Blood Shackles (Rebel Vampires Book 2)

by Rosemary A Johns

  He couldn’t be real.

  I’d finally gone potty.

  I started to giggle. Then for one even more barmy moment, my instinct was to holler for Sir.

  Where was Sir? Why hadn’t he come to see me today? Didn’t he realise I needed him? Then I wanted to hurl with self-hatred.

  Suddenly I felt this fellah’s soft fingers stroking my cheek; I quietened.

  He felt real.

  ‘Are you..?’ I managed to rasp.

  ‘Poor little bunny. I heard the new one was all balled up.’ The Long-lived’s gentle American voice sounded concerned. It was a trick. Another mind-fuck to drag me deeper into bondage. When the bleeder held out the water, I didn’t take it. ‘Would you like a drink-avous?’ He shook the beaker vigorously under my nose.

  ‘No thanks, helmethead, I’m on the wagon-avous.’ I replied with exaggerated slowness.

  To my surprise, the bloke gave a delighted laugh. ‘You slay me!’ Then, with a nervous glance over his shoulder at the open door, he dropped to his knee, plonking down the cup. ‘Lucky this joint serves an alternative.’ The Long-lived raised his wrist to his mouth and bit. He winced, as he worried at the skin with blunt teeth (so I wasn’t the only poor bastard, who’d been defanged). He tore a gash in the flesh, just enough for the blood to ooze out. He offered his wrist to me, as he had the water. ‘For crying out loud – quick - before Sir sees.’ I studied the bloke’s expectant expression, whilst his scarlet wrist dangled before my mug. This Blood Lifer wasn’t my Author or Blood family. Why would a stranger offer me something so intimate? Impatient, he smeared my lips with his blood. ‘Get a wiggle on. You’re starved. You sure must’ve fought Sir. Real hard-boiled type, huh? Go on, drink.’ The scent of the Long-lived’s powerful blood was intoxicating. Trick or not, I was under its spell. The moment I’d licked my lips, it was too much: it hit me, like all of existence fracturing and being put together in the moment. I juddered, my peepers rolling back. Faster than I knew I could still move, I’d grabbed the Long-lived’s wrist and was sucking. ‘Attaboy’. I was vaguely aware he was threading his fingers through my matted hair, almost as if he knew just what I needed right then. But too soon he was pushing me off. ‘Sorry mac, I can’t spare anymore yet. On the level, it’s not like we’re fed much.’

  ‘We?’ I was still buzzing from the strength of the Long-lived’s blood, which had given me a stiffy. There was no way to disguise it. Luckily, he was politely ignoring my faux pas.

  ‘All the Blood Lifers in this joint – Abona House – that’s where you are.’

  I began to shake. In all my fantasies, I’d never imagined such a horrific possibility. ‘But why? What’s the bloody point?’

  The bloke looked suddenly shifty, concentrating on licking over his wrist to accelerate its healing. ‘For now just drink when you can and get strong. Promise me?’

  I nodded, as he passed me the water. This time, I drank it. ‘What’s your name, mate?’

  He didn’t meet my eye, as he took the cup back. ‘Cupid.’

  I spluttered with laughter, but when his shoulders slumped, I was suddenly serious. Yeah, wanker here. ‘Sorry, I… Your Blood Lifer name?’

  ‘Don’t futz around. I can’t--’

  ‘Mine’s Light.’ It was a whisper but it was still blinding to say it out loud.

  The Long-lived, however, pressed his palm tight over my lips, like I’d blasphemed. His peepers were wide with terror. ‘No, it isn’t. I know this is bull, but you’ll adapt. I’ll help. We’ll all help.’

  I shoved his hand away, confused and angry. ‘Helpful bunch, aren’t you? Not like the Blood Lifers I know.’

  ‘Sure, not now we’re not,’ for the first time, the Long-lived sounded truly despondent.

  ‘How about you tell me your real name? Then I promise I’ll eat and drink like a good boy.’

  ‘Stop it, or I’ll cast a kitten.’

  I shrugged. ‘Your choice.’

  The Long-lived hesitated, before leaning close and murmuring so quietly I nearly didn’t catch it, ‘Hartford.’

  Then Hartford jumped back, trembling, like he expected to be caught plotting treason. When nothing happened, Hartford brightened. He gave a delighted grin, with a clap of his hands; I understood his wave of joy at the reclaiming of his name after…

  How long had he been held here..?

  Hartford began singing, “I want Somebody to Cheer Me Up”, in a voice so full of jazz soul it lifted me, until I was grinning like a berk as well.

  Hartford twirled. He tap-danced. He mimed playing the ukulele.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Three heavy knocks on the open oak door.

  It was like the needle had been lifted off the record - cut dead - as Hartford dropped puppet-like to his knees next to me.

  I could hear Hartford’s fast, panted breathing. I recognised the fear and understood why: if it was possible to knock with a combination of sarcasm and threat, Sir had managed it.

  I listened to the click of Sir’s shoes, until their black leather was in my eyeline, stopped in front of Hartford; I was shot with unexpected remorse at my relief for that. I could hear the ominous tapping of Sir’s red-and-black hide riding crop against his leg.

  Why had I incited rebellion? I had a track record for encouraging other Blood Lifers to stand up to their oppressors.

  And it never ended well.

  The click again, as Sir strolled around Hartford. ‘Knee-chest.’

  Bugger it.

  Without hesitation, Hartford fluidly shifted onto all-fours, before lowering his nut and chest to the concrete, so his vulnerable arse was left sticking up in the air. He laced his fingers behind his neck.

  Swish – the stiff, spring steel rod slashed through the air, whacking Hartford’s arse and jarring him forward. I flinched on Hartford’’s behalf because I’d cocked up, yet the Long-lived was taking the beating. A bloke, who’d blood shared with me. The connection wasn’t biological or chemical. But it was a bond.

  And now he was getting it - because of me.

  Swish, swish, swish - until Hartford was striped with red welts, weals and purpling bruises. His pale skin broken.

  I’d have been bawling after the first few vicious strokes, which were much harder than Sir had yet laid on me.

  Hartford, however, hadn’t made a whimper.

  At last, Sir lowered the crop, click, click, clicking back round to the front. ‘Kneel.’

  Less fluidly, Hartford pulled up his thrashed body to kneel. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him wince, as his arse hit his heels.

  I felt even more of a bastard, when I saw the wetness down Hartford’s cheeks and realised he’d been silently weeping.

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ Hartford said softly.

  Sir wrenched Hartford’s hair back by the roots and calm as you like, asked, ‘Did I give you permission to sing, whore?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Then why were you singing?’ Sir shook Hartford by the hair, like a cat worries a rat.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir.’

  ‘You really must be one stupid leech.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘A stupid leech, Sir.’

  There was no hesitation. No flicker of defiance.

  Bloody hell, was this my future?

  I tried to shrink into the wall, when Sir stepped towards me, the riding crop flecked with blood swinging at his side.

  ‘My pretty leech,’ Sir crooned, caressing my cheek with such unexpected tenderness, you’d never have guessed he’d just given some poor geezer a hiding, ‘did that bitch disturb you?’

  I could’ve laughed or rent the world in two.

  Hartford was still kneeling, unable to even wipe away the tear tracks. And I hadn’t yet thanked him for the communion of blood.

  Time to screw up my courage - and say sod off to my pride. ‘No, Sir, he didn’t. Your little leech appreciated Sir’s kind gift of water and…’

  ‘Yes?’
There went the impatient tap of the riding crop’s leather tongue.

  ‘…for allowing me the company of another leech. But I missed you.’

  I held my breath.

  Sir settled himself next to me on the damp floor, drawing me onto his lap and petting my hair, as if I (rather than Hartford), was the one who needed comforting.

  ‘Sir misses his pretty little leech too. But seeing as I’m awful busy, cupid and the other leeches will show you the ropes. It’ll soon be time for you to start earning your keep.’ I gritted my teeth. ‘Look you, don’t worry, I won’t overtax your stupid little brain with too much at once.’ Sir patted my nut, as if my reaction had been worry over Blood Lifer low IQ. ‘As you’re being a good boy, we’ll take it slowly: if you can show me that you can behave.’

  I nodded, dumbly.

  Sir gave my nut a final pat, before sliding me off his lap. Then he grabbed Hartford by the chin, wrenching his mush up to examine it. ‘Tidy, you can still work. Don’t be long.’

  I listened, as Sir click, clicked out of the cell.

  I glanced at Hartford, who was shakily hauling himself up. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, ‘about…’

  Hartford waved my apology away. ‘Don’t be a sap; we’re cool. That was swell - what you said. Defending me to Sir. Screwy but swell. You know he could’ve--’

  ‘Given me a hiding? Like he did you?’

  Hartford blushed. ‘Yeah. But I’m used to it.’

  ‘Yeah. But I got you into it.’

  We grinned at each other for one daft moment like we really were mates. Or brothers.

  Until a second Blood Lifer, nothing but a tumble of black hair, dark peepers ringed with kohl and lilac lipstick, stuck his nut in through the open doorway.

  For a vomit inducing second, I reckoned yet again I must be barmy because here was the only Blood Lifer, who could call himself family: Donovan.

  My cousin.

  The last time I saw Donovan was in 1968. I melted his sadistic tyrant of a twin brother – Aralt - under the hot sun, like a candle.

  I wondered whether Donovan was one for grudges.

  ‘Hey, stop bugging the newbie,’ Donovan called to Hartford, ‘and let’s split, baby.’ Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks… I clutched my arms over my mush so Donovan, who was swaggering into my cell, wouldn’t recognise my thin form. My thin, defenceless, chained form. ‘I wanna--’

  ‘I know what you wanna, baby. But pipe down, you’re scaring the poor little bunny.’

  ‘Poor little..?’ I could feel them both studying me. Hartford made to block the other Blood Lifer, when Donovan edged closer, but he stumbled. ‘What..?’ Donovan gripped Hartford by the shoulders, twisting him round and inspecting every inch of his rainbow bruised arse and thighs, before checking over the rest of him, as delicately as if he was a porcelain doll. Then Donovan slammed his fist into the mould blackened wall. ‘I’m wiggin’ out… This is…not cool. I’m gonna rip out his--’

  ‘No, baby, you’re not,’ Hartford calmly raised Donovan’s split knuckles to his lips, licking away the blood. It was so gentle, I didn’t need to hear any words to know it was love. Even amongst the terror of discovery was a squirming gladness that at least Donovan had found love; psychotic pothead Donovan might’ve been but lonely too. And it wasn’t like I didn’t get how he felt. ‘Anyway, when will you remember I’m three times your age, mac? And don’t need no one fighting my battles?’

  Donovan ran his fingers lightly over the weals on Hartford’s arse, and Hartford flinched. ‘Feels like it.’ Donovan crouched next to me. I curled in further on myself. ‘Has he always been this bummed out?’

  ‘He was balled up but…’ When I heard Hartford’s troubled tone, I regretted his concern. Then I wondered where this conscience for other Blood Lifers had come from. Strangers, I reminded myself. Even Donovan had been nothing to me for decades. ‘He’s a swell fella, though. I thought he was, you know, doing better…until you came in.’

  Donovan was stroking my back, reaching to pull me up and sooth me, as you would a wounded animal.

  I tried to scramble backwards, but it was too late: Donovan had caught a glimpse of my mush.

  Donovan transformed in the moment from compassion to raging fury.

  Told you about the psychotic, yeah?

  Donovan grabbed me by the throat, wrenching me up so far I reckoned my ankle would snap, as it cut against the chain. Then he slammed me against the wall – oomph – and all I could do was gasp for air.

  It was through the fog of oxygen deprivation that I was aware of Hartford hollering at Donovan and then hauling him off me, although only enough for me to gasp in a couple of delicious lungful’s.

  Donovan, however, had waved Hartford away, and he’d retreated.

  ‘This,’ Donovan’s nails dug deeper into my neck, ‘is the blood kin, who murdered my twin. As well as killing the only Blood Lifer, who I’ve ever authored.’

  I heard Hartford’s shocked intake of breath.

  Well, I admit, put like that…

  ‘Come on, be fair, I only killed your brother after the wanker did in Alessandro. Remember him? The kid Aralt authored? He was your family too. Oh yeah, and tried to destroy the world behind your back? Not to mention the beatings and the… I did everyone a favour, mate. And Kira…she was…unfortunate…but she betrayed you. For your brother, remember?’

  Donovan’s grip tightened. Then to my surprise, he shrugged. ‘It’s cool. You’re right about Kira. And Aralt wasn’t my blood brother by the end; he chose not to be. I remember that too.’

  Donovan let me down.

  Yet before I even had time to collapse, Hartford had me crushed back against the wall. His slight form was like a sodding rhino. I wondered if Sir had any idea the danger he was in, if this power was ever directed at him. And then why it wasn’t.

  Hartford didn’t need his venom to take out a First Lifer; every inch of him was a weapon.

  I squirmed but I was pinned, like a butterfly. ‘Bloody hell…’

  ‘Let me level with you: whatever happened between you and Donovan is in the past. But if you hurt him now..? I’ll torture you in ways, which were banned centuries before you were born. Are we clear, little bunny?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  Hartford dropped me, and I crumpled to the concrete. When he draped his arm around Donovan, I had to turn away.

  My loneliness ate at me.

  Yet hearing Hartford’s voice, gentle now, I couldn’t suppress a smile, ‘I need to get to work but I’ll be back to check on you soon.’

  ‘Alright, toddle off then, helmethead.’

  Hartford gave a delighted laugh.

  I glimpsed Donovan’s outraged expression, as he was bundled out of the cell and mollified by his bloke.

  Blinding.

  It was impossible to tell the passing of time in that bricked up, permanently light cell, except by sensation – hunger, thirst or pain – but the Blood Lifers did come back.

  Both of them.

  They brought another plastic beaker of water, which I guzzled gratefully, whilst they leaned against the wall snogging. I guessed they didn’t get many chances, so feeding the sad sod in solitary was like sneaking off behind the bike sheds.

  Finally Donovan settled cross-legged opposite and scrutinized me.

  I eyed him back suspiciously. ‘Alright?’

  ‘What a crazy scene, huh? A real bummer.’

  ‘Yeah, so they caught you too?’

  ‘Man, I was having a blast, running this music company in New York. Not like Advance; I made sure it was managed properly this time. Then these punks--’

  ‘Snap.’ Donovan circled my bird-like wrist with his fingers and thumb. Our gazes met, before he glanced once at Hartford, over my shoulder. I didn’t understand the seriousness of his expression, before he suddenly bit down on his own wrist once, twice, three times. Bleeding hell, he was offering..? ‘No,’ I spluttered, even as the blood was already trickling down Donovan’s forearm.

  �
��My baby isn’t given enough blood to share,’ Donovan pressed his wrist to my lips, ‘but I am. Go on. We’re tight, man.’

  Tight?

  I’d done in both the Blood Lifer he’d authored and his twin brother, yet here Donovan was offering up his blood? All he’d ever offered before was his wacky backy.

  I latched on, sucking for all I was worth. Rich. Warm. Blood Lifer. I was singing, soaring, safe in the blood. I never wanted to leave its embrace.

  I reckon I must’ve passed out from the overload because when I came to, Donovan and Hartford were sitting either side of me, chin-wagging. I experienced the first moment of surreal normality since I’d been kidnapped.

  ‘Here he is,’ Hartford grinned, ‘Sleeping Beauty awakes.’

  ‘Right on, see I’ve got righteous blood.’

  ‘You’re a goof. He’s just so starved, poor--’

  ‘Don’t say poor little bunny.’

  ‘Why? Jealous, baby?’

  ‘Just don’t call me sodding shadow and I’ll be sorted,’ I licked my lips, settling myself against the wall. ‘Cheers, that was--’

  ‘What Hartford did for me.’ I glanced at Donovan, but his kohl smudged peepers were carefully lowered.

  ‘How long..?’ I caught Hartford’s eye. I knew he understood.

  ‘How’s a fella to know? No newspapers, radio, calendars…jeepers creepers, no outside world at all. On the level, we don’t exist. Except as slaves. The sooner you accept that--’

  ‘I’m not a slave.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘I’ll never be a slave.’ Strange, I meant it, when I said it.

  Bloody stupid git.

  ‘Sure, so says the naked man,’ Hartford pointed out, ‘who’s locked up, beaten, starved and at the mercy of his Masters.’

  Frustrated, I pushed myself onto my knees. ‘That’s not what makes you a sodding slave: this does.’ I tapped my forehead.

  Hartford hastily turned away. But I’d still seen it: the devastation.

  I was an ungrateful prat.

  Donovan shoved past me, getting in a good elbow. He plonked himself next to Hartford, wrapping his arms around him.

  Hartford smiled. ‘You sure are a cuddler, baby.’ Then, however, he was grave. ‘It comes later, the…’ He tapped his forehead. ‘I’ve been in this joint… I was the first. Master caught and bagged me, like I was a hunting trophy. And since then? This is my life. It’s no line that at the beginning I was just like you.’ He shuddered, as if at a horrific memory. Donovan’s arms tightened. I wished I had Kathy to hold me. Or even Ruby. Except I didn’t - because I’d never inflict this hell on them. I suddenly understood just how terrible it must be to watch the one you love suffer and be unable to save them. ‘The First Lifers taught me not to be like you. And now..?’ I hated the hopelessness on Hartford’s mush. ‘I’d have to be screwy to go seeking more pain, when things’ll never change. They’ll teach you too little bunny. The Cains always do.’