Blood Shackles (Rebel Vampires Book 2)

by Rosemary A Johns

  Kathy had dementia, but the promise came early on, when we weren’t lost to each other. It looks like a bleeding stupid thing to have done now. But then you didn’t think you were condemning me to eternal slavery, did you, my Moon Girl?

  Just an eternity alone because that’s the thing about you First Lifers: you age and die. Yet you reckon you’re the superior species..?

  Evolution wouldn’t agree.

  Kathy left me alone in the dark, and I’m still here.

  Crawling out of the black, Kathy once told me, would be my redemption. I never thought redemption would be this much of a bitch.

  Then I remembered you needed me to hold your hand too, downed the dregs of my cold coffee and scarpered, the dawn at my back.

  When you swung the apartment door open to my banging and hauled me in by my jacket, you were pale and anxious, wearing those fluffy pink check pyjamas, which were never a good sign. ‘Where the frig have you been? I thought you’d forgotten the dawn.’

  I started. The only other person, who’s ever cared enough to say that to me - don’t forget the dawn - was Kathy.

  ‘I never forget the dawn, darlin’. It just forgets me.’

  We looked at each other. Then for the first time burst into exhausted, overstrung giggles.

  Strangely, returning now didn’t feel like giving up my freedom.

  As I lay in bed, I remembered the bottle of my little whipping boy twin, squaring his shoulders and risking everything for another boy, just because he had a proper home and a papa.

  That was when I knew I was ready to be the leader my family needed.

  Please don’t let my fingers slip out of your hand. Hold on.

  JUNE 3

  ‘This is… The blood and…I’m gonna…… Like are you sure you wanna..?’

  ‘Only way I’ll learn.’

  You clung to my hand, as we ducked through the dark, dusty gym, which stank of sweat and rage. We wove between the baying mob, who were circling the cage. They were high on violence and pain.

  My guts did a dance, when I recognised a red Mohawk. The bloke swivelled his nut, his manic gaze locking onto mine, before he knocked the shoulder of his mate, who was fly-eyed in aviator goggles.

  They both scrutinised me.

  Then they were swarming all over me, their large hands clamped front and back around my throat.

  I just had the time to notice the Manx cat tattoos on their knuckles, before Mohawk’s grinning mush was pressed right into mine.

  ‘M.C.’s my sister,’ I heard you snap, ‘he’s my…’ This’d be interesting. ‘…He’s mine.’

  Mohawk and Aviator’s grips’ tightened. Then, however, as if by telepathy, they pushed back, setting me free. They made the mocking universal gesture for after you, towards the cage.

  When I sensed you holding back, I made an effort to straighten my shoulders – not intimidated here – and pushed forward by myself.

  The huge brawler in the cage was stripped down bare chested to a pair of shiny scarlet Kickboxing shorts and hand wraps. Spider webs inked every inch of bare skin. His mush was a work of sodding art: swollen and bleeding from his gob and broken eye socket. Yet he was still punching.

  He was a slugger, slow but powerful.

  Thing was, he was being taken apart. Toyed with – by M.C.

  In red sports bra, shorts and hand wraps, in the close heat of the dingy gym, M.C. was sweating. The only mark on her, however, was the blood on her lips from a hard hook.

  Two jabs and then a cross. M.C maintained her distance, wearing the poor bastard down. He was bobbing and weaving, finally reduced to covering up. M.C. hopped on her front foot: the flying punch caught the punk to the side of his nut. When he stumbled back, M.C. pounced, with elbow strikes to his chest until he bled, followed by a spinning back kick to his chest and a hook kick to…his groin..?

  So there was no such thing as illegal blows? No ringside doctors, rules or referees?

  This was survival of the fittest: of course a Cain was at the top of the pile.

  I could tell M.C. was an out-fighter. And me? In the ring, I’m a swarmer. You know what that means? In a fair fight, without the wankering tracker in M.C.’s hand, I’d win.

  Not like it’d be fair though because M.C. would fight dirty.

  Yet here’s the blinding part – I fight much dirtier.

  Back in the 1880s, when I was still an amusing bauble for Ruby and my love for her was as intense as a living fire, Ruby would insist I enter no-holds-barred, Greco-Roman challenge matches. The matches were all the rage in the music halls. I’d always win. See, I’ve been playing at this a long time.

  When Ruby and I would get back to our crib, we’d have a wrestling match of our own. Except this time it was Ruby, who’d come out on top.

  I prowled around the cage in the shadows, studying M.C.’s strengths and weaknesses, as she in turn stalked the inked punk.

  When M.C. knocked the slugger stumbling to my side of the cage, a tear of his blood splattered my cheek.

  Just for a moment, M.C. caught my scrutiny. Her blazing peepers narrowed. Then to my surprise, she grinned.

  Not looking away, I steeled myself, before licking the blood from my cheek. I juddered with the high of human blood.

  M.C.’s grin died. In a blur, she gripped the punk, wrapping her legs around him, before grappling him face down onto the matt. Yet she never looked away from me.

  M.C. manipulated the brawler like a chess piece. She placed his body into omoplata - shoulder lock - using her leg; she pressed his elbow joint as well. When the punk howled, I winced. If he didn’t submit, his shoulder would… Pop.

  The poor git was frantically tapping out on the mat, but M.C. wasn’t letting go. Even her Crew had fallen quiet at the bloke’s screams.

  At last, M.C. released the pressure, only to wrap her arm around the brawler’s neck in a blood choke: the geezer went limp.

  Checkmate.

  M.C. threw her crushed opponent down to silence, in that crowded gym. Still her deathly cold gaze never left mine. Blood smeared on her lips, M.C. stood over her prey, roaring in victory, like a tiger after the kill.

  ‘Did you get what you needed?’ Your whisper was tense but determined, your hand slipping into mine.

  ‘Yeah,’ I still didn’t lower my gaze from M.C.’s. Never again. Never bloody again. ‘Oh yeah, I got it.’

  JUNE 6

  It’s black outside, yet you’re still not back.

  I’m scribbling this in the shadows of the lounge, my arse numb on the log bench, because what’s the point in lighting your mango or fig candles tonight?

  Just come home, darling.

  I was cooking up this cracking stir-fry.

  It was a compromise, the best of both worlds: your plant-based, gluten and sugar free purity, melded with my taste explosion of hot chillies, ginger and garlic (that’s another one of those bollocks vampire myths because we can munch on garlic until we sweat the stuff).

  Your range had never been so splattered with cooking sauces, which were spitting from my wok, whilst the dazzling white sides were littered with wooden spoons and chopping boards that were bright with curling vegetable parings, as if a sentient being lived here. Rather than an automaton.

  I hummed The Stones as I stirred, wrapped in your red apron. When you pottered into the kitchen in worn jeans and ivory cashmere, I smiled. You slipped your fingers over mine in sync with their rhythm. ‘Grub’ll be up soon.’

  You nodded.

  A wave of gorse and sunlight washed over me, as you pressed closer. ‘What’s that perfume? It smells like…’

  When you drew back, I bit my tongue. Stupid bugger, aren’t I? ‘Fernando chose it because it smells like gorse,’ you were shifting a wooden spoon on the marble top, as if to distract yourself. ‘It reminds me of home – Mann - on account of the gorse on the Estate. Fernando reckoned it would. He’s wicked clever like that.’

  I’d stopped stirring; I could smell the chillies catching.
<
br />   Fernando: of course that git had bought it for you. Considerate, perfect First Lifer Fernando.

  Your virtual world, with virtual mates and mythologised semi-boyfriend is easier to face up to than the real one. That makes you the unreal one, princess.

  I stiffened. ‘What I can’t figure is why you’re more trapped in the past than I am.’

  You backed away, before pulling out your iPhone like a shooter. ‘You know what? If I’m, like, wicked fried on account of being trapped in the past, why don’t I just stay there?’

  You touched the screen, and there he was: Alpha Geek in all his miniature buttoned up glory, grinning that goofy grin. It made me want to whack your mobile with the wok.

  Still, I didn’t do that, so…progress.

  ‘Great Scott! I do declare, Grayse Cain, twice in one day! What’s doin’?’

  I hated the way you smiled. ‘Nothin’, just wanted to see you.’ You glanced significantly at me, before waltzing out of the kitchen.

  ‘Hey, grub’s up soon…’ I called after you.

  No response.

  Of course not.

  Earlier, I’d perched on the sofa, your laptop open in front of me on the glass coffee table, having a gander at some schematics.

  The Internet’s a bloody miracle: a democratization of info, which The Man can’t pull the plug on. Or own. Finding what I’d needed had been a piece of cake.

  After, I’d tried for the more lawful route, digging into protection against slavery, to build a case for our freedom. But here’s the thing: humans are sneaky bastards.

  ‘The Vienna Declaration,’ I’d clicked on the link excitedly, ‘and Roman Statute go on about sexual enslavement but…’

  ‘Yah?’ You’d been sprawled in the Fjord Relax chair, painting your nails sexy in scarlet.

  ‘They’re on the basis of ‘human rights’ or ‘crimes against humanity’. Look at even the term human trafficking. United Nations Global Initiative to Fight Human Trafficking. Council of Europe Convention on Action against Trafficking in Human Beings--’

  ‘Whoa rant boy, so what?’

  ‘So,’ I’d stabbed an accusing finger at the screen, ‘don’t you get it? It’s not Blood Lifer trafficking, is it? Every single sodding law on trafficking and slavery is worded to exclude any species but humans. You lot can do anything you bleeding want to us.’

  Our cherished invisibility had left us vulnerable to exploitation. By staying Lost, we’d condemned ourselves to slavery.

  ‘Naw, don’t you get it? You reckon you’re so frickin’ good at hiding? Safe before us Cains? You think the powerful men, who drew up these laws didn’t know about you? Why do you reckon they were so careful to assert humanity in each law?’

  Shocked, I’d realised you were right. Trust a First Lifer to think like a First Lifer.

  I pretended to be busy with the Willow plates, plonking them next to the range in preparation, when you strolled back into the kitchen, dropping the mobile onto the stainless steel counter.

  ‘I’ll lay the table,’ you said softly.

  I nodded.

  Then you were gone. But your phone lay there - whispering devilment. Or that’s the story I’m going with; although Mr Professor risked…everything.

  Snap. I’d gripped the wooden spoon so tightly, it’d broken. I tossed it in the rubbish. Then I turned back to the phone.

  I was going to do this; I was the leader now.

  I pressed on Skype.

  Alpha Geek’s mug was a picture when he caught a butchers of me in your kitchen. His first reaction was still that charming let’s work this out together smile, but I wasn’t buying it – he was pissed.

  I made sure Fernando had a good view of the two plates laid out next to the hissing wok in domestic harmony behind me, whilst I was snug in your cooking apron.

  Fernando’s smile faltered. ‘What the frak..?’

  ‘Sorry mate, must’ve…you know, by accident.’

  ‘So, who are you again?’

  It was like two stags at bloody mating time.

  I leant casually against the counter. ‘You’re that professor bloke? The one Grayse used to know--’

  ‘And that makes you..?’

  ‘She hasn’t told you?’

  ‘Where is she?’ Fernando’s dark peepers were flicking side to side in frustration, as if he could see outside the limits of the screen. ‘Are you..?’

  ‘We’re about to nosh here, so it’s not a good time. Look, this is embarrassing, maybe she should--’

  ‘It’s OK, I get it.’

  The screen went blank.

  I let out a deep breath. That’d been my first contact with a First Lifer, who hadn’t known I was a slave, for six months.

  And it’d been blinding to play him.

  I began to hum “In Another Land”, as I gave the last few stirs to the meal; it smelt like a rock band kicking it at Glastonbury. I was ravenous. ‘Oi princess, it’s--’

  In a furious whirr, you slammed into the kitchen, shoving me across the stainless steel counter. The shock shuttered my mind into shut down.

  I caught glimpses of your flushed, raging mush… I know what you did… Your grey peepers were so cold I don’t know why I ever reckoned you were softer than your sister… You’re meant to be a secret… I stayed down, but you kept advancing… How could you do something so bad? I trusted you… You were standing over me… Fernando tells me everything; he’s like my brother… Your mouth was twisted and hard… I have a Blackberry too, or are you that stupid?

  Bad… Stupid… My body contorted, as a bullwhip tore the skin afresh in searing slashes, whilst I writhed - count, my pretty little leech.

  ‘Bad… Stupid… Bad… Sorry… Yeah, I’m bad. Sorry… Sorry,’ I mumbled, my nut turned away and my palms splayed on the counter. At last, my distress seemed to break into the red rage, which was fuelling your diatribe; you reached out towards me. I screwed me peepers shut. I deserved a clout but stuck in the grey area between Primrose Hill and Abona, I still panicked. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…’

  You hastily withdrew your hand, backing across the kitchen. ‘What was all that about?’ You sounded calmer. I risked opening my peepers. Then I pushed myself up. My tooth hurt from where it’d banged the counter; I could feel the fang growing through behind it. I had a quick shufti at you leaning with your arms crossed in the doorway. ‘Was it a message? A way to escape?’

  Shocked, I stared at you. ‘Not bleeding likely.’

  ‘Then what? What were you thinking?’

  ‘That I didn’t want you to leave,’ I couldn’t quite get myself to add me but I knew you heard it from the way you blushed, ‘or go to America and send me back to Abona.’

  When you surged towards me, I couldn’t help flinching. You stopped mid-step and flinched in response. ‘That’ll never happen. I promise.’ I still, however, couldn’t meet your gaze; I couldn’t make myself believe it either. Suddenly I realised the kitchen was hazy with smoke and stank with the stench of burning: my stir-fry. Coughing, I dived for the range, twisting it off. We stared at the blackened remains sadly: one cremated dinner coming up… My stomach rumbled. You spun away, with a flick of your hair. ‘I’ll eat out.’

  A few short steps and – bang – you were gone.

  You still haven’t come back. It’s very late.

  I reckoned I’d sit here and wait up for you. But then it’s not like I’m your…anything…is it?

  I wish you’d come back. It’s silent here and I’m…a muppet, all right?

  I need you to understand.

  JUNE 8

  You insisted your sister had booked it. But you still didn’t stop the bint she sent from waxing me full body and privates smooth again. It’s part of the Blood Lifer regimen, like polishing and waxing your prized motor.

  And it bloody hurt.

  At least she was professional, using this bubble gummy soft wax on my danglies and other private places.

  Not like the Doctor at Abona.

&n
bsp; It’s not as if I had any choice in it though: my body’s not my own any longer.

  And isn’t that the bleeding point?

  JUNE 9

  I swore I’d explain everything. But not tonight. My jaw and fangs ache. My wrists are purpled with bruises. And I’m lying on my stomach on top of my duvet, as I write this.

  I’m trying to figure out how I got from Amy Winehouse to risking a promise, which would mean casting my lot in with you alone.

  Either I’m right to trust you. Or I’m the biggest bleeding mug of them all.

  On my knees this morning beside the coffee table, I had your vases ranged for dusting with the special pink cloth, which you’d marked in the cupboard. Your indigo Italian glass vase was up next for the once over. I’d worked out your high-tech sound system and was humming along to a music channel.

  Then it’d started up – that song, which had thrown me right back to the moors, the sobbing grief and death of everything, which was good in my world. Immersed in the soulful pain of Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black”, I’d found myself on my knees, singing along.

  Kathy: my love, my Moon Girl, whose Soul snared mine; I’d been enraptured by every word, which she’d sung up on stage.

  Yet after we’d escaped together from Ruby and the rest of my brutal family, Kathy had learnt the truth about me - and she’d never sung again.

  The truth silences you.

  In the early stages of the cruel dementia, however, which stole us from each other, I’d once found Kathy in our room, swaying to “Back to Black”, as it played on the radio. She’d been mouthing the words. For one glorious moment, I’d hoped she’d sing again, transformed to a ghost of her youth’s transcendence.

  But hope’s the killer.

  When Kathy died, I’d buried her at night out on Ilkley Moors.