Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  Later, after you’d vacuumed up the popcorn and brewed me a coffee, you nestled close on the sofa again, resting your head on my chest. I should’ve shoved you off — all things considered. But I didn’t. “What do you remember…” here it comes, “…about the night that you were retrieved?”

  “That’s what you’re calling it?”

  You glanced at me, two gray lamps in the darkness. “Retrieval and Acquisitions Department handles the selection and retrieval of product.”

  I bristled. “Why not try captured on for size? Or here’s a thought, abducted?”

  You didn’t look away. “Where were you?”

  “Bangkok. At a mixed martial arts tournament. If you really want to know, I was trying to get given a bloody good hiding. But mostly, I ended up giving someone else one.”

  “Why the frig would you want…?”

  “The pain.” I pushed your head off my chest, before banging my coffee mug down on the glass table — clang. I didn’t care that you cringed… I sodding didn’t. “If I hurt, I still existed. I was in control. I decided if I walked into that cage…but the pain inside? I couldn’t… I can’t…”

  “Kathy?”

  “Don’t,” I turned to you warningly, “you don’t have a bloody clue what it’s like to grieve.”

  “Want to bet?”

  We glared at each other.

  You, however, lowered your gaze first. “So, what happened in…?”

  ‘I was being watched. Not like the normal baying crowd. Something or someone else. I was winning most fights, even though I was drunk and swallowed in black. But this night, it was like someone you really didn’t want to notice you, had. I’d won the bout, but it’d been brutal. I could hardly stand. That’s what I needed, the bruises and the high. See, I’d just let myself take it for the first half of the match, before I’d Anaconda choked the bastard until he passed out. After, I’d sensed these blokes: punk-like in aviator-goggles, red braces, spiked collars and so many tattoos that they were swaggering works of art. They were circling the crowd. And I knew, without even questioning the instinct that they were there for me.”

  You shifted. You were hiding something. I guess that this honesty lark doesn’t cut both ways.

  “And...?” You raised your eyebrow.

  “And they retrieved me,” I growled. “End of.”

  “Light…”

  I jittered to my feet, pacing to the fireplace. The aroma of mangoes floated me to warmer, safer climes — to freedom. “What? You want all the gory details?” I met your steady gaze. “I took the back way. They chased me out onto the roof. I threw myself down to my Triton…”

  Why the bleeding hell had I mentioned that?

  You were assessing me levelly. “Triton?”

  “My bike.” I fiddled with an indigo Italian glass vase. “She was all that I had, apart from this jacket. From my time before. All I cared about. And you lot,” I pointed at you, not caring whether it was fair or not; the grievance had festered for nearly six months and you — a Cain — were in the firing line, “took it from me. Took her.”

  I swung away, booting the marble. Then I heard your quiet voice behind me, “They took your bike?”

  “Scarlet 650cc twin-cylinder thing of beauty. And yeah, they might as well have done.” I spun the glass vase between the tips of my fingers. “At first, I thought: if I just keep riding, everything’ll be cool. But then, I heard the roar of their motorbikes. They were a team: organized. I couldn’t shake the wankers. I wove through downtown Bangkok’s traffic jams and onto Wireless Road, pulling my scarf over my mouth to stop from choking on the fumes, as I tried not to hit the roadside food stalls. I was frightened by then, which was the first time that I’d truly felt anything real since… My heart was shot full of adrenaline because here were these First Lifers, who seemed to know me. The thought, which fueled my flight, was the gut awareness that there was something dodgy behind the attack. Every time I glanced over my shoulder, I saw Mohawks swarming after me on black bikes, slashed with crimson. They had the power, but I had a good five decades of riding experience on the tossers. The punks tried to box me in, slamming me with their bikes. I sped up, but there weren’t any pavements to maneuver on. I reckoned that I could lose them in the park. I was wrong.” The glass was smooth under my fingers, strangely soothing. The blue was hypnotizing, like staring too long into the sky. “I felt something…hit me. In my right shoulder. It stung. Then everything went blurry, and I couldn’t see. My hands were falling from the bike, and I was too… I heard screeching and tearing, like the Triton was in pain… To crash like that, after all these years…and I was tumbling, thudding along the grass. I was tranquilized, so the pain was muted, but snap, snap, snap, I could hear and feel the bones break… My limbs were floppy; the blood was seeping. I must’ve been a right state, lying there in the dark next to my murdered Triton.” I snatched the glass still between my palms. You were frozen as a statue on the sofa. “As I blacked out, I remember wishing only one last thing: please let them take the Triton with me. Yeah, of course they bloody didn’t. When you’re a slave, you lose everything.”

  17

  MAY 25

  I guess that you never forgot that pink Post-it note that I’d stuck optimistically to the fridge.

  The first clue was when I found my white trainers poking out of the rubbish in the kitchen. The second? The pair of new black motorcycle boots on the stainless-steel counter.

  When I hugged the boots to me, like they were my long-lost babies, I heard your laugh behind me. “Want to put them on?”

  Cautious, I dragged on each boot, as if another amputated body part was being reattached. “The dog’s bollocks, yeah?”

  You stifled a smirk. “Are you coming?”

  I hung back. “Where?” I’d noticed the sheen of indigo silk, which was coiled in your palm.

  You let the silk dangle out, like a snake. “It’s a surprise. Are you chicken?”

  I tilted my chin. “I’m many things, darling. But not that.”

  I snatched the blindfold, fitting it over my own eyes. Instantly, I was dizzy with panic: I was back in Abona. But then it was your hand, pressing into mine and leading me out.

  I was with you. And I was safe.

  Now ask if I trust you?

  I heard a click. You were taking me out of the apartment again…? But I hadn’t done anything to earn it this time. When I felt the night air on my skin, I trembled.

  We were going down steps…

  Here’s one, two more, careful…

  Instructions, rather than orders. Protective, as if it mattered whether I broke.

  At last, we stopped; the sudden stillness was disconcerting. Then your fingers edged off the blindfold. I blinked against the dim light.

  You and I were in an underground garage. You were standing right in front of me with your hands pushed into your jeans’ pockets. You’d also slipped on the leather jacket, which I’d nicked for you on Rye Lane. The last I’d seen of the jacket, it’d been unceremoniously discarded at the bottom of your wardrobe.

  I reached out and stroked your cheek…which was when you stepped to one side.

  A Triton.

  A sodding scarlet slash of beauty. 650cc Triumph twin-cylinder engine in a Norton ‘slimline’ Featherbed frame…and my bloody god. It was the exact same model that I’d acquired one May Bank Holiday 1964 — and lost six months ago in Bangkok.

  For one long moment, I couldn’t breathe.

  You were assessing me uncertainly. “You…like it?”

  I wet my dry lips. “How...?”

  “It turns out that money can buy most things. Not such a hard lesson, huh?”

  I stumbled to the Triton, hesitating to touch her because it was like touching the Resurrected: sacrosanct. Tentatively, I stroked her, becoming familiar with her lines and curves. “She’s…?”

  “Yours.” You smiled softly.

  It might not have been the same bike, which I’d lost to those hunters who’
d slain her and tamed me, but she was as close as damn it.

  Breath blown through my Soul.

  I didn’t miss the fact there were two motorbike helmets balanced on the saddle. They were both black; yours wasn’t even baby pink. I picked up your helmet, weighing it in my hands, before holding it out to you. “Ever rode on one of these?”

  “Naw. But…I trust you.”

  Our gazes met.

  I swallowed, fighting back the burning in my eyes. “Right then, hold on tight: this is what true freedom feels like.”

  At first, you and I wove between the London traffic, trapped between the stop and start of traffic lights, caught between bus lanes and wobbly pushbikes. I was thrilled to have a Triton between my legs and a woman behind me again; I’d had a stiffy from the second that I’d seen you in a leather jacket, leant against the Triton and thought — she’s with me.

  As soon as we were out of London though and were tonning it down the motorway towards the coast, that’s when I really let the Triton fly. The engine roared. As I settled over the bike, your arms tightened. There was nothing ahead apart from the shining path of cats’ eyes and three lanes of open road. The night sky above was like polished jet; you were hot against my back.

  Abso-bloody-blinding.

  You held onto me, as we drove through the night, in silent communion with the road, until the purple of the sky threatened dawn.

  One night of freedom — yours and mine — pure and unsullied.

  Just a single night.

  18

  MAY 27

  So, I didn’t expect this.

  I’m back locked in my cell.

  On my own.

  I picked up and set down my pen three times — one, two, three — before I caught myself in the ritualising and started to write.

  I reckon a couple of ribs are broken. The rest of me’s a throbbing bruise, not to mention those three red welts across my back, arse, and thighs.

  You did hand me some cows’ blood, before you threw the lock. The blood was cold, but then what had I expected? I’ll mend though: blood is life.

  This morning I reckoned that something was up, when you manhandled me into your bedroom, before I’d been able to do more than pull on my boxers.

  I was still wary of that room, with your silent white bed and the wall of your other, perfect life. Plus, Mr Professor giving it all don’t think I’ve forgotten what I saw.

  One quiet moment and a match, mate, that’s all I’m saying.

  There was a single-buttoned suit, pale gray wool and mohair, laid out on the covers. I glanced between it and your excited face.

  So, it was playing dress ups, was it?

  “Guess what?” You grinned, as if I should be as excited as you, even though I wasn’t in on your secret. “There’s a business meeting this evening. I was thinking that you could come on account of—”

  “My dashing good looks?”

  “That thing you do with numbers.” You waved your hand, as if painting them in the air. I studied you with surprise; you shrugged. “I thought that you told me something like we should use our huge brains?”

  “Listening, were you?” I tried to smile but the idea of going out again into the world, where my intelligence would be valued and I’d have a place, nearly undid me

  “Sometimes. Also,” you gave me a sideways look, which I didn’t miss, “you need to meet your own kind, and there’ll be another…Blood Lifer.”

  That was it then: a meeting of slaves? Maybe you’d erect a pen in the corner for us? And why had you hesitated before you’d said Blood Lifer?

  I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice you drawing my arms into the pink shirt and buttoning it up, as if I was a doll, before threading a floral tie around my neck. Then you started towards me with the suit.

  I raised my hand to stop you. “Don’t you reckon that I could dress this poncey way, if I wanted? But I choose…” I looked down at the shirt and tie. “That’s the point, right? I don’t choose anymore. Whatever you do to me,” ridiculous in my boxers and pink shirttails flying, I banged my chest, like a well-dressed gorilla, “it’s still me underneath. Rip out the fangs, turn me into your kept boy, but the predator’s still here. I’m still here.”

  You stared at me, like I’d just savaged you. “I only wanted to do something nice for you.”

  I remembered our night of freedom on my scarlet beauty. Nothing but road, roar, and revelation. “You already did,” I murmured.

  “That’s private.” You’d paled, as if…ashamed? Frightened? “This…today…is business. I need you presentable.”

  I snatched the jacket from you, knowing that I was creasing it, as I dragged it on. “What you really want is to transform me into something nice to have on your arm, when you waltz into your meeting. Use my brains? Pull the other one. Don’t worry, I won’t show you up. It’s not as if this is the first time a woman’s done this to me. Humans don’t have the monopoly on being controlling bitches.”

  Slap.

  Shocked, you stared at the crimson handprint on my cheek and then at your hand, as if the two couldn’t possibly be connected. Your eyes pricked with tears, as you chucked the suit trousers at my face. “Just put the fricking things on.”

  Then you stormed out bang — there went the bathroom door.

  By the time we caught a black cab to Brixton that evening, you were in full on business mode, and I was suited, Brylcreemed, and bouncing on my seat with pent-up energy.

  All day waiting on the outing, I’d made up for being difficult earlier, with deliveries of chocolate cupcakes (which I’d ordered from that bakery on Gloucester Avenue), bacon sandwiches for lunch (you were a convert), and frappe (at your request).

  I dived out of the cab before you, holding out my hand to help you descend.

  You were surprised and then pleased. Come on, Victorian here.

  You and I stood in a narrow alley in front of a brick warehouse with depressingly small windows, like a prison. It was tagged with red-and-black graffiti. There was the delicious aroma of fried fish; Jamaican music pulsed through the still air.

  I turned to you. “Now, what’s this meeting…?”

  The words died on my lips.

  Low black motorbikes with razor red slashes down the side were parked up in ranks across the street; the memory of their roar, whilst I crashed into the arms of oblivion, painted the inside of my brain crimson.

  My gaze must’ve held all the betrayal that I was feeling because you rushed to explain, “They’re not here for you, Light, I swear. Look,” you pointed at the sign above the grimy building that the bikes circled: M.C.’s Mixed Martial Arts Gym.

  MMA? Was that how they’d discovered me? The network of tournaments, fighters, and promoters? My own stupid, death wish recklessness? Sod’s bloody law that our two worlds had collided?

  At last it filtered into my overloaded mind who owned the gym.

  “Bloody hell, your sister?” I gasped.

  Now I knew why you’d acted dodgy, when I’d told you how I’d been kidnapped.

  Were you scared of my revenge? Or feeling guilty of your Cain name?

  “Retrieval and Acquisitions is Marlane’s department,” you whispered. “Those punks in Bangkok… They’re M.C.’s crew.”

  “Wankers,” I hissed.

  “Don’t.” You nervously glanced towards the silent gym and the rows of bikes. “Marlane gets them…young. Poor and hungry, she says. It makes them the best fighters, once she’s trained them up. She runs these underground tournaments.”

  “Underground? Well blow me down with a feather.”

  “The core has grown up with her. She’s their mentor.” Your gaze hardened. “And they’re family.”

  “Her gang?”

  You didn’t deny it. “They’re loyal. They’d die for her.”

  “Kill for her? Wait, what am I saying? I imagine that they already bloody have.” A kid, with a snarling fighting dog on a too long leash and no muzzle, swaggered past.
You edged back. “Why didn’t you sodding tell me?”

  You sighed. “What does it change?”

  I bit my lip to stop myself answering…everything. Because if you’d told me, then it’d mean that I could trust. You’d asked me to flay myself raw for you…and I had…but you still hadn’t risked admitting the truth of your family. Only, I still didn’t know why.

  Instead, I shrugged. “Have you seen them fight?”

  You shuddered. “Na-ah. Not with all that…violence…pain…blood…”

  My fists clenched, and I snorted. “Give over. You do understand how your family makes its cash? They’re not florists.”

  Your expression hardened. “Let’s see if we can’t get to the meeting on time, huh?”

  “Forced labor,” I muttered.

  “Work,” you shot back.

  We let ourselves into the warehouse with a security code, riding up in a steel lift to your sister’s apartment, which took up the whole of the converted third floor. The lift stank of piss. Before it stuttered to a stop, I couldn’t help asking, “Why’s she live here?”

  You didn’t look at me. “It’s her home.”

  Enough said.

  When the lift doors clanged open, we were hit by a primal roar of musical rage. An anarchist’s mantra, overlaid by a raucous burst of electric guitar and drums, which were dueling with a relentless, driving bass hook.

  I couldn’t stop the daft grin spreading, as I bounced on the balls of my feet.

  You glanced at me, alarmed, and then grimaced.

  I shrugged. “It’s punk: Fuck Off.”

  “What the frig...?” You were making shushing motions, casting frightened glances down the hallway.

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s the album by Good Throb; I’m not insulting you.”

  “I know that...” I hadn’t even raised my eyebrow, before you were grinning too.

  “With this taste in music, your sister would make one bitch of a Blood Lifer.”

  You shoved me back into the lift. Your breathing was ragged, as you pulled me close by my tie. “Never let her hear you say that.”