Rebel Vampires: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

Donovan could’ve kicked my arse, if he’d chosen to take offense at my alpha display. He was one step up the Plantagenet bloodline and Plantagenets are…stronger…faster…bastards. I include myself in that. I hoped that I’d never meet that wanker Plantagenet. He probably wore other bloke’s fangs as trophies.

  I eased away from Donovan, who edged away from me.

  Donovan was eying me warily, like a bloke who discovers a rattlesnake in his boot.

  “No one eats Will,” I ordered. “The lad’s hurt and our guest.”

  Sun shot up. “Ya huh! We can’t afford him.”

  I should’ve known. Sun wasn’t hurt by my desire for a family that included a First Lifer, but rather concerned about the money.

  I pushed my hands into my pockets. “If I take on extra shifts…”

  Sun’s eyes narrowed. “Where the frig were you tonight?”

  I shifted awkwardly. “I’ve kept you safe so far. We’ve this place and jobs—”

  Sun’s laugh was so sharp that it could’ve cut glass. “So, I’m meant to be grateful? This place should be, like, condemned on account of it’s a slum.”

  Right on cue came the scrit scrat of Mr Rat.

  Cheers, mate.

  It wasn’t meant to be like this between Author and elected. I wanted to plan such fantasies with Sun and thrill our dark pleasures. To know that if I couldn’t be her mentor, then at least we’d swagger side by side into our Blood Life together. Yet viewed as terrorists by the Blood Life Council because we’d burned down Master’s Estate, whilst recovering from the ordeal of the slavers, it would take time to find our way. Unlike the rest of us, however, Sun hadn’t suffered as a slave. She didn’t understand.

  I forced myself to saunter closer to Sun. “If you figure that you can do better, love…”

  “I do.” Cool and considered.

  Devastating.

  “What?”

  “Reckon that I can do better.” I kept my expression blank: I didn’t want Sun to know how brutally that one had hit home. “And you want a pet human? That’s a whole other deal.”

  “Funny you should say pet.” I wiped my hands surreptitiously down the back of my jeans to wipe off the scent of wet dog. Sun still wrinkled her nose. Oh yeah, my snogging by Mutt.

  “What’s that smell...?” Sun demanded, before shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, if I start trading again, we’d be wealthy enough to afford your pet First Lifer.”

  Bloody hell, it was like First Lifers arguing over popping out another baby. And somehow? I’d become the sodding housewife.

  Donovan had thrown himself back against the pile of satin cushions, which I’d nicked to poncey up the place. His arms were linked casually behind his head like a teenager getting off on his parents’ shouting match.

  “First,” reasonable voice (I refused to become the nagging wife), “we don’t have enough cash for you to trade. You’re not getting your hands on our wages either. Second: you’re dead. Your dad killed you; I know because I had to watch, before I sank my fangs into the bastard’s throat. No identity. No Grayse.”

  “You don’t reckon I know that?” Sun’s voice was dangerously low.

  I wet my dry lips. “I was only saying…”

  “I’m dead because I chose you. And I’m alive? Because you made me.”

  I swallowed. Even Donovan had tensed. I tried to reach out to Sun, but she backed away.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  Sun’s gaze became fragile. “That you elected me?”

  “Never that.” I tried to smile but it came out wrong, as twisted as my insides. “Don’t be such a daft bint. I love you.”

  Sun slammed her palm — slap — against her own thigh. I flinched. “Then why are you fricking chaining me?”

  Terror moth fluttered in my belly. I shook because what Sun had said, gave wings to the torment that I’d suffered under Ruby. For a hundred years I’d been happy, lost in the fug of false freedom, when in fact all along I’d been chained by Ruby’s love.

  I’d sworn that I’d never control another First or Blood Lifer as Ruby had. That I’d never chain them.

  “Everything I do is to keep you safe,” I spluttered, when all I wanted was to hold Sun, snog her, force her to take it back. I was desperate to make her swear that she was free, and I wasn’t the same as my Author. Because I wasn’t, was I? “If you traded now, the only bleeders that you could deal with would be other Blood Lifers.”

  Sun’s gaze was frosty. “I know. Donovan told me.”

  When I shot Donovan a look — no whacky backy for you tonight, mate — he shrugged. He didn’t seem to be enjoying our disagreement much now either.

  “These Blood Lifers? Bankers, traders, and financers? They’re the most powerful tossers there are. Money and power: this is Light 101. They control everything.”

  ‘Fear, huh?’ Sun mocked; her words burned me. I startled, when she sidled so close that her mouth brushed my ear, as she murmured, “You’re infected by it.”

  I tried to jerk away, but her arm was tight around my shoulders, holding me in a false embrace. Then Sun was shoving her wrist, in its thin sweater, in front of my nose like an accusation.

  “I’m going to need to breathe any moment,’ I gasped.

  “You smell it?”

  I sniffed.

  Stale smoke, baked beans from dinner woven into the fabric, and the fake tang of Tahitian Gardenia: the exotic sharpness of the perfume that I’d managed to buy with my first pay check.

  Bought, rather than nicked.

  The smell of the perfume carried me back to Grayse’s apartment in Primrose Hill, when we’d been mistress and slave, and the scent of her candles had freed me, even if only in my mind.

  Now we were truly free.

  Sun might not smell of gorse and sunlight anymore, but that had been Grayse and the aroma of Fernando’s perfume.

  Now she was Sun…? She wore my perfume and she smelled of freedom.

  I grinned. My lips were soft against the scented threads.

  Yet when Sun pulled back her wrist? Her face was cold. “That? Is the stink of poverty.”

  My smile faded. All the sodding light from the room faded, along with the feeling from my body.

  When were Blood Lifers caged by labels? Rich? Poor? When had I become trapped in a nightmarish rerun of my First Life, when I was sticky Post-it noted by my poverty? In this twilight world, where my family and I were caught tame between First and Blood Life, it turned out that even freedom cost.

  “Hey man,” Donovan’s concerned voice called, “are you wigging out?”

  A tunnel of gray…. Me at my orphan school… Memories unkindled for decades roared monstrous. Abuses long suppressed awoke to shank me.

  I stumbled backwards, and my heel caught an empty Guinness bottle. It skittered over, rolling with flying hot wax, and the candle flared. I dived on it, stamping it out with my boot — stamp, stamp, stamp. The wax stuck like dried blood to my sole. The flame died under my boot.

  When I looked up, Hartford was leaning in the open doorway, watching my fire dance. His face was very still.

  Then I realized.

  No Will.

  Lucky I can’t have a coronary.

  “Where’s my Will?” I hissed.

  Hartford crossed his arms. “He ankled it out of this joint once all the hollering started.”

  My pulse pounded, as my breathing became ragged. “And you didn’t…I don’t know…stop him?”

  Hartford’s expression was troubled. “Say, mac, was he our prisoner?”

  Why did Hartford always have to be so bloody right?

  It took me a couple of hours, but I finally found Will on London Bridge. Or I hunted him there — I no longer knew the difference.

  What I did know was that his feet were dangling over the edge of the freezing curl of the Thames. He was just as battered as before, but I’d underestimated him. He’d taken some bootings in his life to be counted amongst the walking wounded.
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  It was never a good sign when you knew how to take a beating.

  Him and me both.

  Will’s arse was parked on the ledge. A fine drizzle wetted us in tears. Pedestrians pressed by but not one of them stopped. That’s London. There was the rumble of buses and the rattle of black cabs. Everything was in a watercolor wash: nothing but background.

  Because my elected (what was the point in pretending?), was hanging over the Thames.

  I was going to kick his arse.

  “Alright?” I sauntered towards Will.

  Will shuffled closer to the edge. “Why are you trying to stop me?”

  I took a drag on my e-cig, holding it between trembling fingers, as I tried to lean nonchalantly against the granite. “Maybe because you’re a stupid little git.”

  Will’s head twisted around; his swollen eyes were shocked. “You ain’t got to bother, man. Go back to your fam.”

  Family. Will hated that word, as much as I had at his age.

  “Look, they’re not perfect. This isn’t simple though, and Hartford’s—”

  “Decent.” Will reluctantly shrugged one shoulder. “But you got a home, and it be shabby.”

  I imagined the holes in the wall, faulty taps, and Mr Rat: Sun’s dismissive slum. Then I saw it through Will’s eyes; compared to living in that world under London Bridge, it was shabby (and I was pretty sure in Will speak that was a good thing). He’d smiled — just for a moment — anyway.

  Now Will was hugging his wrist close to his chest, stroking that green snake bracelet like it was all he had to say goodbye to.

  I studied Will. “That’s why I took you there, so that it could be your home too. At least, until you had a case of the runaways.”

  Will shook his head. “I ain’t going to be the reason that you lose your fam, girl, and home. I heard what they were saying. I won’t cause you bother because it’s all I do.”

  I slammed my fist against the granite. “Save the sodding self-pity. I’m a big boy and I can make my own decisions. Now you’re going to turn your arse around and come over to me, or you’ll discover what a truly pissed off angel looks like.”

  The smile was back but sly now. Will looked at me through his curls. “Thought you said that you ain’t no angel?”

  I couldn’t help the grin. “I can be anything I bleeding want. Now get a wiggle on.” Will swung his legs back but too fast. For one breath catching moment he was slipping on the damp over the dark mouth below. Then my hand was bunched in his sweater. I yanked him — none too gently — towards me. Then I was cradling him. Sod the fact that I was babying him. Will didn’t pull back. “Do that again and I’ll…tear out your bloody heart.”

  “No, you won’t,” Will mumbled against my chest.

  Will was vibrating like a mouse when it’s played with by a cat. The problem was that I was beginning to reckon that I was the cat.

  Reluctantly, I set down Will. Of course, he immediately legged it…or tried to. His knees buckled, however, and he hit the pavement.

  I took a drag of my e-cig. “Now that’s out of the way, let’s have a chat.”

  Surly, Will glared up at me from his heap on the bridge. Then he gave a cautious nod.

  “What’s up with this business then?” I pointed at Will’s bracelet: two entwined greens knotted together. An eternal snake.

  I don’t know what made me ask, except there was something about the bracelet, like there was with my leathers. The one thing Will had held onto at the end.

  Will jolted, as if I’d cattle prodded him. His left hand shot out to cover the bracelet. Then he shuffled closer. I hunkered down, until our faces were close. I hadn’t seen him look so solemn.

  “My sister made it for me when we were…” Will’s voice dropped to a whisper, “I ran away from my parents. That’s why I ain’t going to no hospital. No police, no going back, and no kiddies’ home neither.”

  Poison roiled through my chest, melting my heart to a swirling pool. “Hold your horses, little man. You told me that you didn’t have—”

  “Foster parents, yeah?”

  I could’ve sung hallelujahs. If I elected Will, I wouldn’t be stealing him away from a First Lifer world, I’d be granting him a new Blood Lifer one.

  I bit my lip. “Why’d you run?”

  Will was caressing those green threads again, as if they were strands of hair. “My sister is safe. That’s all that matters.”

  I’d caught it, however, the darkness in Will’s eyes, and I knew that the same darkness was in mine as well.

  I was going to sodding dismember his foster parents. Slowly.

  Then I was frightened by the inferno of my own rage.

  Will must’ve read it in my expression too because suddenly he was slipping off that bracelet and forcing it over my left wrist. It dug into my skin. As if Will’s humanity was touching me, even when he’d pulled back. I blinked my confusion. “Now you’re safe. I ain’t need it no more because I have you.”

  I touched the bracelet, whilst my eyes burned with tears.

  Will had just given me his most precious possession to connect us because he understood me and he cared enough to keep me safe. Yet how could I keep him safe? He was only a fragile First Lifer, and on every side, there were predators.

  4

  NIGHT 4

  Do you have sisters? I mean, First Lifer ones?

  Finish your coffee, Mr Blickle, I’m on a schedule.

  Puppies to torture before midnight…? Sisters, do you have them?

  All right, I’ll play. One sister. Had.

  You ate her?

  Of course not. Why on earth would you…?

  Knock that holier than thou look off your face; I didn’t nosh my sisters. Orphan school kid, wasn’t I? I lost my sisters a long time ago. I didn’t go to some private—

  Boarding school, actually.

  Why is that not a surprise. But killing their First Lifer families, it’s just what some Blood Lifers do. They say that the blood’s richer because the DNA’s intimate-like, almost blood sharing. It’s as close to eating yourself as you can get; Freud would’ve had a field day. I guess it’s the ultimate narcissism. Plus, it’s a reasonable question, what with you working here…

  And that means…what precisely?

  Blood Life Council: the babes to Blood Life who terrify the rest of us. You should make that your slogan.

  You’re the Big Bad Wolves.

  Captain made a weekend feast of his family, surely you know that? I wouldn’t look it up: the photos aren’t pretty.

  So, why had a sister?

  She’s a First Lifer and that makes her no longer my sister. Not all of us are so keen to welcome First Lifers into our families.

  Have you ever been to just…look at her...? I mean, after you were Authored?

  Your meal’s getting cold. Captain was most insistent that you eat from this young man.

  You can’t run from the past. Believe me, I’ve tried. It’ll find you out and carve you up bloody.

  Anyway, why are you still interrogating me? You must know that I’m most likely not the Renegades’ leader…because come on: I work in a strip bar, live in a slum, and obsess about the lad I want to elect. I’m not running a terrorist camp in my spare time.

  Supposition.

  Then why am I still here?

  Spartacus.

  Bless you.

  I mean, you’re an example. A slave crucified for the sins of your tribe. If your own family wish to burn you, then who are we to object?

  Truth doesn’t get a look in then?

  We both know that truth doesn’t exist.

  In ten nights, I’ll be sacrificial slaughtered. Why are we still playing our parts in this sick charade? You scribbling away on those papers like they’re important but it’s all a joke. It doesn’t do my ego any good when you doodle fangs in the margins.

  Inquiries must be written. It’s tradition. The testimony becomes more potent. Magic.

  You had me up until
magic. When you write something down, you’re granting it an authority that it hasn’t earned. Lies transformed by alchemy into truth.

  That’s why bastard politicians get stiffies over inquiries, yet erase the parts that don’t fit with their narrative, and I’m not figuring on mine fitting.

  Breakfast now, please.

  Black coffee and blood to be licked from some lad’s arm? You do know how to treat a bloke.

  Stop shaking.

  I didn’t know that I was.

  Not you: Pet. If you dare spill Mr Blickle’s breakfast…

  I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you, sweetheart.

  Hey, Pet, look at me: what’s your favorite band? Do you like The Animals?

  I swear, Pet, Captain will play hunt the human with you again if—

  Unless you want to find out whether your blood shows up in the Red Room, stop talking.

  Do you wish to know my favorite band, Mr Blickle?

  I don’t have one. Songs are simply sound; other people’s voices used to fill up their emptiness.

  Why are you empty, Thomas?

  How do you know...?

  You are hiding behind the music, aren’t you?

  Whoa there, I was just chatting about bands, and this has suddenly turned—

  You weren’t, though, were you? You never just chat. Tell me about why you need so much noise in your head. What are you trying to drown out?

  Everything, you stupid bint. Is that what you want...?

  Everything.

  What do you reckon it’s like to remember every…single…moment? The glories and the wonders but also the monsters and the… Every scream…crunch…their deaths sticky under your nails and you can’t ever wash…

  Everything.

  Thomas?

  My family, all right? Sisters. Mama. Dead papa. Their voices.

  Our last day.

  Look, breakfast’s over. Send Pet out. You want secrets? That’s just between us and this inquiry.

  JUNE 1855 WATFORD

  We’d escaped — Nora, Polly, and I – to the willow tree behind the arches of our gabled villa. Mama was out visiting friends, perched in some overstuffed drawing room, sipping tea and gossiping about society’s latest disgrace. Whilst I’d freed my little sisters from their stuffy tutor, who looked like he’d been starched head to toe (even his tortuous whine).