Who needs fangs when you’ve got murderous grief? It was every one of my revenge fantasies come true. It was…justice. Blood Lifer justice. Not your human law.
It felt like absolution for us all.
JUNE 15
Hartford’s still grieving; I had to tumble him out of his sleeping bag to get him up tonight. He’s squiffy half the time on the booze, which Donovan brings him. It’s not like I can give him a hard time. He lost Ashanti because of me.
I may be head of this screwed up family of misfits (and don’t ask me how that happened; it seems some of the Spartacus rubbed off during the rescue), I’m still not telling a Long-lived what to do. Hartford was locked up for so long it’ll take time for him to cope with walking in the world again.
I know I did.
Yet when Hartford does, he’ll soar above it, like a bleeding butterfly.
Now Donovan? He’s already strutting his stuff. He sprawls on our ratty sofa, as if it’s luxury leather. Or swings back to the squat with cardboard boxes of take-away: Chinese, Indian or battered cod from the chippy. He buys our blood from a range of butchers, so we can’t be traced. Then we feast. I’ve never seen Donovan happier, than when he’s watching Hartford drink the blood, which he’s provided unrationed.
We don’t have our fangs back yet, which means I know Donovan can’t also be feeding on First Lifers. Do you reckon, however, that I’d restrain him? Donovan’s earned the right to stalk the night unfettered.
Maybe I’ll persuade them to blood abstain, like I do. After all that time on pigs’ blood, it’ll be easier than the struggle I went through, cold turkey.
Here’s the thing though: I made a promise to rescue Ashanti’s girl. To rescue every last one of them at Abona. And I’m a man of my word.
Sir’s dead.
But you Cains? The Blood Club? It’s still delivering strong profit margins.
If I save one slave, another will simply be hunted to take their place.
Plus the specialist, individualised market, which nets the billionaires? That’s buried on the Estate. With Master. As long as he’s training Blood Lifers good and proper..? None of us are safe.
We can’t run forever.
We either stand and fight now. Or First Lifers will become the apex predator.
The only question left is: will you help us? Or your family?
JUNE 16
‘Don’t,’ Donovan clutched my arm, his nails scoring into my flesh. When I met his gaze, I recognised the pain in his peepers but hadn’t expected it. ‘Please, man, we’ll find a way.’ He glanced back at Hartford, who was still wormed in the blue sleeping bag, only his tufted blond hair - no longer a sleek helmet - visible. ‘Not Hartford. He’s done. My baby’s given enough. But you and me?’ Donovan licked his lips nervously. ‘Whatever this suicide mission is? Rescuing Ashanti’s chick? Then we’ll--’
‘It’s the bloody tracker,’ I pulled Donovan’s fingers away from my marked skin, playing with them between my hands soothingly. ‘If I don’t go back to Grayse, she can track me. To you. I’m not gonna risk that.’
‘Then we split,’ Donovan was rigid - so bleeding tense - yet I didn’t need that to know how much his offer was hurting him. How much he was prepared to sacrifice for me. ‘We run together. Leave Hartford behind. Then at least he’s safe.’
I tried to smile. ‘Cheers, mate. But I’m not running. And as I told you before, Hartford needs you.’
‘Not cool,’ Donovan burst out, ‘I won’t let you be a slave, whilst we’re free.’
I gripped onto Donovan’s hand more tightly. ‘We don’t have a choice.’
JUNE 17
So now I’m back here at Primrose Hill – your S.L.A.V.E – are you happy now?
Business is sorted. Loan paid in full.
When I arrived this evening, you were out.
I had a shufti around the apartment, stroking each of the Manx because it’d felt like I’d abandoned them but now I was…home.
I’d only just strolled into the sitting room, sprawling on the scarlet sofa, when I heard the click of the front door.
My first instinct was to run, like some lovesick puppy conditioned at the sound to hump your leg. With an effort to look cool, I restrained myself.
I hopped up smartish, however, when M.C. mooched in ahead of you in studded tartan and denim, a messenger bag glittering with skull-and-crossbones slung over her shoulder. I only caught a glimpse of your pale mush behind her, before I had a mug full of enraged punk, pressing me down onto the sofa by the front of my t-shirt.
All right then, consequences time.
I’d reckoned at least I’d get to talk to you first. But life’s a bitch like that.
I hadn’t expected your voice, cold as bloody ice, from behind M.C., ‘Don’t touch him: he’s mine.’
The pressure on my front eased. M.C. scrutinized me. ‘It be proper booky. Dis liccle leech’s cuz and its bitch done run.’
‘My Blood Lifer doesn’t know anything. I’ve questioned him, remember?’
‘Dat’s what it says. But if it gets worked--’
‘Na-ah,’ you insisted. I heard you step closer, as M.C. shook me once more, before standing. I let out a breath, unbunching my hands, which I’d unconsciously fisted into the sofa.
‘Problem be I don’t have a scooby where you’ve been hiding da liccle leech, innit?’
‘It was a punishment.’ I noticed you looked as if you hadn’t taken a kip since I’d left and your black A-line shift was crumpled. ‘He was locked in his room on account of I’m training him now, like daddy wants.’
M.C. sucked on her teeth. Yeah, she wasn’t buying it. ‘Dis leech at Abona says it saw your bitch dere day of da escape, when Mr Yates was messed up big time. Why’d it say dat?’
My heart was bloody galloping the Grand National.
‘That’s fried. Maybe the slave’s trying to shift the blame onto someone, who’s not there to be disciplined? Or avoid trouble for themselves? What’s the CCTV show?’
I flinched, when I realised what this would mean for marie antoinette. Then I remembered how she’d bustled to boil the water for Sir and I didn’t feel half as bad.
‘CCTV was down, innit?’ M.C.’s gaze flickered to mine. ‘Don’t worry, sis; my crew be retrieving da bad leeches. And then..? It be a boot party.’ M.C. wasn’t reassuring you, she was threatening me. Then she smiled. ‘You saying dis liccle leech’s trained?’
‘Naw…I mean…yah…but only…’
‘Kneel.’ I slipped to my knees next to the glass coffee table at M.C.’s command. I hoped you understood the game I was playing. ‘Looks like da liccle leech be learning,’ M.C. sounded proud, as if her kid sister had passed the first grade of Mistress School, ‘but da dutty bitch was on da furniture. Dere’s disrespect big time.’ Thwap – thwap – thwap. I knew without being able to see that M.C. was pulling out her studded belt and lobbing it to you. ‘Gonna learn it?’
‘Later,’ you replied briskly. I hoped that was you catching onto the game and not a promise, as you tossed the belt – thump – next to me. I forced myself not to sneak a look at it. ‘Now, let’s see if we can’t get my training done. It’s late.’
I glanced from underneath my eyelashes, whilst you both settled on the sofa. M.C. took out a laptop from her skull-and-crossbones bag. I let myself sink deeper into my thoughts - safe in them - as you threw figures back and forth. The numbers swirled radiantly.
Donovan and Hartford were free.
They’d look after each other: I’d made them swear it, until with a laugh, they’d insisted they weren’t kids.
I was a slave again but I was alive, whilst Sir was dead.
Count your blessings and all that.
‘Da Blood Club’s a product business, you get me?’ M.C.’s lecturing shocked me back to my body. I was numb with holding still so long, kneeling at your feet. Product business? ‘Every product business uses da Internet to cut costs, keep stock of inventories and customer’s needs, desires and
shit.’ You were scribbling away on the pad of paper, which was balanced on your lap. I gritted my teeth. M.C. had pushed her laptop back into the messenger bag and was lounged amongst the sofa cushions. ‘It be costing more to tailor da product, but dat's what makes you unique. Dat’s da premium return. Da big cash.’
‘At the Estate?’ You paused, pen poised.
‘You be proper learning. Internet teaches us da personal needs of da private sales. Dad conditions da leeches to meet da needs.’
‘Needs?’
‘Anything Blood Clubbers ask for? Dey get. Dad’s da best. Don’t worry about it, sis; you don’t--’
‘But I want to understand. You were right: I’m a Cain. I know that now.’
Bloody hell, I hoped you were acting.
‘You’re gonna make dad proper proud.’
I shifted on my painful knees and then froze, when I realised I’d drawn M.C’s attention. ‘I be letting you deal with your liccle leech now. Alright sis, see you tomorrow.’ M.C. pointed at her studded belt, which still coiled darkly next to me. ‘You don’t be needing to give dat back ‘til den, innit?’
I forced myself not to watch, as you walked M.C. out of the apartment.
I was suddenly nervous to be alone with you.
I’d come back, but so much had changed. I didn’t know what I was to you: more or less than the non-boyfriend, who you snogged when the need burned.
Whether you were now firmly back under the wing of your family, and I was nothing but a product, belonging to the daughter of Cain.
You paced back to the sitting room, skulking in the doorway.
No way to read that then.
Still, you hadn’t gone for M.C.’s belt, so if I was going to take a punt…
Bugger this.
I launched myself at you, sweeping you round, as you yelped in surprise.
Then you clasped your arms around my neck and held on, repeating my name, as if I’d vanish in a puff of smoke if you didn’t. ‘Light, Light, Light…’
At last, I let go.
You stepped back, looking suspiciously like you were wiping wetness from the edges of your peepers. ‘Do you know how many lies I had to tell?’
‘Not as many as I’ve told.’
We stared at each other, before I dropped my gaze. ‘Cheers, for… It’s done. They’re--’
‘Yah, kinda got that.’ I hadn’t been prepared for the bite in your tone.
I flushed. ‘A bit more acid in that, sweetheart; you didn’t quite melt me.’ You pushed past, but I pursued you, confused. ‘What’s..?’
When you swung back, I realised just how poorly you looked. ‘Are you..? Has all this…been about nothin’ but surviving?’
‘I’m a slave,’ I explained, ‘everything’s about survival.’
‘I thought you trusted me?’
‘It’s not about trust.’
‘It’s like…making me feel…manipulating me into helping you? What I wanna know is if you used me to free your family?’
The instant denial caught in my throat. Porkies wouldn’t work. Not when your flint peepers were considering me so intently you were flaying me raw. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
I saw the hurt flash, before you buried it. ‘You know what? Yah, I would, so I guess I can’t blame you. But it doesn’t make it right.’
‘Neither’s kidnap, torture or rape. That never stopped you lot. It never stopped--’
‘It did,’ you said quietly, ‘I stopped. I…’ Then you were legging it from the room – bang – there went the bedroom door.
Abso-bloody-lutely blinding: not one night back and I’d botched things up. Sighing, I collapsed back onto the sofa. My leg knocked against M.C.’s skull-and-crossbones bag.
Now wasn’t that interesting?
Remember how I told you it wasn’t snoopin’: it was spying..?
I glanced at the door, but the apartment was quiet, lit not by the salvaged chandelier but rather by fig and mango candles. I relaxed into the exotic aromas, as I sneaked my hand inside the bag. I slipped out M.C.’s laptop, before balancing it on the coffee table. I flipped it open – M.C. hadn’t even shut it down. I clicked through her browsing history: punk music, motorbikes and finances.
Then I opened another section, marked Blood Club. I was immediately plunged deeper into the Internet.
It was when I came to a sequence, which included onion that I hesitated.
I knew this would lead to the Tor Network: a hidden network of encrypted websites on the Dark Web, which like an onion, had many layers. Deeper and harder to find. Anonymous too, so they said, for its users.
So I figured, if you were selling slave Blood Lifers, where better to advertise?
At its best the Internet can emancipate the individual, yet here it was at its worst: enslaving a species.
My finger hovered over the link.
I remembered M.C. flicking through glossy photos of starkers Blood Lifers - the same ones she’d flaunted, projected on the dining room table.
Now I could guess why they’d been taken. After all, this was a product business, and you used the Internet to make sure you were meeting the customers’ needs, desires and shit.
I clicked and waited, impatiently bouncing my knee as the website loaded slowly, and the information was bounced around the globe.
Buggering hell…
I clutched onto the sofa to stop from cursing. I glanced back at the doorway: you were still in your room.
There was Hartford, strapped to one of Abona’s four-posters, his back, arse and thighs striped and bleeding. Underneath was written every fetish I’d ever heard of. And a few I hadn’t. The prices were eye watering. Then there was photo after photo of the things, which Hartford would never talk about. Now I understood why: I wished I didn’t. I clicked on as fast as I could.
Then I stopped. Everything stopped. Even my sodding heart.
You were planning to sell me.
Because there I was: at Sir’s feet and again at Inspect. Dazedly, I read the list of kinks, which I could be trained in (if my new owner wished), whilst at the Estate.
I don’t know how long I was staring at that screen, lost in the terror of it. When I looked up, you were at my shoulder, studying the screen too. And frowning.
I scrambled away from you. Startled, you reached out to me, but I held you back. ‘Why? What have I bleeding done to…deserve that?’
I didn’t understand the way you hesitated, as you twisted back to the screen.
You looked like you were ready to puke, once you’d scanned it. The snaps didn’t seem like they were doing it for you. ‘You’ve got it wrong. I wouldn’t ever let them do that. No one’s having you but me. No one’s touching you but…’ You looked away, pink creeping up your neck. ‘I didn’t even know--’
‘You never do, right? But that’s what your daddy’s planning for me and all the other products. How can I do nothing when… How can you?’
Frustrated (and I didn’t know at which one of us more), I shoved past you, slamming into my cell and crashing shut the door.
Except it’s not a cell (I’ve felt that for a long time). It’s just stuck in my throat to write anything else. You’ve given me sheets, which are as soft as your own, this nifty crochet bedside table and the neon blue ivy, so I can tell between day and night.
Yet even a palace is a cell, without true freedom.
I know now that whilst the Blood Club exists, I’ll never be free: of fear, guilt and this consuming desperation to help…all of them.
The Lost.
We’re not slaves. We’re the next evolutionary step, with as much right to this world as you.
The only thing I can’t figure yet is how to cut off the head of the snake: the Estate itself.
I threw myself onto the bed on my stomach. When I heard shifting footsteps outside my door, I tensed. But you didn’t come in. I breathed in deeply the scent of gorse and sunlight.
No one’s having you but me. No one’s touching you but…
> What the bloody hell was that? I’ve had my fill of possessive love. I know I’m an obsessive git myself.
But whatever this is between us..?
It wouldn’t win the medal for healthiest relationship of the year.
It’s controlling and destructive. And I’ve already had that with Ruby, cheers – didn’t end well.
Not to mention, I’m not your boyfriend, remember? Can never be your boyfriend?
Now isn’t that a ringing endorsement?
I’m sorry I let you think I used you to free my family. It’s not that it’s untrue - especially at the start - yet the feelings part of it..? I didn’t figure on that. Bloody daft falling for the bird, who owns you.
I’m not free to love because when you’re a slave, nothing can be a true choice. It’s always forced: out of fear, conditioning or survival.
If I was free..?
I hate myself for feeling like this towards one of you Cains. I’m a bleeding wanker for wanting you to love me back - just a little bit - when all I am to you is something to be owned and touched.
No one’s having you but me. No one’s touching you but…
It’s all right. I get the message.
JUNE 18
The look on your mug when you stormed out of my room this evening, brandishing my journal like a bloody grenade, I reckoned you were about to rip my throat out with your bared gnashers. ‘So you wanna be with your family? Not me?’
I backed into the kitchen, bumping into the stainless steel counter and scrabbling for purchase on it. ‘Hold your horses--’
‘Ya huh!’ You slammed your hands down either side of me on the counter; one still clutched the journal. ‘You get the message?’
I swallowed. ‘Don’t I?’
You lowered your lips close to mine; your ash blonde hair was a soft veil across my cheeks. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘I dunno.’ My peepers fluttered closed. Our lips moth-touched.
Blood Shackles (Rebel Vampires Book 2) Page 22
