Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  You shivered, running your fingers through your hair. “Does it do nothing but rain in this city?”

  “Drizzle. It drizzles mostly. And making small talk about the weather? That marks you as an honorary Londoner right there.”

  You arched your brow. “I’m from Boston; it’s not like I don’t get it.”

  “So, that’s it then? I mean…just that your accent…” I ducked my head.

  “I grew up with my aunt in Beacon Hill. After that it was Harvard, of course.” Your lip curled. “Do you want to see my resume too?”

  I cocked my head. “Right little bluestocking.”

  “Right little killer.” Your eyes were hard now.

  Bugger.

  My chest was tight. Breathe, bloody breathe. “You don’t know the half of it, sweetheart.”

  The look on your face was worth it.

  When you slipped off your stool, however, stalking down the hallway towards my cell, I tensed for flight.

  Fight or flight: they’re our two most basic, ancient responses. I used to imagine that I’d always fight. That’s been tested, however, these last few months.

  We none of us have one identity alone and immutable.

  To the Blood Club I’m shadow. But my true name is Light.

  Yet what does that even mean?

  In First Life, I was Thomas. In Blood Life we must all transform, when we’re rechristened into our new world: I chose Light. I was, however, to change again, when I met… Let’s just say she was a First Lifer — like you — and I never saw anything the same way again. I was never the same. I shed the Blood Lifer that I’d been, like snake skin.

  Now she’s gone. And who am I without her? In the blackness of this new life and grief?

  It was Sir who rechristened me once more as slave shadow.

  So, who am I now? The type of bloke who runs in terror from a First lifer?

  When you returned to the kitchen, however, just as I was poised to leg it, I saw that you were only holding this journal. When I caught a glimpse of its blood-red cover, it was strangely comforting.

  You thrust the journal down in front of me, with that order to do something quiet.

  Funny, how quiet it can be to write pain, love, and death.

  You know, it’s not as comfortable as you’d reckon traveling by crate.

  No, you’re right: no one reckons that it’s comfy.

  That first night, when they delivered me to you like the product I’ve become, I’d been traveling for so long in the stink of brittle straw and the dark, that the bright light of your chandelier blinded me.

  I lay there, wedged in and tied down by red nylon ropes, which had bruised my wrists and ankles (even purpling my throat), gasping for air and slowly opened my eyes. I squinted up at the light refracted by the vast chandelier, which my muddled mind realized was hundreds of pieces of plastic rubbish, the type that could be washed up on a beach: bottles, bags, balloons and fishing lines.

  Then rough hands dragged the ropes off me. Finally, I was hauled upright, like a sodding statue.

  You were simply standing there — watching — your hands clutched together. I didn’t know which of us was paler.

  Your apartment was Georgian, paneled in polished mahogany, with a classical fluted fireplace at one end and two high bay windows with blinds and silver velvet curtains. It felt Bohemian, however, rough around the edges. The furniture was a mix of antiques, modern pieces (more like art), and junk shop finds. There was a tree trunk bench along the back wall: a huge log, with traditional chair backs stuck into it.

  I wondered whether the plan was to similarly domesticate me.

  The apartment reminded me of how a Blood Lifer would decorate, picking out what they liked from across the ages. It felt like…home.

  You muttered something to the workers, and they left, taking that torture device of a pine crate with them.

  Then we had a silent staring contest. It was more awkward for me, considering I was naked, except for the silver S.L.A.V.E ring. Somehow the ring only made me feel more exposed.

  I hugged my arms close around me. “Where might this be then?”

  “My apartment.” Not a flicker. You should play poker, you’d be bloody blinding at it.

  “And that’s where? Exactly?”

  You didn’t even blink. “Exactly where it’s meant to be.”

  I wandered over to the far bay window and peered out.

  A city.

  Towers, small blocks of flats, and the low black ghosts of estates. The occasional sharp church spire, like needles.

  Yet only in the distance because the apartment was overlooking a park, with an avenue of tall sweet chestnuts guarding the street and the black hump of a hill to the north.

  It was so familiar that my skin itched…of course, that could’ve been the nicotine withdrawal. Still, I couldn’t help the smile as I spun to you. “London?”

  Suddenly, a memory flashed back with such vividness that I could taste the blood warm.

  5

  AUGUST 1866 PRIMROSE HILL, LONDON

  Ruby and I had stalked this reprobate through the steaming heat of Regent’s Park. He was a ruffian in a dirty crimson choker and a crooked hat, which he kept pressing to his head, as if expecting it to be swept off.

  He stank of onions and sex.

  The wanker was a kidsman; all evening the little ones had flocked around him with their petty thievings — a billy or a jenny — as he knocked them around, whilst fondling their arses.

  Ruby had let me pick our mark for tonight; the kidsman might as well have offered me his neck himself.

  I reckoned that he must be up to some caper, when he skulked into the park; it suited us just fine because so were we.

  Ruby grasped my hand, as we prowled under the London planes and oaks. Authored in Elizabethan times, for a century Ruby was my red-haired devil, Author, muse, and love. Together we were alone against the world — or so I’d thought.

  I’ve since learned never to trust such simple appearance.

  Ruby and I tracked the bloke past avenues of sweet chestnuts and limes, darting underneath the spreading arms of ancient oaks. The air was fresh, in a way that it wasn’t on the streets. I sparked with the freedom, twirling Ruby around and unbuttoning my shirt. We passed the darkened tea-rooms of Chalk Farms and their pleasure grounds. The bull croak and bark of the frogs from the preserve called out in the black.

  The kidsman was still slinking onwards, up Primrose Hill.

  I hadn’t been back here since my election to Blood Life. I remembered, however, my papa bringing me and my sisters, Nora and Polly. We’d munched on Barcelona nuts from sellers and cocktail sticks of treacle and peppermint. We’d climbed to the top, out of the smoke of the city. I’d stared in awe over the vast lake of Barrow Hill Reservoir, the crowded cottages and public houses, the zoological gardens and Wren’s domed St. Paul’s, which was like a decoration on the horizon.

  London.

  It hadn’t seemed large enough to me, laid out like that; I never could find a world, which was big enough. I reckoned that I had, when a second life opened up in Blood Life like a puzzle unfolding.

  But I’d been bloody wrong.

  That day with my sisters when we’d reached the summit, my papa had picked two creamy primroses — sun yellow in their centers — and laced them into their long locks. Papa had gently kissed each of them on their foreheads.

  A year later papa had been dead, and I never saw my sisters again.

  I guess that my little sisters are dead too. I hope that they were allowed some happiness in their short First Lives.

  At last, when the kidsman reached the junction at the top, I saw a whole gang of coves gathered in the darkness. What were they plotting?

  Their dark seeds, however, wouldn’t make it past tonight.

  When Ruby stepped into the dim glow of their gas lanterns in all the beauty of her crimson silk, the kidsman smirked. I knew then that he was going to have his bollocks trampled.
>
  The kidsman leered at Ruby. “Are you looking for a tup, pretty pinchcock? If you show us your cunney, I’ll show you my weapon. Here’s something for your troubles.”

  A copper tuppeny bit landed on the grass at Ruby’s feet. There were sniggers.

  I remained in the shadows, waiting for my cue.

  “Faith, you are foolish slaves.” Ruby tutted. “Nothing but base beasts. By this hand, you will cry mercy before this night is over.”

  The laughter died.

  “What, you bitch...?” The kidsman tried to backhand Ruby, dropping his lantern. In one practiced movement, a steel blade flicked into his paw.

  Ruby twirled the kidsman around, however, as if he was a rag doll. Then she sank her fangs into his neck.

  The bloke screamed, before he began to shake as he fought the paralysis that was setting in. Soon the second ingredient in the venom would stop his heart, just as it’d already sealed the holes in his throat.

  And that’s why we Blood Lifers are the ultimate camouflaged predator: we leave nothing but natural death behind. We were always meant to be the Lost species. Being dragged from the shadows was Ruby’s greatest fear.

  She was my Cassandra.

  Ruby tossed the kidsman’s frozen body back to me, as I too now joined in the game. I swung the First Lifer around, before rolling him down Primrose Hill: a nice little snack for later. His slack limbs bounced over the holes and hillocks, before coming to rest.

  Then there was uproar: knives, coshes, and cudgels appeared, as if by dark magic.

  When the First Lifers rushed us, we took those crooks apart one by one, chucking them between us, before hurling them down the hill to join the mound of paralyzed treats.

  I copped a right shiner, before I could drag one giant First Lifer off me by his greasy whiskers; he bellowed. I dived for his throat, my fangs extended and sank through his skin, piercing two tiny holes and delivering the toxin. He struggled, trying to thrash away, even in his pain. When I booted him, however, he too tumbled down the hill.

  At last, Ruby and I were alone: two Blood Lifers on top of a hill in the black, a pile of First Lifers at the bottom and the velvet sky above pricked by stars.

  We were conquerors of our world.

  I noticed the primroses then, which had been crushed in the struggle. It reminded me of that day with my papa and sisters, who I hadn’t seen for so many years. Who I knew that I wouldn’t see again.

  I knelt down and plucked a primrose. Its face was tightly closed against the moon. I’d never see it open. Still, I slipped it into Ruby’s scarlet hair; it suited her.

  “My dearest prince,” Ruby snogged me, biting my lower lip and sucking at the droplets of beaded blood, “how did you like my game?”

  “You were…breath-taking.” I grinned. “But I was taught by my mama not to play with my food.”

  Then Ruby’s long-nailed fingers were tight around my throat. I licked my lips, gasping. Ruby always liked to play rough.

  Just as suddenly, however, Ruby’s grip loosened. “Prithee,” she smiled, “let’s feast.”

  Ruby clutched my hand, dragging me after her down the hill in skipping leaps. I noticed, however, that first she’d stooped to pick up something from the grass.

  The kidsman was still twitching where he lay buried under the rest of his gang at the bottom of Primrose Hill. Ruby grabbed him by the leg, hauling him out. I heard the wet, messy crunch as his nose smashed.

  When Ruby crouched over the kidsman, I could see that she had something small pinched between her thumb and finger. Then she held it up high in front of the kidsman’s terrified eyes: it was the copper tuppeny bit that he’d tossed at her feet as payment for her services.

  His mouth opened and closed as he fought to form words; Ruby lowered her face to his, as if intent on hearing them, but his stiff tongue couldn’t force out more than a garbled, “Please…”

  Ruby gently placed her finger on the First Lifer’s blue lips. “Peace be quiet.”

  Faster almost than even I could follow, Ruby straddled the kidsman and forced the tuppeny bit between his teeth…and then deep down his throat.

  I tilted my head, listening to the coughed, wet rasps, as the kidsman choked to death. I hadn’t heard someone die that way before. I’m a human camera: life is a series of shots, branded into my brain. A day or night is always richer for a new experience.

  Then Ruby and I feasted. Bloody hell, how we feasted.

  And that’s how I knew I was home: that memory…and the taste.

  “Primrose Hill?” I gazed at you hopefully.

  Your gaze became frosty. “What’s it matter? It’s not like you’re going out. Ever.”

  I turned my head away, trying to hide the sick dread. Yet you must’ve seen it, plain as day.

  I hated the whole bloody lot of you First Lifers then. I imagined you in a pile of twitching corpses mounded at the bottom of Primrose Hill — you, Sir, Master — and felt better.

  Bollocks to it all.

  I straightened my shoulders. “Well, figured. Not with no clothes on.”

  You seemed taken aback. “I’ll order something. But that doesn’t mean you’ll… Follow me.” That’s when you led me into this white and silver kitchen for the first time, setting me on a shovel-like red-and-black stool, as if you didn’t know what to do with me. “OK, shadow, are you hungry?” I couldn’t hold back the flinch. You noticed. “That isn’t your real name, huh?”

  I looked away. “It’s what I’m called now.”

  “Na-ah, I want to know. I’ll tell you mine. I’m Grayse; it’s a Manx name.”

  The agony of the belt… My name is Light… Cane… My name is Light… Riding crop… Light, Light, Light… Sir’s boot, fist, and the snap of shattered bones.

  “Light,” I whispered, “my name is Light.”

  You smiled. “OK then, Light, are you hungry?”

  I nodded. Every molecule roared for blood.

  You swung open the fridge, pulling out a baby’s bottle — thick with crimson — which you held towards me with an expectant expression.

  Starved though I was, a bloke’s still got to draw the line somewhere.

  I raised my eyebrow…and didn’t reach for the bottle.

  After a moment, you lowered your arm. “I don’t get it. She insisted that this is what you needed on account of your fangs having been removed.”

  Suddenly, I found myself off the stool and right in your face. To give you your due, you didn’t back away, although your fingers clutched at the marble kitchen top. I didn’t miss that. “What’s next? A pretty little bowl with Light printed on the side for my din dins? Or a leash?”

  “At least it’d go with the collar I’ve got you.” I drew back to study you; your gray eyes were coolly amused. “Joke.”

  “Right.” I huffed. “Ha-bloody-ha.”

  “So, what...?” You waved the bottle of blood at me.

  Hypnotized by the scent, I weaved after it, like you were a sodding snake charmer. “A cup’ll do me. Warmed.”

  Before you turned away, you glanced back at me. “You’re not what I expected.”

  I crossed my arms. “And how did you expect an unwilling Blood Lifer sex slave exactly?”

  That amused expression in your eyes was back again, which didn’t quite make your serious mouth. “Not like you.”

  “No one’s like me.”

  You busied yourself pouring the thick blood out of the bottle and into a bright red-and-black teacup; I liked that I matched your décor. “I’m just figuring that out,” you murmured.

  You’re finishing up now with your work. Your iPhone, however, is still beeping every few minutes, and your fingers are all swipe, swipe, swipe.

  Buggering hell, you look knackered.

  What’s driving you to work that hard? If it’s your family’s business, losing yourself…and reducing me to a true shadow to achieve it…can only mean that you’ll be as dangerous and criminal as the kidsman and his gang.

  Wh
at are your plotting?

  6

  MAY 14

  I guess yesterday you bothered to read my journal because this morning you bit my head off.

  I forget that you’ll see what I write.

  It’s like there’s you and then there’s Reader you. It’s so much easier to spill my guts to Reader you because with her there’s no consequences. We have an understanding: what happens in this journal, stays in this journal.

  I guess that you don’t have the same understanding...?

  If I wasn’t such a daft berk, I’d be more circumspect and keep both my own counsel and skin. When you’re scrabbling through a list of chores, however, which have been set by your Mistress, scrubbing at the kitchen floor on all fours in pink Marigolds, it pays to at least still talk the part of the rebel.

  But here’s the thing: I’m not playing any part.

  You can’t flay a rebel’s Soul.

  I reckon you learned that today.

  The first night you allowed me out alone in the apartment (because you didn’t want me painting the walls of my cell red again), whilst you were at one of your seminars, I did nothing but sit exactly where you’d placed me on the log bench.

  “I’ve got to go down the City,” you said. “Let’s see if you can’t get into no trouble tonight. Don’t move.”

  So, I didn’t.

  You’d left the chandelier of beachcombed detritus off and candles burning instead — needle pricks of light in the dark. Waves of fragrance caught me in their currents: fig and mango. I was carried on their seas and transported to faraway lands.

  To freedom.

  A bloke can dream, can’t he?

  Yet in the apartment there was only the blackness and the olfactory illusion as comfort.

  It forced me to remember the others — frame by bloody frame — who were still shut up at Abona’s pleasure.

  My new family.

  How could I’ve forgotten them? Even for a moment?

  When I heard the key in the lock, I tensed but didn’t move. I wasn’t sure what you defined as trouble, but I was desperate not to be shut away again.