Blood Shackles (Rebel Vampires Book 2)

by Rosemary A Johns

  I’d rather sink my fangs into their throats and devour their warm blood.

  I spent the next hour happily imagining different dismembering methods for the Doctor, Sir and the Blood Clubbers, so I wouldn’t have to deal with the reality of being transformed into a fetishized toy.

  At last, I realised the ripping had stopped. Someone was standing over me. I opened my peepers.

  Marie antoinette was scrutinising me with a smug smile. ‘Monsieur has taught you lessons, yes?’

  I stared antoinette down in silence.

  Antoinette’s smile wavered. ‘Je veux dire you’ve seen the urgent necessity of reforming?’

  ‘Sorry, luv: I’m unreformable. You’re the bitch playing traitor.’

  Antoinette stuck her nose in the air. ‘Au contraire, you silly boy. I serve Monsieur. And you? Despite the violence of your utterance, you will come to understand. Maintenant: up. You will see what comes of the truly unreformable. Then maybe you will not wish to be counted amongst their number, n’est-ce pas?’

  When antoinette led me with stumbling steps to a silent troop of Blood Lifers at attention in a tiny courtyard, Donovan broke ranks to clasp my hand. I could tell he was scrutinising my now hairless body for bruises, burns or blood, like he did with Hartford but – cheers, tracker –– there were no marks to witness my ordeal.

  Me? I was lost in the feel of the pure night air. Fixated by the patch of black and piercing stars; they weren’t like the false ones inside the brothel, which were as fake as everything else in that commodified harem. I was flying from the sensation of being outside for the first time since my kidnap, which meant I didn’t look down.

  Until I heard the groan.

  I doubled up, puking violently over the grey face of Abona.

  Donovan gently patted my back.

  A…something…Blood Lifer…a bird once…had been hammered crucifixion style to the ground, with nails through her wrists and ankles, or what was left of them.

  She’d been positioned in the shadow of Abona but just enough so the sun would melt her skin candle-like. Flay her. Blind her peepers. Boil her tongue.

  That happened to me once and let me tell you, it’s not something you ever forget.

  I wiped the flecks of vomit from my chin, as I straightened. I couldn’t figure out how the poor bird hadn’t copped it. Then I caught a shufti of a thin tube, which had been slipped between her lips: the sadistic bastards were force feeding her blood to prolong the agony.

  Melt her in the day, heal her at night. And repeat…

  Donovan must’ve seen the terror in my expression because he grasped my arm. ‘Chick tried to escape,’ he muttered. Then he met my gaze. ‘Hartford says to be cool about… I mean, when I heard the Enforcers had taken you, I was wiggin’ out. And now Vesper…’

  As if by voicing the name, Donovan had set it free; Vesper was taken up and murmured around the ranks of still Blood Lifers, who were bearing witness to her mutilation – Vesper.

  I knew it must be her true, Blood Lifer name.

  ‘Vesper,’ I breathed, adding my voice to the many.

  Guilt wormed at me: Sir had made the example out of her. Instead of me.

  I sent up the silent promise that if I had the chance, I’d rescue Vesper. I couldn’t continue my life with her like this: flayed every sunrise for the very same crime I’d committed. It was like a nail in my guts.

  No one else tried to escape after that. Even me. I guess both Hartford and marie antoinette were right: Sir had taught me my lesson.

  ‘Come now, mon Ganymede,’ marie antoinette’s pink silk swished ahead of me, down the purple corridor, her curls swaying high on her nut, ‘Monsieur wishes to furnish you with most important information and quite the opportunity.’ Her hips swayed with self-importance.

  The strains of Supergrass’ “Sun Hits the Sky” bled through the dark door at the bottom of the hall. I clenched my sweaty palms. Antoinette knocked, before pushing open the door. She gestured for me to enter ahead of her, as if I’d been summoned to the Headmaster’s office for a caning.

  I edged into Sir’s study.

  Sir was poised hawk-like in front of a bank of monitors. The monitors held multiple screens of what looked like every room on the estate: punters getting suck jobs or buggering Blood Lifers on four-posters, empty hallways, the kitchen, slave quarters, cells (and I’d been right, there was another poor git down there, convulsing in a sensory deprivation hood), woods, what looked like a stable and…the front door.

  Sir must’ve had eyes on my escape the whole bleeding time; I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d had popcorn. Sir straddled those screens like a twenty-first century god.

  When Sir looked up, he gave a tight smile.

  I dropped to kneel.

  As the electric guitar started to weep, Sir muted the music.

  I was suddenly too aware of my own breathing and the rustle of antoinette’s ball gown, as it brushed past me snake-like, when she stepped around me to Sir’s side.

  ‘Has my pretty leech been a good boy this morning,’ Sir asked quietly, ‘or is he still a mouthy brat?’

  ‘Hmm…’ I held my breath. Bugger it, did this one savour the power she cradled in her soft hands. ‘He has learnt his lessons, Monsieur. Not a word spoken.’

  I tensed when I heard the chair creak and the click, click of Sir’s Oxford shoes.

  Then Sir’s fingers were in my hair, petting me. ‘See you, my little one, why I had to be so harsh? I only do it to help you, seeing as you’re so stupid you won’t learn any other way.’ He was still stroking my nut, twisting the strands of hair. I couldn’t stop myself from leaning into his touch. ‘Marie antoinette here is my trusted lieutenant.’ Confused, I glanced at antoinette, who was blushing. She would’ve been fanning herself, if she’d been able to – daft bint. ‘You too can be promoted. A lieutenant like her. I’d be proud and wouldn’t be disappointed in you then, see?’ I stiffened. So that was why the special attention? To mould me into the one thing I’d never become? ‘If you behave and are obedient, I’ll protect and care for you: blood, water, food, clothes and time outside.’ Sir gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. Bloody hell but it was hard to mask what I truly felt. How much I wanted to tell him to shove his offer. ‘What do you want, my shadow?’ Sir traced my lips with his thumb. If I had my fangs, it’d only take one small bite… I must’ve let some of the thought flicker across my mug because Sir snatched back his hand. Trying to regain his composure, Sir threw off his jacket, tossing it to antoinette, before turning back his sleeves. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, as if psyching himself up for something. ‘Well, my pretty little whore, ready are you to rise up the ranks?’

  Marie antoinette boiled the water. Sir tipped it into the stainless steel thermal jug. Then I was told to follow Sir out into the grounds, by the light of his swinging torch.

  I was trotting over sharp gravel, which sliced my bare feet, but the night sky was above me: I was outside in the wider estate. I should’ve been fizzing with elation. But nothing ever came free at Abona. Everything was a lesson. I warily eyed that jug in Sir’s hands.

  We’d passed kitchen gardens, an ice-house and a horse pond with sleeping koi. I hadn’t realised even from the monitors how massive the estate was, yet we’d only walked through a tiny portion of it: us slaves were buried and alone. I wrapped my arms around my naked chest, shivering as the breeze cut me.

  When we reached a neo-classical stable block, Sir slowed.

  I could hear soft, anguished voices inside.

  Christ in heaven, no…

  I took one step back.

  At Sir’s warning glance, however, I followed him through the black entrance.

  At once, the voices stopped.

  Donovan was manacled to one side of a horse stall, his wrists stretched above his nut. On the opposite side - facing him - was Hartford, who was manacled just the same. Their distress was so palpable, it was a living entity, alive with us in that stall. It was suff
ocating.

  When Sir strolled towards Hartford (who hung unmoving in his chains, with his peepers downcast), it was Donovan, who frantically started begging. ‘Sir, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry… Please, I’ll be good…I’m gonna be good… I’ve learnt my lesson.’ It was a shock to hear Donovan reduced to such desperation. ‘I’ll do anything, just…hurt me, please? Punish me.’

  ‘Punish you? I am.’ I couldn’t stop staring at the jug hanging in Sir’s hand. Sir tipped back Hartford’s nut gently. ‘Open your mouth.’

  Hartford was trembling but he dutifully opened his lips. Donovan glanced with his tear-filled peepers at me - the kohl smudged down his cheeks - as if somehow I could stop this. I wished I had the same bottle as Hartford. But now that tracker was implanted in me..? I had to be a good little puppy. ‘You gave water without permission to that bitch, who’s pegged out in the sun. So now I’m giving your bitch water.’

  ‘No…’ Even as I hissed it, it was too bloody late.

  Sir had flipped open the funnel on the thermal flask, jammed it between Hartford’s teeth and had begun to pour.

  I watched in horror as the boiling water gargled down Hartford’s throat, Sir ramming him in place with a knee against his chest, whilst his other hand jerked back Hartford’s angel-gold hair.

  Donovan was weeping, banging his nut rhythmically against the wooden stall, wrenching his wrists bloody against the manacles.

  I was frozen. Then I shattered.

  Hartford’s fingers were clawing, until the nails bled, at the stone stable wall behind him. His back arched rigid. His streaming tears, however, were silent; even when Sir flung down both the empty jug and Hartford in the same movement, Hartford didn’’t make a sound. Sir had stolen the very last shred of him.

  His voice.

  Sir wiped his hands on his trousers, before tossing me a set of keys, which I caught in a dazed fog. ‘Undo the bitches and bring them back to the house. You’ve made me proud shadow - that was a lovely job. Extra blood ration for you tonight. You’ve earned it.’

  Sir patted my rump as he left.

  Donovan was breathing hard. I’d never seen anyone look at me with such hatred before.

  I paled, before scrambling to release Hartford. As soon as the chains clanked to the dirty floor, he curled into a silent foetal ball, his slim shoulders shaking in pain and grief.

  ‘Baby,’ Donovan called softly, ‘baby, I’m here…’

  It was like Hartford hadn’t even heard him.

  Nervously, I edged towards Donovan to unlock his manacles. The moment they fell from his bruised wrists, Donovan’s hands were around my neck, as he knocked me back amongst the straw. ‘You…Judas… After everything, man, an Enforcer..?’

  ‘I promise,’ I managed to gasp, ‘I won’t ever be one of those collaborators. I’ll stop Sir…somehow…I’ll…do something…’

  Donovan’s grip didn’t loosen. ‘You can’t. There’s no way, there’s just no--’

  ‘Let me worry about that. Hartford needs you right now, yeah?’

  Donovan shuddered, as with an effort, he pushed the psychotic back into its jack-in-the-box. His fingers eased away from my throat. Then he nodded, pulling himself off me. But he turned at the last moment to wallop me in the guts, which all things considered, I deserved.

  Donovan dropped next to Hartford. He made several attempts to touch him but each time backed off, helpless in the face of Hartford’s torment. Finally he curled around him, as if they were little kids hiding from the world. It was so intimate I was ashamed for witnessing it. Donovan pulled his lover closer but he didn’t say a word: there was nothing to say.

  The silence in the cold of that stable was scorching.

  It wasn’t long afterwards that I saw my chance to keep my promise to do something. To stop Sir.

  To save us.

  At least, that’s what I thought.

  Hartford was still unable to speak. He huddled on a corner of mattress, lost to both Donovan and me; he was unable to swallow either water or the blood, which we both gnawed from our wrists. It seemed so silent without his cheerful nattering or bursts of song.

  Sir had stolen Hartford’s heart and Hartford from us.

  Then all of a sudden marie antoinette was chivvying us out in rows onto the lawns of the walled garden, clapping her hands, like it was bloody Christmas come early.

  ‘Master,’ Donovan had just been able to mutter, ‘Finlo Cain: the owner, man.’

  I tensed.

  The Estate.

  How many times had Sir held that fear - the monster under the bed - over me?

  Yet what if it was all a bluff?

  I knew what Hartford thought. After the way he’d been lynched and then the abuse he’d suffered at Abona at the hands of First Lifers, who could blame him?

  Yet I’d seen the other side of humanity for five long decades; I’d lived amongst you. Kathy had shown me the very best of First Life.

  The owner had to know what we were. How we were used. That didn’t mean, however, he knew what was truly going on in this Bristol house, behind the grand façade and Egyptian sheets, which the Blood Club never saw.

  What happened to us in the stables - or Vesper crucified out in the sun.

  I guess I wasn’t yet ready to believe that.

  ‘Inspect,’ antoinette trilled.

  I stood to attention on tiptoe, like the others, with my legs spread and my hands clasped behind my nut. My back was arched: my intimates ready for the owner’s pleasure.

  I could hear Sir’s voice, charming and calm, like it always was with other First Lifers. Then this other older, gruff one, behind me – Master.

  They were moving up the row: pausing, commenting and touching.

  My breath quickened. Guilt-soaked from having been moulded by Sir into an unwilling Enforcer, I knew I was going to risk it – for Hartford, Donovan and myself. For bloody all of us.

  Master was behind me. I flinched when calloused fingers traced down my spine. ‘Is this the goog that needed learning with the tracker?’ A deep Manx growl.

  I felt Sir’s caress on my shoulder. ‘But he’s a lovely job now. The waiting list for him is already a show--’

  ‘Master,’ I wet my lips. A ripple had quivered down the ranks of slaves when I’d spoken, which was then followed by a dead stillness. ‘Please help us. You need to know what’s--’

  ‘Did that stupid slowan of a slave just address me?’

  Bugger it.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Cain. I’ll--’

  ‘100 lashes with the bullwhip and I want it scrooging, screwed up and chiming like a foghorn, so it learns never to address a First Lifer again.’

  I tried not to quake, as I remembered Hartford’s bleeding back and his arse torn up by the bullwhip.

  I felt Sir and Master move away, dismissing me and my pointless outburst.

  I was a mug.

  50 years too long spent amongst First Lifers had made me soft. Hartford had the right of it. These humans knew the darkness at the core of Abona. And they didn’t sodding care. Just because we weren’t the same species.

  At last I truly got that we were on our own: there was no one to rescue us but ourselves.

  Before they turned back towards the house, I heard Master say (deliberately loudly I was certain), ‘And if you can’t learn that bad leech? Mark it for the Estate.’

  Sir had hung me in chains by my wrists from the ceiling of the stables. My shoulders were wrenched, as my toes struggled to touch the dirt floor.

  Crack – I gasped and writhed, as the tip of the red nylon bullwhip bruised and lacerated a strip across my shoulders: it felt like I’d been burnt by a branding iron. My muscles were cramping.

  At the start of the punishment, Sir had forced me to count, my pretty little leech – crack - one, thank you Sir – crack - two, thank you Sir - but I was long past being able to form words.

  Crack – I screamed, as the whip seared my arse; I could feel blood dribbling down my thighs.

  Crack
– another sharp slash where my arse met my thighs (and didn’t that sodding hurt).

  Crack – Sir caught my legs.

  I buckled, chiming like a foghorn, just as Master had requested.

  I realised now how easy Sir had been going on me, as I’d guessed when I’d seen him laying into Hartford with the riding crop.

  Crack, crack, crack… I swung side to side, squirming ineffectually. My mug was wet with tears. My throat hoarse from screaming.

  As the lashes fell, I hung onto the memory of Hartford’s strength.

  Let my people go... I sang the song on loop in my mind. Whilst my body continued to shudder under the whip - my peepers flickering shut - my dry lips formed the silent words… Tell old Pharaoh…

  In my agonised, befuddled brain, I was united in the darkness with Donovan and Hartford, leading them out into the tunnel of black - crack – my striped, bleeding body, shut down…to freedom…

  To let my people go.

  All right then, so I’ve written, and now you’ve read.

  My witness and promise to do something. To save them - my family.

  That’s my business. It’s why I have to go. Please give me that.

  Let me go.

  JUNE 13

  I’m not sure why I’m writing this. If you’ll read it.

  Donovan says this whole slave journal is grotesque. He wanted to burn it sacrificial, when he rifled it out of my leather rucksack earlier.

  Except Donovan doesn’t understand I was never writing it for my Mistress. You got that, right?

  It kept me sane, amongst the waking nightmares and terror of being bought by Master’s daughter. It was a way to say what I thought. Unfiltered. To be a Blood Lifer, without the conditioning leashing me with fears. To tell you what I was, without having to talk because you were Mistress and I was slave.

  But how can you truly get it? When you’re still trapped in the spider’s web of lights, which span the global empire of Cain Company?