Vampire Princess

by Rosemary A Johns

  This bitch doesn’t belong to anyone.

  I staggered up, knocking over the goblet; the last dribbles of water spilled out in a foul pool.

  ‘What?’ Ash struggled up as well, unable to hide the wince or the way he held onto the bars for support.

  ‘If I’m killed tonight,’ I met Ash’s startled gaze. Enough of bastard deceits. I couldn’t choose when I was going down, but I could choose how. ‘Know that I’ve always been your princess. Nothing else matters.’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘Nothing else matters, gorgeous.’ I scowled. ‘I didn’t say babe, babe.’

  I laughed, dodging towards Ash, but then agonising pain, grief, and terror shot through the bond, paralysing me.

  The terror throttled me.

  I keened, keeling over to my knees. I clawed at my head, gouging bloody furrows.

  The world dimmed to nothing but ballooning fear.

  What the hell was happening to Rebel?

  And it was my fault because I’d sent him away.

  Blinded by agony, and panting through the pain, I forced myself to crawl down the corridor. Desperate to reach Rebel in time to rescue him from the nightmare causing this terror.

  16

  A disembodied head tangled in wild black hair and bedded on the feathery backs of dead Merlins, stared at me glassy-eyed across Merlin’s Grotto.

  When I crawled closer, crimson crept onto my fingertips from the slashed neck.

  Anpiel.

  I choked on bile; it burned up the back of my throat.

  Don’t hurl, don’t hurl, don’t hurl…

  The cave swirled with violet and grey, whilst my mind fractured against the brutal truth: the vampires were in my yard and they’d ganked the Glory Harahel loved to get to me.

  Rebel’s scream must’ve been on her moment of death. The echoes still tremored through my mind, along with the guilt.

  Because the nightmare that shanks sharper than fear?

  Grief.

  Calm down the blame game, you didn’t start the war.

  But what if I can end it?

  You don’t even know the rules. There are players in this sport who’ve trained in death for centuries.

  And you don’t even know their names.

  Who the hell needs to know? As long as they never forget mine.

  I pushed myself up, shooting calming strands through the Mark. Rebel’s pain dulled, like a sword rusted in blood.

  I caught sight of Rebel and Harahel: two angels back-to-back guarding Anpiel’s torso, amidst a goth gang of snarling vampires.

  Claws slashed scarlet lines down Harahel’s wings and bare chest, but he didn’t even flinch, numbed by loss. Silent tears streaked his cheeks, but his eyes blazed, whilst he swept his hardened wings like a shield. The same fighter Rebel had remembered with respect.

  Life’s a bitch that it’d taken the death of his lover to rebirth Harahel.

  Rebel lifted his chin, before clouting a vampire in the gut, who had more piercings then skin, as if he could still protect Anpiel.

  The vampire doubled up, a grin stretching his studded lips — as his fangs descended — and spun his shank.

  My heartbeat raced: Rebel was unarmed.

  The vampires laughed, closing in hyena-like for the kill.

  This time there was no boiling build-up, asking, or ozone air warning. Just a lava wave of rage.

  A scorching beam burst from every part of me, super nova.

  I stood above a valley of bones, where I reigned.

  The monster.

  Safe in the desolate land, with feathers beneath me, lit by the ghost light of glowing bones, my powers suckled me. And they whispered: You are death. The End. Destroyer.

  Howls, screams, bellows.

  Finally, silence.

  The fire broke off as abruptly as it’d exploded. I slipped to the hard ground.

  Smoking piles of ash were heaped pyrrhic around Rebel and Harahel, who cowered, clutching each other over Anpiel’s corpse.

  How the hell did I do that? Because no way was I driving the Violet Train.

  You go boom and bring down the house with your feathery glory, girl! Will you sleep better for knowing you didn’t light the match?

  Know what’d help me sleep? Knowing I can’t burn the house down, whilst I sleep.

  Who’s in control?

  How hard have you truly been fighting it, Angel Princess? Letting your greedy slut angelic side grow plump in these caves?

  I unleashed the Matriarch’s shadow? And now the warring powers inside me want to come out and play?

  And they’re mean bitches.

  I staggered over to Anpiel’s body, dropping next to Rebel, before hugging him.

  No touching?

  Screw that when Rebel could be the one lying here without a head…

  He stiffened but didn’t pull away

  Harahel lay with his face buried in Anpiel’s wing, trying to silence his weeping, but his shoulders shook.

  Rebel’s face was drawn and serious. He pushed me back, nudging me towards Harahel.

  When I stroked Harahel’s shoulder, he startled. ‘Only me, bro, you’re safe.’

  ‘Not safe,’ he whispered through his tears. The tips of his brunet curls were stained with Anpiel’s blood. ‘Never. Safe. Again.’

  ‘You’re my mate. Ally. I’ve got your back.’

  Harahel gripped Anpiel’s feathers, as if he could resurrect her through the touch. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Just what has that rotten madam and her daft troops done…?’ Battle stormed into Merlin’s Grotto, her boots clattering in the quiet and trailing crimson footprints through her sister’s blood.

  ‘Stop…’ I called out.

  Yet not before Battle’s toe had sent Anpiel’s head slithering like an ogre’s football against the ledge.

  Battle scowled, tilting her head in confusion. Then she swung to us, examining the body we were huddled around.

  Harahel clung closer to me, trembling.

  When Battle prowled towards us, I shrank back. ‘Look, I’m sorry about your sister…’

  I choked, as Battle snatched me by the throat and chucked me across the cave.

  I slammed into the wall.

  Crunch.

  I slipped to my knees, dazed.

  Rebel growled, launching himself at Battle, but she backhanded him across the jaw.

  Crack.

  I flinched, as Rebel’s head snapped to the side.

  Battle howled. She raised her hands in grief to the stars peeping through the high cave’s tunnel. Then she drew her bow and pointed it at me.

  My head pounded; my arms were too heavy to lift. I tried to shuffle backwards, but the room span.

  The sputtering flames on Battle’s arrow trembled in the black. ‘You, destroyer. You’ve taken everything. I’ll burn you for—’

  ‘Watch your grief-laced words, Hasmal. She’s still my daughter. Or do you forget your place?’ The Matriarch’s rebuke called from behind Battle.

  An emotion I’d never figured on experiencing? Relief on being surprised by the Matriarch.

  But what was with the still my daughter?

  Battle stiffened, her finger twitching on the string of the bow.

  The Matriarch glided towards us. Her hair hung loose, without feathers woven into its cascade, over a simple dress. Even her stilettos were missing: her feet bare and vulnerable.

  Like she’d been woken in the night. And of course, she bastard had because of the vampires.

  Because of me.

  Shadows stained the hollows under her eyes, and as she glared between Battle and me — her two daughters — hardly bothering to glance at Anpiel’s corpse, she looked…ancient.

  How old was she?

  ‘Aye, right. How can I forget my place?’ Battle swallowed, as if fighting not to let tears fall. She didn’t lower the bow. ‘My sister lies dead because your idiot daughter has stolen it.’

  ‘I wished to fly with my baby bird. I called h
er to grow amongst us. Do you call me idiot?’ The Matriarch’s voice had dropped dangerously low.

  Yeah, call her idiot, bitch.

  Battle fumbled with her arrow. ‘Never, Queen Miniel. By the Wing, forgive me.’

  She hurled the bow against the wall, before swinging to Harahel.

  He cringed back, clasping Anpiel’s wing.

  How many times had Anpiel saved him from her sister? Except, Anpiel would never be able to protect him again.

  Battle’s eyes narrowed. ‘And you, wee man? Did she die rescuing your worthless, snivelling, Imperfect bahookie?’

  She wrenched Harahel up by his bloodstained curls. At the sight of the burgundy tips, her hand tightened, before she slapped him across one cheek and then the other.

  He bit his lip to stop himself crying out.

  I remembered the pit of nightmares inside the library’s Gateway and Harahel’s command over the beasts.

  He was one juiced up bastard; he could kick Battle’s arse.

  Yet here amongst the Glories? Without Anpiel by his side? He was just another toy for Battle to use to bitch slap out her grief.

  She raised her hand again, and Rebel snarled.

  ‘Muzzle your Marked.’ The Matriarch crouched next to the corpse of a Merlin, stroking its head tenderly. ‘Or I shall give him to Hasmal for a lesson. In truth, she’s never understood the balance of pain and pleasure, delighting in pain alone.’

  I froze, shooting Rebel a glance. Dizzy still, I had no mojo to fight again.

  Rebel met my eye, miming locking his mouth and tossing me the key.

  Battle grinned. She yanked Harahel over Anpiel’s corpse in a shower of feathers.

  Harahel sobbed, grasping a violet feather in each hand like they were Anpiel’s ashes.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Battle dragged Harahel bumping across the floor to lie at the Matriarch’s feet.

  ‘Anpiel…’ Harahel wept brokenly.

  Bastard legs work…

  I stumbled up but then staggered back to my knees, head throbbing.

  The Matriarch didn’t look up. She stroked the dead Merlin’s beak. ‘You wish to poison your sister’s love?’

  Battle nodded. ‘I want this ball-bag as my Wing.’

  Harahel shook. ‘No…my Queen…’

  ‘Hush, you honour the dead by flying true and should be thankful a Glory wishes to claim your imperfection.’ The Matriarch stroked Harahel’s curls, as she’d stroked the dead Merlin. ‘I delight at what the match means to you both.’ Harahel curled into a ball, under her mock soothing hand. ‘What about you, baby bird? You like to play with the Imperfect.’

  I jumped.

  ‘I’m not big on bigamy.’ I glanced at Rebel, but his gaze was blank and unreadable. ‘I already have a Wing, with my name on his neck and everything, remember?’

  ‘Still so much humanity to strip away,’ the Matriarch sneered. ‘In our world, there are more Wings than Glories. Why should we bind ourselves only to one? Many take Poly-Wings, just as they Mark. If you do so, you’d send out the message it’s the word of Perfection. No Glory would dare not follow the example of my precious daughter.’

  Bastard politics.

  I stared at Harahel, who trembled under the Matriarch’s caress.

  Yeah, threat received loud and clear.

  But Drake — and the risk of Flight on my back — had taught me the role of leader. I couldn’t become the Matriarch’s daughter, using people as pawns and forcing more couples into toxic Poly-whatever-the-hells and Wings into bed slaves. Even if I had to sacrifice Harahel.

  Once, I’d reckoned all men bastards.

  I’d been blind, just like my mum.

  ‘The word of Perfection? One bloke is enough for this bitch.’ At last, I stood, even though I swayed.

  ‘Please!’ Harahel crawled towards me, still gripping the two feathers. ‘We can Train. You can teach me about computers. I’ll do anything—’

  ‘I can’t,’ I murmured. ‘Would Anpiel have owned Poly-Wings?’

  ‘Don’t,’ Harahel warned.

  Rebel whined, pointing at Harahel and nodding frantically.

  I mimed tossing his imaginary key up and down, and he subsided, scowling.

  When the Matriarch smiled at Battle, she prowled to Harahel, tugging him backwards by the arm. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to be manhandled to his knees, his head bowed to the ground.

  A sudden gust on my face, and a shadow stained me.

  I stared upwards into the whirlwind shafts that twined up to the skies; fresh air blew on my skin, puffing the ash pyres across the Grotto.

  A Wing hovered mid-air; his wings beat slowly, although they flamed. He wore gold harem trousers, but unlike the rest of the Legion, also an emerald silk shirt; his wings burst through slashes in the back.

  Why was he special?

  His curly golden head was cocked to one side, as he watched us from the shadows; his hair was threaded with grey, although like the Matriarch he looked as young as he must’ve been ancient.

  And powerful.

  The air thrummed. A crackling candyfloss white. It static tingled my brain.

  Magic.

  A spell caster in the ranks of the Legion?

  It looked like the Legion’s top boy was home. And he was pissed.

  The Matriarch swanned towards me with a grin. ‘The Mage has arrived. Now the games may begin. But you, baby bird, have been so bad.’

  I took a step back.

  ‘Only a mental case would think she’d pass the Trials.’ Battle booted Harahel in the ribs. ‘The lass misbehaves.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because you’re a bad teacher, Switch-happy? How about a career change? Executioner? Dominatrix?’

  The Matriarch gripped my hand, pulling me close. ‘Seven days. You train but have not become my shadow. I should kill you.’ I quivered but couldn’t pull away. ‘Yet potential licks venomous around you. I see it, even though you fight it: the dark inside. Let it out.’

  ‘See, if you’d gone with light and fairy dust, I’d have been exploding all over the yard.’

  She gave a thin smile.

  The Ice Bitch had been expecting me to reject her. Never trust it when a bastard knows your line.

  ‘Who’s the bloke flapping up a storm?’ I glanced at the angel who was watching us from above. ‘What’s the deal with the Mage?’

  ‘You don’t notice the resemblance?’ She laughed. ‘And my Wing believes you to be close. But then, why would anyone befriend my boy?’

  She pushed me back, sweeping away across the Grotto.

  Golden curls…creamy skin…yet silver in his hair…

  ‘The Mage is Drake’s dad? But…’ The Mage was top boy in the Legion. How could he watch his son being played with by the Matriarch…and others? The Matriarch didn’t hide it behind closed doors. Or did the Mage have as little choice as the rest of us? ‘Is the poor bastard also your Marked Wing?’

  Now the Matriarch’s laugh was evil fairy merry, as she twirled back to me. ‘Are you listening, Rahab? You will fly on such flattery; I prefer younger toys. My precious hasn’t learned her lessons, however, so I offer a treat: my daughter for one day. May your play teach her what I cannot.’

  Shocked, my breath caught. I backed away, raising my fists.

  A shadow above, before the Mage swooped down. He snatched me in his arms, ensnaring me in the scent of sandalwood like fragrant trees, and carrying me into the dark.

  17

  One time, as a kid, I’d mouthed off to the toy boy on the Estate.

  The top boy — the cocaine psycho of Utopia Estate — had me dangled upside down over Apartment Block A’s open ledge.

  I’d swung, rain-lashed and powerless, whilst blood pooled in my head, watching the other kids swinging in the playground below and I’d learnt my lesson: always carry your shank.

  The toy boy had tried to scare the spirit out of me, like all his other tamed little soldiers.

  But instead? He’d bir
thed the Bitch of Utopia Estate.

  If you have the words, you better have the power to back them up. You better not get caught unprepared.

  I swung upside down with a yelp.

  The Mage lazily spun his fingers in a loop, and more leather straps dropped from the veined gold crystal of his chamber’s ceiling, thwapping around my ankles and jerking me in a swinging arc.

  Warm shafts of early morning light speared across the golden walls. I swam in the creamy sandalwood heat. The Legion’s Quarters in the Highest Level of the mountain, and I was alone with the Mage.

  I struggled, wriggling and worm hooked.

  The Mage chuckled, standing with his hands behind his back on a red Persian rug, examining me like I was the latest curio. His shirt hung open over his chest.

  Yeah, this was Drake’s daddy.

  Suddenly, my grip slipped on my sunglasses, and they tumbled to the floor beneath.

  Hell no…

  I screwed closed my eyes. Panic clawed. I struggled for breath.

  ‘Hush, little princess,’ the Mage’s voice was soothing.

  The slow flapping of wings…

  I shivered at the gust of air against my exposed skin and the Mage’s fingers, drawing patterns down my waist.

  My arse might be on show upside down like this, but at least my dress covered my other set of blushing cheeks.

  ‘No touching the animals,’ I rasped (because Rebel had a point on the no touching rule). ‘This zoo has a strict policy.’

  To my surprise, his fingers paused their stroking and then withdrew.

  ‘Do you imagine, naïve one, that I truly wish to touch you in the manner you fear? I’m not your mother. Also, you hold no interest for me…like that.’ He smoothed up my dress, peering at my flushed face. ‘Where’s your faith in angels now?’

  ‘You heard me? All those years I called to the angels as a kid?’

  ‘I don’t let go of what’s mine because I am not a bad father. But why should I have answered you?’

  ‘Let me down.’

  When his intense gaze met mine, he dissected me in the moment. ‘You are special. Chosen. Yet you hide yourself so exceptionally, and I wish to see the real you.’ He studied both my black and violet eyes. Mesmerized, I lost myself in him: what if he had been my father? What if he’d answered? Then he smiled fondly. ‘And there you are.’