Blood Renegades (Rebel Vampires Book 3)

by Rosemary A Johns

  I gawped at Aedan. ‘It the Apocalypse?’

  Aedan flicked me with the bar towel. I squawked. ‘I’ll go tell She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed.’

  Aedan sidestepped the drunks and gropers with the skill of a boxer, before disappearing into the crowd.

  Hartford had finished his set. “The Killing Moon” spilled spectral across the sound system. Hartford was dancing with Donovan now in the dark of the club to the mysterious mandarin style bass and cello.

  They were lost in each other. Lost to this world. Lost to the First Lifers of this stinking club, as they reveled to be alive in our glorious second evolution.

  Their cheeks touched; Donovan’s dark mop was falling over his mush. His snake-green eyeshadow sparkled. They were whispering secrets to each other, with these wicked smiles.

  Hartford was centuries old: power radiated from him. He glowed. Yet he was dancing with his stripper partner – my cousin – in a human club because I was too afraid to be discovered by our own kind.

  But this was my London. The dark and dirty behind the pretty.

  Crash.

  ‘Bleeding hell…’

  I ducked – just in time – as two black disembodied hands flew by my nut and – crash – there went a prime bottle of gin.

  And my night’s pay.

  Gloves.

  Black gloves: my brain was just able to untangle, before I was surrounded in black (I forget how tall she is), the soft sway of ash blonde hair and a mouth.

  Sun.

  I was sodding consumed by her. The life born of my fangs.

  She wasn’t Grayse.

  Grayse had died that night out on the moors, I knew that now, but Sun had blazed to birth on her passing and she was here burning up every inch of me. A life created from me but never less than me. I wasn’t her Ruby. I’d authored her but I’d never be more than her equal.

  Christ how I’d spent my long life aching to discover that.

  Then I whimpered.

  Icy fingers had worked their way up the back of my white shirt and were playing my spine like it was a piano. I tried to pull away, but bugger it was Sun powerful.

  She smelled of cheap Tahitian Gardenia and freedom - me.

  Sun nibbled my lips with her teeth. ‘It’s wick raw out. See what an ice queen I’ve frozen into on account of standing at the door all night?’

  ‘Suits you.’ When those torturing fingers teased their way towards the front of my trousers, I looked up into Sun’s flint peepers and was relieved to see the laughter there. ‘We could always swap back? You’re the one wanted to be the Big Bad.’

  ‘Na-ah, Mr Penguin suits you,’ Sun flicked my bowtie, ‘plus you make more tips in the dick jar.’

  ‘There is that. Aedan takes too many risks for us anyhow; it’s not like you’ve got a license or whatnot..?’

  ‘I’m not a frickin’ dog.’

  I couldn’t quite hide my grin. ‘I remember telling you the same thing.’

  Disgruntled, Sun snorted.

  I grabbed both her cold hands, which felt blinding (and not just because it kept me safe from their torment), as I tugged her towards the dancefloor. ‘Come on, or we’ll miss it.’

  Traditions. Habits. Rituals. Call it what you like, they bond and familiarize. Even the broken, fragmented and lost. Maybe us more than most. There’s a risk, however, a danger in every one we add crutch-like.

  That we don’t control them: they control us.

  Blokes in pinstripes, leather or starkers. Brandon’s punk hair and a punter’s neat side parting. Donovan and Hartford at the throbbing heart: a flash of white and sweating pink. United First and Blood in the musky heat going wild to the club’s signature closing song: the creepy, joyful alienation of Echo and the Bunnymen’s “People Are Strange”.

  Caught in the song’s rapture, we were laughing, as I drew Sun close. I warmed her hands between mine: she fitted.

  For the first time in 150 years I had the one I loved, family and a home.

  I had hope.

  I was bleeding soaring.

  The organ rose to its ecstatic crescendo: lights burst in my mind. The world expanded. Who needed blood when I had this?

  Sun’s fingers – hot and aggressive now – stroked down my neck. Questing. Her lips seared, as they pressed to mine.

  Then we were kissing, as we were crushed amongst those First Lifers jumping to a song, which was warning them to look out for the very creatures in the shadows who were snogging in their midst.

  Humans are berks like that.

  We broke apart, when the strippers rushed onto the stage for the finale, Donovan amongst them. They writhed and twirled along that cross, as the punters whooped and catcalled, tossing money like confetti - and the grooms were for sale.

  Sun’s body was entwined with mine; I could hear her harsh breathing. I was losing myself in her.

  In those hedonistic moments of psychedelia, we were forgetting everything.

  And for me? The human camera?

  That’s like…heaven.

  Christ I hope so.

  The world. Our pasts. The pain.

  Because right then? We were happy.

  We were free.

  You’ll only truly understand what that means, when you’ve been a slave.

  Forgetting? Losing myself in the music? Dance? The feel of Sun’s lips – body – against mine was as good as the sweet opiate of blood.

  Almost.

  Yet I know in the choice between fight and flight I’d chosen flight. Safety. When you have family it’s a Siren call.

  A sudden swing of red braids.

  Aedan threw himself chimp-like at Hartford, who stumbled back and then laughing, twirled Aedan round: a First Lifer clambering up a Blood Lifer like he was trying to climb the evolutionary tree.

  They were giggling. Whispering. Pawing. Two kids escaped to a playground.

  Sun hissed, but when I licked up her neck, it turned into a sigh.

  I watched over Sun’s shoulder in shock, as Donovan dived off the stage and ripped Aedan away from Hartford.

  Buggering hell.

  Aedan’s arms were windmilling, as Donovan’s mouth was pressing closer and closer to Aedan’s throat.

  ‘Sodding git…’ I elbowed my way through the crush of sweating, sexed up bodies – their blood pumping beat – beat – beat. I could smell it in every blood bag, beneath their skin.

  Bleeding hell, I could drain every one of them dry; Ruby and I would’ve made a crimson soaked tempest night of it.

  I closed my peepers; wet pricked their edges.

  ‘For crying out loud, mac, what’s your beef?’ Hartford wrenched Donovan by the hair, ripping him away from Aedan’s neck.

  Was Aedan bitten?

  I was panting. The shock or…horror?

  Aedan looked dazed. He was rubbing his throat. I caught him around his waist before he could fall.

  He didn’t seem paralyzed.

  Please, please…just…sodding please…

  Why did I care if one First Lifer died? Only Kathy - my Moon Girl for over fifty years – had ever truly crossed the divide of species. Why was my heart beating so hard my bloody chest ached?

  Hartford was still dangling Donovan starkers by his dark tumble of hair; Donovan was howling like a trapped animal. We were putting on quite a show.

  The other dancers were having a gander now: they looked pissed. The punters were amused at the extra entertainment.

  ‘Outside,’ I snapped, before reconsidering. ‘Clothes on. Then outside.’

  Hartford nodded. ‘We’ll beat it.’ Then he pushed a path off the dancefloor, caveman dragging Donovan squirming and squealing after him.

  When Aedan stroked my mush, I looked down. ‘Now tell me you don’t know who’s Batman and who’s Robin?’ Aedan wriggled in my arms. ‘I’m not a damsel in need of rescuing; you can let go now.’

  ‘Right, sorry.’

  I backed up. Had Aedan been bitten? I ran my fingers down his neck.

 
Aedan jerked away. ‘Cop on and stop being a cock-tease.’

  ‘I wasn’t--’

  Aedan waved it away. ‘Like Donovan wasn’t?’

  ‘About that. I mean, are we alright?’

  ‘You mean: are you fired?’ Aedan’s gaze had hardened.

  I sensed Sun at my shoulder. When I glanced back, she smiled; all at once, I knew what it was not to be alone.

  Aedan shifted, before shaking his nut. ‘This is your home, you tool. Now go and sort out those two idiots of yours.’

  When I found them in the dank alley behind Peter Pan’s, where the pyramid of rubbish bags spilled stale beer bottles and used condoms, Hartford had Donovan slammed against the brick wall, with an arm against his throat…and he was right royally narked.

  ‘We do not eat friends,’ Hartford ground his arm into Donovan’s throat harder with each word.

  I leant against the wall, crossing my arms. Donovan glanced at me, as if for help. I simply raised my eyebrow.

  ‘You’re blowing my mind. Since when were First Lifers friends? Your friends?’

  Hartford lowered his arm; Donovan fingered the blossoming bruises. ‘Pipe down, will you? Aedan’s on the up and up. Can’t you see I’m balled up right now, baby? So Light says no humans, and that means we’re on the wagon-avous.’

  Donovan’s features gentled. ‘Yeah, man, I understand-avous. But…friend? After First Lifers…tortured…raped…’ He swallowed carefully. ‘We’re still slaves inside. You still freak out over nothing: your nightmares and Light’s.’

  Hartford couldn’t meet his eye. Or mine. He was shaking. ‘I need this. I just…’

  I wished Donovan would shut up or Sun would hurry up.

  What we needed?

  A good hunt.

  All right then: pretend hunt. Get the blood rushing and the predator roaring. Bury the ghosts because they’ll never vanish, only fade. You have to learn to live with the unwelcome lodgers.

  That’s when I sensed him: the other Blood Lifer.

  He was lurking – and yeah, anyone who lurks is suspicious in my book – at the end of the alley behind the industrial-sized green recycling bins.

  He was watching us.

  I was already coiled for the hunt. I didn’t even hesitate; I shot off into the black.

  The bloke, however, was ninja fast. I only clocked a hoodie patterned with skulls before he was gone. Me? Now I could leg it with the best of them.

  I buzzed with the predator freed, leaping over walls and bike racks. I was clouted when I shoved by a pug-faced john with a skanky hooker on her knees. I spun but didn’t even pause, as my peeper swelled: the gap was closing.

  The wanker was leading me through rabbit warren alleys; the tang of the Thames was sharp on the breeze. Polish music bled from cars into the still of the night. Inside my brain, however, Echo and the Bunnymen was playing on loop, jabbering how sodding strange I was.

  I’d have beaten my nut bloody on a lamp post, painting it scarlet – of course I know I’m strange, have some of that – if I hadn’t been so close.

  I caught a glimpse of Blood Lifer – a slice of black.

  I hammered my fist against my forehead and sped up.

  For one brief moment, his slim figure was silhouetted against Southwark Cathedral. He was having a gander back over his shoulder.

  At me.

  As if he wanted me to follow…

  I stumbled, before catching myself.

  The bloody cheeky bastard.

  So he was playing cat and mouse..?

  I prowled back the way I’d come through the frozen streets under the death-white moon, working my way round. Bladdered geezers in blue shirts weaved in rowdy bands. The night stank of beer and desperation.

  Typical Saturday night in London then.

  I ducked down, jumping over the last wall.

  The bloke was leaning against a humungous gleaming finger up to the sky, which they call the Shard.

  He would be – the tosser.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets, as I swaggered up behind him.

  When I tapped him on the shoulder, he jumped a bleeding mile. He could barely have been authored: no instincts at all.

  When he spun round, I saw he was a kid. A bloody Emo: skull patterned hoodie, black and white striped socks and matching scarf. Even a t-shirt with cartoon vampire: cute fangs and bat wings.

  Perfect – he had a sense of irony too.

  Emo flicked his long black fringe, which was sprayed green like a mouldy skunk; his peepers were rimmed with enough eyeliner for one too.

  Donovan would want to swap tips.

  Then Emo crossed his arms and tapped his foot, as if I’d been the one who’d been caught out being a bad boy.

  And yeah, I was bloody bad but I’d proved I was no boy.

  I frowned. ‘Who the bleeding hell are you?’

  Emo just smirked.

  That did it. No more Mr Nice Light.

  ‘Look, you pain in my arse, why were you watching us? Can you talk to me or do you have to go get your daddy first?’

  The Emo’s smirk widened. Then he head-butted me.

  Crack – there went my nose.

  Hand strikes – one, two, three – so rapid I didn’t have time to think more than: Emo kids knocking the stuffing out of you with Kenpo Karate? Now that’s not something you see every day.

  I choked on the pain blazing in hot shocks where his small hand sliced.

  No more Mr Nice Light? All right then.

  I grabbed the end of Emo’s stripy scarf and twisted. His turn to choke.

  Gasping, Emo hesitated - my in.

  Because here’s the thing: I know karate too. And the moment Emo realised it?

  Blinding.

  I slammed an elbow strike, followed by swift knife-hands, driving Emo crashing back against the glass Shard. It trembled. He kicked my legs; I gritted my teeth but didn’t lose ground. Close now, I went for a flurry of strikes, until all I could hear was his soft grunts and the hit of flesh on flesh.

  I’d missed this: fists and fangs. You can’t tame a predator – and I’ve never pretended to be a hero.

  Battering that cartoon vampire with its ironic batwings?

  Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.

  Reluctantly, I eased back, but kept my hand pressed to the brat’s chest.

  Emo was panting, yet he still had that not bothered expression.

  I tilted my nut. ‘So now that’s out of your system, let’s try this again. Why are you spying on us? Who do you reckon you are? Bond?’

  It was Emo’s turn to tilt his nut, as he assessed me.

  Confused, I glanced down: dinner jacket and bowtie.

  Sodding hell.

  I sighed, easing back from him. ‘Names Light. Just…Light. Now whatever this is? Can we get on with it? It’s been a long night. I need a kip and a quick bonk. That’s not an offer, by the way. I have a girl…’

  That’s when Emo pulled out the shooter.

  For a long moment, I simply stared at it – sleek and dark – between us.

  Emo’s mush had suddenly stilled. It was strangely blank.

  I blinked. ‘You’re having a laugh.’ Emo cocked the shooter. His finger on the trigger. Not having a laugh then. ‘Stop waving around that todger extension. Unless you’re figuring on shooting me through the heart, it can’t do me in.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Emo sounded so sodding young, stood there with a gun and fangs but no clue as to the true power of either weapon, ‘but it’ll hurt. Won’t it?’

  Bang.

  I screamed.

  The barmy bleeding buggering bastard….

  Scarlet searing exploding agony. I hunched over, struggling not to hurl.

  Emo had shot me in the foot. He’d totally destroyed my boot.

  Grayse – before she was Sun – had given me those boots. I was going to pay Emo back for taking that from me.

  I stared up at Emo, astonished. ‘We don’t use guns; they’re the humans’ toys
. Don’t you know anything about being a Blood Lifer?’

  Casually, Emo shrugged, as he slipped the shooter back into the waistband of his tight jeans. ‘I was told you were a rebel,’ sneer – there was definite sneer in his tone, ‘you don’t sound like one to me.’

  He was examining the gory gaping wound in my foot; his peepers were lit with enthusiasm. ‘How does that feel?’

  ‘Bloody awful, you little bastard.’

  Emo nodded, as if this was a valid answer, which he was storing for future reference.

  I shuddered, before trying to leap at him with my fangs out but only ended up – clang - against the front of the Shard, gasping with the pain of my shattered foot, when Emo casually sidestepped, mooching away towards London Bridge.

  ‘Oi, come back here…’ I punched the glass. Then regretted it.

  Throbbing hand, foot and a long way to limp home? Not exactly how I saw the night ending.

  Footsteps. Running. Blood Lifers.

  Here was to facing the gallows - or a boot to the goolies.

  ‘Bollocks,’ I grunted, as I hit the floor hard, rolling side to side; I curled foetal around my…yeah, bollocks.

  I peered misty-eyed up at Sun and then wished I hadn’t.

  ‘That’s for booking it outta there without me.’

  ‘Point taken,’ I gasped, still massaging my privates, as if somehow I could wank the pain out.

  Sun was breathless like she’d legged it halfway across…

  Bugger it.

  I took a shufti at Donovan and Hartford, who were sauntering towards me, their arms casually wrapped around each other’s waists.

  I reached up my hand, as if Hartford would drag me to my feet in a show of male solidarity, but he batted it away. ‘Swell. Now we don’t have to kick the poor little bunny too.’

  ‘That’s lovely.’

  ‘You’re screwy. Still thinking you’re the superhero, mac?’

  I rolled my eyes, as I slumped onto my back. I didn’t know what hurt more: my blown to smithereens foot, pulverized goolies or Hartford’s words.

  No, the sight of the hole in my motorcycle boot - that did it. I could’ve bleeding bawled.

  ‘Bit of sympathy; man down here.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Donovan now, his shadow dark over me. Couldn’t leave him out: each one lined up to twist the knife. I was discovering it was the role of leader to take it. Must be why prime ministers go grey so fast: have you noticed that? I squinted up through the agony; Donovan was still narked. ‘It’s not cool. All these stunts. You’re not alone; none of us are, not anymore. We’re tight, which means no more wigging out. We need you and--’