Naylor didn’t manage to resist, of course. He bit me almost straightaway and drank deep: all over my tits and on my pussy and right on my asshole. And just as he’d predicted I spent the rest of the night begging them frantically to fuck me, to fuck me now, to fuck me harder. They hardly needed encouraging.
Mark and Luke must be as sore now as if they’d run a marathon. In sandpaper underwear.
My stomach growls, gnawing at me. I roll out from under the quilt and shuffle gingerly over to the table, right at the limit of my chain, and find the takeaway food still untouched – cold and greasy now, naturally, but a blessing in my ravenous belly. I shovel the contents of the foil boxes into my mouth with my fingers, mixing body-salt with the fragrant sauces. As I eat, memories of last night surface: visions of them fucking me in every imaginable position, all at once or one at a time. Mark kneeling on the edge of the bed riding my ass, slapping my cheeks like I’m a mule, as I hang upside down with my face on the floor. Luke shafting the ravine between my tightly-squeezed breasts. Naylor fucking Luke from behind even as the man nails me hard with my ankles pinned over my head; he’s howling and weeping and coming all at once.
Halfway through the carton of beef in black bean sauce I pause and wipe my lips. I need a drink of water and I need to use the toilet, really desperately. And oh, God, do I need a wash. With a promise to the egg fried rice that I’ll be back, I return to the bed, grasp the iron frame and pull. One metal leg lifts a couple of inches and I slip the loop of the chain out from underneath. Carrying my bonds, I pad through to the back rooms.
Naylor’s a fucking idiot, really. The chains achieve nothing. If I wanted to escape I’d be lost for choice – I wouldn’t even have to bother climbing out of this bathroom window with the links wrapped around me. My blog connects me to the outside world still. I’ve got e-mail. My bloody cell phone is in my rucksack, for fuck’s sake; I rang in sick to work after the first night, hoping they’d not dump me from my job, not right away anyhow. Not that I give a shit about my job, but a girl can’t live on takeaways and semen for ever.
Don’t get me wrong: it’s not the bites that keep me here, any more than it’s the padlocks. I’ve heard that for some people it’s the sexual high and the all-night orgasms that turn them into vampire-junkies. Now, I’ve got nothing against orgasms. But that’s not what I stay for.
It’s the humiliation.
Did Naylor realise, when he confronted me in the cellar of the BDSM club that night? He should have, of course, but he’s so bloody self-centred it’s actually possible he didn’t work it out. He might well think that the degradation, the shame and the sleaze are something he’s inflicting on me; a fate worse than death.
Idiot.
My name’s Joanne and I’m not real. I’m a plump bird with a crap job retrieving shelved goods in a catalogue-shop, and no one knows who I am. I’m not pretty or chirpy enough to get noticed. If I don’t ever go back to work I don’t suppose anyone outside of the admin office will even realise that I’m missing. No one remembers Joanne. She’s not real.
These two are real, though. StakeGirl is real. StakeGirl matters to people. And Jo. Jo-Jo-Jugs they call her, in the public clubs and the darker underground places. The sort of place where Naylor found me, kneeling on the floor with a vibrator between my open legs, playing with my tits and my pussy while a ring of men round me watched and jacked off. No touching, goes the rules, but anyone – anyone at all – can come in and beat their meat and squirt their jizz all over my big bare tits and on my face. They know me in the clubs. They look for me. They treat me like a goddess; their own tawdry filthy idol. They gather to make their votive offerings, week after week, in awe at my sluttishness.
That’s real.
Naylor, the stupid bastard – now he makes me feel real too. I’m not daft; of course there’s a certain amount of risk. He’s a fucking vampire. But it’s got to be worth it, to be real. Worth the fear – the genuine fear – and the discomfort.
Two men. He brought two men last night. Two total strangers to fuck me. What’ll he do next time? Five? Six? A football team? No, better: a rugby team. I’d like that: big, strong, ugly, frightening men with smashed-up faces; men that’ll make me feel tiny and helpless and debased. I put my hand between my legs as the mere thought makes my sore pussy quiver and grow moist again. The prospect terrifies me. I’m not at all sure my body can take that sort of punishment – but I want to know. I want to try.
I slip back into the bedroom, grabbing another mouthful of Chinese food in passing, and retrieve my laptop from under the bed.
Time to blog.
8: Three, Three the Rivals
Rosa ‘Peace’: yellow-pink blend, hybrid tea rose
Reynauld settles himself down into his casket, just as he does every morning before dawn. There’s no point in struggling to eke out the last few moments of consciousness; the process is unpleasant enough even when he’s relaxed. Already he can feel the chill taint in his flesh. He could stand in an Arctic blizzard and not feel cold, but he’s clammy now. Reaching up, he grasps the handle on the underside of the steel lid and slides it into place, the rim settling with a clunk into its airtight seal. That last sliver of light shows the outline of his hands, and then for a moment darkness is total before the interior lights flicker on – so faint that a cat would be blind, but he can see clearly enough. His fingers feel clumsy as he slides the interior bolts into place over his head. Then he lies back and relaxes his muscles. The earth beneath him smells rich and Amanda has seen to it that it’s been dug over well to make him a soft bed. It’s so quiet in here that he can hear the worms burrowing through the damp particles of soil. No other sound impinges on his hearing: not even the tick of his pulse. That stopped some time in the fourteenth century, a redundant function of a body that no longer needed such habits.
Death comes quickly. It’s all over in a minute or two if he doesn’t fight it, so he deliberately empties his mind just as if kneeling in his shrine to meditate. Cold creeps from his fingertips and toes toward his chest, the flesh growing flaccid and numb. Despite himself he does feel it; an indefinable shrivelling within, a cessation of effort on the minutest level. Not for his body the stuttering continuation of biological processes that outlasts human death, the biochemical factories that carry on burning and building hours or days after higher functions have ended. His body has been dead for centuries and knows that only too well. It’s not biology that makes him feel nauseous as the paralysis surges up his torso. It’s not hormones that fuel the guttering flicker of despair. It cannot be his heart that clenches in agony, somewhere in the darkness in a body that he can no longer feel: his heart hasn’t beat in years.
Reynauld spasms, a reflex action that jerks his chin up and exposes bared fangs, but his consciousness is already snuffed out like a candle, no longer existent.
He’s dead.
* * *
Rosa ‘Special Friend’: pink-apricot blend, hybrid tea rose
Amanda is stripping the sheets in the master bedroom when her cell phone rings. She turns and looks out of the window as she lifts it to her ear: the first thing she did at dawn was throw open the shutters and the glass to let in light and air. Outside, there are barges plying up and down the river, and traffic is building on the bridge downstream. The City is coming to life.
In here, as she listens to the voice dancing gleefully down the aether, something inside her dies.
* * *
Rosa ‘Intrigue’: reddish-purple, floribunda rose
They arrive within a half-hour. Naylor she knew would be there, and she’s not surprised to see Estelle too – she never trusted that woman. But she’s hurt despite herself at the sight of Ben. She’d liked Ben. What, she wonders in despair, is his problem with Reynauld? And how long have they been conspiring against him? It’s another tooth in the horror that’s gnawing away at her insides, another ingot on the pile of her guilt.
Hunched under hoods and blankets the three vampires stalk up the r
amp from their boat and glance around warily at The Bonding’s undercroft, not quite hiding their relief at being in shade again. Behind them shuffle three human men, but they’re irrelevant as far as Amanda’s concerned. Sunlight shines on the water, turning them all to black silhouettes.
Her mouth feels like it’s full of sand.
‘I know an old lady,’ Naylor sings, grinning crookedly, ‘who sold out her guy. I don’t know why she sold out her guy. I guess she’ll die.’
Fuck you, she wants to say. Fuck you, you sneering little piece of shit. I hope one day someone rips off your eyelids and cuts off your head and stakes it on a ten-foot pole so you can watch the sun come up. When she opens her mouth, though, it’s to address Estelle. She wishes her voice weren’t shaking. ‘Funny. Of all of them, you’re the last one I’d have called stupid. But you’re trying to put him in charge?’
Too fast for her to see, Naylor is round behind her, pinning her in his arms, pulling her jaw back. His nails puncture her skin and there’s no euphoria as with the bite, just a jagged pain. ‘I know an old lady,’ he croons, licking at the trickles, ‘who wants to die. She wants to die ’cos she sold out her guy. I’ll drink her dry.’
Shaking, sweating, Amanda wishes he would. She clenches her teeth, but it still shocks her when Naylor throws her to the ground – hard enough to bounce her head off the stone floor – then wrenches her up again. The pain makes her want to vomit.
‘I’m not in charge,’ he announces, barely audible through the ringing in her skull. ‘I’m not gauleiter Reynauld. I’m setting us all free.’ Then he tosses her across the room, into Ben’s arms. ‘Less chat, more action. Lead on.’
* * *
Rosa ‘Champagne Moment’: apricot, floribunda rose
Amanda punches in the numbers to the combination lock and then stands aside as Naylor pulls the door open. She feels sick and unreal. Even the pain throbbing in her wrenched muscles and bruised flesh seems distant now. This has happened so fast. She’s made decisions in moments that she couldn’t imagine ever taking. And now, with this door, she’s betrayed Reynauld irrevocably.
The room within is silent, and completely bare but for the metal casket. Naylor glances at her. ‘You first, darling.’
Damn. The faint hope she’d entertained of trapping them inside until sunset withers up, as one of the three humans that Naylor’s brought with him gives her a firm shove between the shoulder blades, propelling her inside. She staggers and has to catch herself on the sarcophagus. It feels cold beneath her fingers and she pictures her body-heat sinking through the metal to warm Reynauld. If he could hear her, if he could wake …
But he can’t. He’s helpless.
She can see her blurred reflection in the metal. ‘Roisin,’ she whispers. Roisin is the only one old enough to help, if she cares to. Then Naylor struts in like he owns the place, a smirk on his lips that makes that ripe mouth quite ugly. Ben brings up the rear.
‘Beautiful,’ Naylor says, eyeing the coffin as Estelle runs her hands across it, feeling for the crack of the lid. ‘Just beautiful. He’s like a tin of Spam, isn’t he?’ He lifts clenched fists in triumph. ‘Fuckin’ awesome!’
‘Please,’ Amanda says, addressing Ben. There’s no point in begging Naylor, and there’s no use in being surreptitious either. ‘You mustn’t let him do this.’
Ben smiles uncomfortably and shrugs. He’s had an expression on since they got here like he’s playing a game and he’s very proud about how clever they’ve been, but he’s not sure how it’s going to finish. ‘It’s the way it goes, Amanda,’ he mutters. ‘Old guard and all that. It’s gotta happen some time.’
‘He was always fair with you!’
‘Shut it,’ says one of the men unwisely, reaching out to her.
Ben’s hand intercepts his wrist and twists. ‘Don’t touch her.’ The eighteen-stone man gasps with pain.
‘Girls,’ interrupts Naylor testily. ‘Save it for the playground. You – Wrinkly. Get this open.’
‘I can’t,’ she answers. ‘It’s bolted from the inside.’ She wonders if Naylor’s going to kill her right now, the way his green eyes turn on her, blank as emeralds. She thinks she’d be glad if he killed her straightaway; she can’t bear to see the consequences of her treachery.
‘Really.’ He’s not perturbed. It’s late summer and they have hours of daylight yet: he knows time is on his side. ‘Then Daz here had better go get some cutting equipment. You know where to find it, don’t you?’
Daz is the one with the cracked wrist. He nods, white-faced.
‘It’s specially reinforced,’ Amanda says, desperate.
‘Well, you’d better hope it’s not too special,’ says Naylor, taking out his phone and tapping it meaningfully against the casket lid. ‘Because if it starts to look like this’ll take too long, your little Timmy’s going to be filling out forms in triplicate for Saint fucking Peter.’
* * *
Rosa ‘Breath of Life’: pink-apricot blend, large-flowered climbing rose
Reynauld wakes, and it’s nearly as frightening as dying. He feels the blood in his veins turning back to liquid, the burn of air in his lungs as he takes that first gasp, and the surge of hunger in his empty belly just as he does every night at sundown. And then this new thing: the pain. The sensation of blistering rawness across his chest and thighs is entirely overwhelmed by the agony in his wrists and hocks: for a moment it’s so terrible that he can’t think straight. His eyes fly open but the light’s too bright and he screws them shut, howling.
Someone laughs.
The First Noble Truth of Buddhism: all is suffering.
With an effort of will Reynauld seizes the pain and shoves it deep deep down, at the furthest extent of his reach. This is not entirely a Buddhist thing: vampires are tolerant of physical damage – they can if necessary walk on broken bones and crawl away from their own severed limbs. The pain remains at the back of his mind, but as he regains control of his will he begins to properly grasp his situation. His head is hanging back – right back, nearly upside-down, stretching his throat. His arms and legs are spread wide, and the pain is concentrated there at his extremities. Reynauld forces his head up and his eyes open. Blackened patches of skin dance before his blurred vision as he fights to focus. He’s been burned. He’s naked and he’s been exposed to sunlight while he lay dead. That’s not the worst, though. He’s suspended from wrists and ankles, spread wide, hanging off steel cables that attach to girders that arch overhead. The cables don’t just loop round his limbs; they’ve been punched through them – behind his wrists and his Achilles tendons and grinding up against the bones. He’s starting to bleed now that he’s revivified.
Panting, Reynauld lets his head fall back and looks at the world upside down as he tries to make sense of it. More girders out there, painted white. Glass panes between them, and beyond that a blue twilight. He’s not entirely hanging; there’s another metal beam, horizontal this time, that runs across from side to side at the small of his back and stops him folding in half. But he can’t move, and he can’t reach any of the bolts holding the cable loops. He could rip his fetters out – he’s strong enough to do that – but he’d be completely crippled. And he’d fall. How far would he fall?
Another blink, another moment to sort the images. He can see scaffolding, and wooden planks. Many beams, curved like ribs. He’s suspended under an immense glass roof, just over a scaffolding platform. He’s still gasping, and each breath seems to clear his head a little.
Then Naylor walks into his field of view.
* * *
Rosa ‘Red Rascal’: medium red, shrub rose
‘Wakey wakey, Reynauld. Rise and shine.’
Reynauld doesn’t answer: quipping with Naylor isn’t a priority right now. He rolls his head, still trying to fix his bearings. It’s a railway station, he thinks. One of those big glass roofs over the platforms, all Victorian ironwork and pigeon-shit. He can smell that and some sort of industrial grease and diesel fu
mes. And, more faintly, perfume. But there’s no sound of engines or commuters. He’s not really familiar with the public transport system. Aren’t they restoring the roof at one of the big central stations at the moment? Is that where he is?
If he was Roisin, he’d just take his body apart and escape the cables. That’s the irony: he’s old enough that he should be able to escape any prison. But he’s spent centuries clinging to human form. He’s never let go, whatever the temptation. He doesn’t know how.
‘Looking for your breakfast?’ Naylor asks. He grabs Reynauld’s hair and twists his head savagely the other way. ‘There she is.’
It’s Amanda. She hangs almost limp in Ben’s grasp, where he stands balanced casually on a beam. The makeshift planking platforms don’t extend that far beneath them; she’s dangling over empty space. Her clothing is dishevelled and Reynauld can see a couple of obvious bite marks on her bared shoulders. Black rage wells up to join the red and gnawing hunger in his belly.
‘Pass her here.’ Naylor crooks a finger. Ben makes a face as if – just for a moment – he’s thinking of refusing, then takes a deep breath and jumps the eight-foot gap to the platform, with Amanda tucked under his arm. Naylor takes charge of the woman and drops to his knees with her, right next to Reynauld so that even from his position he can see her torn skirt, the tops of those hold-up stockings he likes her to wear and the puncture marks on her exposed breasts. Her eyes are glazed; she’s in a bite trance. He can smell her warmth and hear the swift stumble of her pulse, and his dry mouth is suddenly running wet.
‘She did it,’ Naylor confides. ‘She let us into the house, sent the guards away, opened the crypt. She sold you out, Old Man.’
Amanda slowly shuts her eyes and turns her bruised face away from her employer. The movement exposes her throat. Like a chained dog, the ravenous appetite in his gut surges forward. Suddenly he can’t hide his teeth.
Red Grow the Roses Page 22
