pint. Then you followed me outside. As we waited for a black cab to flag, it started to rain in a fine drizzle; I raised my mush, allowing it to spider web over my skin. It’d been so long since I’d felt the freshness of rain washing clean the air - life.
You shivered; this time out of cold, rather than the horror of realising you were sharing this world with us parasites.
I shrugged off my coat, holding it out to you.
Taken aback, you hesitated but then slipped it on. You looked dead stunning in it.
When I pressed closer to you, your peepers widened in alarm. ‘Trust me?’ Then I was gone, into the night.
I was only away for a couple of minutes, yet by the time I’d darted back, that wankering tracker was already clutched in your whitened knuckles. ‘You…chowderhead!’
I smiled. ‘Sweetheart,’ I held up a black leather women’s jacket, with studs on its shoulders. ‘Swap?’
Slowly, you were calming, as you cast these small, envious glances at the jacket. ‘Where the frig did you find that?’
‘Getting wet here. Show some appreciation, yeah?’
When you slipped the tracker back in your bag (and I should’ve bloody known the tech amnesty hadn’t included that particular device), you shucked off my jacket, exchanging it for the new one with almost indecent haste. It fitted you like a second skin. ‘Seriously, where?’
‘Nicked it.’
You do a good impression of a ghost.
I took pity. ‘Don’t have a coronary. I left them the lolly for it; I half-inched the cash from you.’ When you were silent, I reckoned I was in for it. Then, however, you laughed - honest to God laughed - and I laughed too. Yet for me it was the absurdity of being tamed enough to break and enter and pay for the bleeding crime out of my pickpocketing. ‘What kinda Blood Lifer does that make me?’
‘Mine.’
Unexpectedly, you entwined our hands. Our lips were close. I hardly dared breathe.
Then there was a crash. A woman’s scream. Shouting.
‘Whoa, what’s goin’ on?’
‘Don’t stare like that. This is Peckham, not bloody Primrose Hill.’
I darted a sideways glance, whilst keeping you shielded with my body.
My fists ached for a barney. But I was here with you. I wasn’t free.
A gang of young bloods, in hoodies with purple bands on their arms were banging up
some Lewisham bird… Bitch, whore, slut… I flinched, as each verbal assault landed, as painful as every boot and clout. A territorial display in defence of their manor.
Too late, I realised we’d been spotted.
‘You disrespectin’ us?’ The leader - a tall bloke in purple hoodie and tight weave - turned to us. You panicked and backed up. The gang, like it had a collective mind, abandoned its last victim, who snatched the chance to pick herself up and limp away. The gang swarmed around us instead. The leader repeated, ‘You be disrespectin’ us?’
There was no answer to get us out of this.
As the gang swaggered our way, they pulled out shanks, which had been hidden in low-lying branches or stored behind piles of rubbish.
I took a deep breath. And hoped you’d forgive me.
‘A bloke who gets his jollies from beating on women doesn’t deserve no respect, you git.’
You gasped. There was a silence, in which I wondered if I should’ve spoken slower.
Then everything kicked off.
The leader shot out his shank at gut level - practised move that - but I dodged, snapping his arm in two places, before round housing him in the chest. Whilst he was coughing crimson, I thrust you into a side alley, flinching when I heard the bump as you landed on your arse. Then I stood ready to protect you.
It was sodding smashing not to be the damsel anymore.
My fangs were out of commission, but my fists and feet were still bloody there. The adrenaline roared through me, like a forgotten friend.
I got in a hook to the next crew member’s cheek: it shattered. The giant bastard hollered. I knocked his shiv bouncing harmlessly into the red shutter beside my nut, before kneeing him in the goolies. Because street fights? You fight dirty. When he went down, the rest rushed me.
I nutted the one in front, booted the one on the right and took an elbow to the throat of the one on the left, who gurgled and collapsed. I bounced on the balls of my feet, flushed with exhilaration. I needed this.
Plus, you kidnap and torture a bloke? He’s bound to have some issues to work out. This was better than sodding therapy.
A scrawny wanker pounced on me, waving a samurai sword in my mug.
I went at the samurai sod quick smart with a flurry of spear hands, before he’d even swung at me. He stumbled backwards, as if he’d suddenly grasped he’d only been playing at being the big bad with his antique sword and now had come across the real thing. When I landed a strike to his throat, he slid face first into a dirty puddle.
At last, the only member still standing was the leader, even though he was scarlet mouthed and clutching his limp arm. He seemed determined not to lose face in front of the groaning remains of his gang. With his good arm, he struck out.
I grabbed the leader’s fist in a wrist lock, breaking each tiny joint in his wrist. He screamed, as he fell to his knees.
I stared down at him. ‘Word of advice, mate: don’t go picking on strangers. You never know who they’ll turn out to be.’
It only took a light push on his forehead to topple the tosser beside his comrades.
Still, there was you to face now.
To my surprise, you were leaning casually in the dark entrance of the alley, watching me. I wondered if you’d given my performance a rating.
I stuck my hands in my pockets. ‘I think we’d better…’
‘…book it..?’
You grabbed my hand, dragging me after you down the warren of side streets behind the shops.
It was pelting down now. Even though I was soaked, I was still buzzing from the barney.
At last you stopped, shoving me up against a brick wall at the back entrance to a butcher’s.
‘Look,’ I said hurriedly, ‘I’m sorry about--’
‘Thanks.’
Questioningly, I tilted my nut. Your lips were close to mine. All I’d need to do was…
You pulled back (of course you bloody did), even if you were still clutching onto me, as if my body was yours.
Because no matter what other nasties you might do with it, you’d never kiss your slave, would you?
Then you suddenly hauled me closer, and we were snogging.
At that moment, none of it meant anything.
Slave or Mistress. First Lifer or Blood.
It never does when skin meets skin. It was just Light and Grayse.
So it was a good kiss. To me, it changed everything. But to you..?
‘If you would be so kind, some of us are trying to feed in peace.’ A nasal but polite Turkish Blood Lifer popped his nut up from further down the alley. He licked down the neck of a twitching First Lifer bird, who was propped up against a skip; she was probably one of those clubbers, who hadn’t made it onto the bouncer’s list.
When you shrieked and tried to jerk away, I held you still by the wrist, regretting the bruising but juggling risk and prioritising your life.
The look you shot me, however, told me that you didn’t appreciate it.
I shrugged. ‘Yeah, my mistake.’
Your peepers were now flint.
I started edging you backwards out of the shadows.
If I hadn’t been so – distracted - I’d have sensed this gentlemanly Blood Lifer earlier. Without my fangs, I couldn’t take him in a fight. More to the buggering point, I couldn’t save you. Talk about making a bloke feel inadequate. Now also wasn’t the time to give you a crash course on Blood Lifer dinner etiquette.
It seems, however, that our Turkish friend was determined to educate me. ‘You know, young one, it is most inconsiderate to interrupt a fellow’s kill. I had no intention to do so with yours.’
I spun to you to say…I don’t know what. You looked like you might vomit. ‘Right, cheers, I’ll remember that.’
The other Blood Lifer inclined his nut.
I slipped my arm around your stiff waist, turning you and frogmarching you away from the old git, whilst he set back to his dinner.
As soon as we were safely on a main road under the lights, amidst the bustle of partygoers and the fumes of double-decker buses, you wrenched away from me, like I was toxic. In a way, I guess I am. ‘Save her,’ your voice was shaky. ‘Go back and--’
‘She’s bitten. Dead already.’
‘And aren’t you just cut up about it?’
‘Hey,’ I jabbed my finger at you, ‘innocent party here, remember?’
‘I was a moron to forget what you are. Why I had to buy you. Marlane told me it was my duty to…that I had to put you in your place fast. I guess I get why now.’
‘Grayse…’
I tried to reach out to you, but you only backed away. ‘Home.’
It was back to puppy dog orders then? Even after..?
You didn’t utter another word on the way back to the apartment. Not a dickie bird. I gave up trying.
Touching freedom and then knowing it was being taken away again, made captivity harder to bear.
By the time we were climbing to your apartment, I felt like I was returning to Abona. When I heard the front door being closed behind me and the security system click in..? I was hit by a tsunami of panic – heart racing, chest tight and dizzy waves – no escape, no escape, no…
We stood in the darkness, until you simply said, ‘My bedroom.’
After that moment in the rain - when we’d snogged - I’d reckoned coming back here wouldn’t feel the same.
I’d saved your life tonight (twice), although blinkered as you are, you couldn’t see it.
You’d kissed me too, let’s not forget that.
It’s not as if I was mug enough to imagine you’d declare undying love. But maybe you’d see me (beneath the sticky labels).
You’d tasted some of my world tonight. Maybe that was the problem. I only knew one woman, who’d embraced it. And no one can ever be her.
My mistake.
When I wandered after you into your bedroom, I watched as you stripped out of the leather jacket, which I’d nicked for you.
You stuffed
the jacket violently to the bottom of your wardrobe, like it was toxic too. That stung.
Then you circled me, without warning, predator-like. ‘Strip.’
I jumped and then stared at you, as if I must’ve misheard. ‘Grayse..?’
You didn’t reply.
A sick numbness, like dying from the inside out, took grip, when you pulled the tracker from your tote and swiped it on.
Your sister had bloody taught you how to use the tracker..? And now you were threatening me..?
My night, your rules?
I still didn’t budge.
When I saw your finger descend, however, I hauled off my jacket, tossing it pooled, like a black tar version of Heartbreak, on your bedroom floor.
Your gaze was so cold; how could I ever have doubted you were a Cain?
‘Everything.’ I wasn’t in control of my own body, as I kicked off my trainers, stumbled out of my socks and dragged my t-shirt over my nut. Your photos were watching: your smiling, innocent mush, as if you were any other kid. My fingers fumbled with the button flies on my jeans in my fear. I risked a peek at you. You were determinedly not averting your gaze whilst I undressed, like it was some kind of test. Right, no bloody flinching or trembling. When I stepped out of my boxers and stood there starkers, except for my slave ring, I found myself staring into the grinning mug of my rival - the Alpha Geek - from his place of honour on the wall. Victorious, he was laughing. Humiliated, I blushed. Would you ever demean him like this? What would you do if you knew someone was going to do…this…to your human? ‘Lie down.’
I lay on my back, with my hands at my sides - palms up - and my legs spread wide apart (as I’d been taught), unresponsive on the white bed. I felt suddenly dead small.
I stared up at the ceiling unblinkingly. If you wanted a fucktoy, you’d have to operate it yourself.
Still in the floral silk dress, which I’d picked out, you settled beside me. Your hair was curling at the ends, as it dried from the wet.
When you leaned over me, I was flooded in gorse and sunlight, but it no longer smelled of escape or freedom - it burned.
First, you caressed the tips of your fingers down my cheek. Only hours before that gentle touch would’ve given me an instant stiffy. But now? It was as welcome as a nest of spiders.
Blood Shackles (Rebel Vampires Book 2) Page 10
