Blood Renegades (Rebel Vampires Book 3)

by Rosemary A Johns

  ‘Reckon you’ve enough for all of us, innit?’ Will turned away, his dirty fingers – little one dislocated – stiffly playing with his frayed jumper. ‘The world has a beef with me? That’s wack, ‘cos I ain’t got no beef with the world. Just so you know.’

  I was a wanker and feeling half an inch tall.

  Just then I caught a glimpse of a black-and-white body.

  I scooped up Mutt, laying her next to Will. At least she was still breathing.

  Thank Christ for that.

  I half-convinced myself I only gave a rat’s arse for Will’s sake.

  Will stared up at me like I could perform miracles. Resurrect the dead.

  Oh yeah, I could.

  I swept my hand over Mutt’s furry body. She was surprisingly soft and warm. I rubbed my hand backwards and forwards. Her heart was thudding, slow but still beating. I laid my head close to hers.

  Something wet slobbered across my mug from top to bottom.

  Mutt was awake, and I’d just experienced a Mutt tonguing.

  I glowered at her. ‘Bad dog.’

  Will, however, was grinning. ‘Good dog.’ He tried to wrap his arms around Mutt but groaned. No way was his walking anywhere.

  ‘Let’s get you to hospital because that’s the craze for you humans.’ Will scooted away from me on his arse, however, squeaking with pain. ‘Bloody stop it now.’ Will stopped but still eyed me warily. ‘No hospital?’

  Will shook his nut.

  ‘I’m not taking you to that…under London Bridge.’

  ‘I ain’t asking you for nothing.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’ And he didn’t. It didn’t mean I wouldn’t tear the world asunder for him, lie to my family and betray promises. Give him my very blood if he’d have it. Sodding hell, I wished he’d be ready for election soon, and that he’d want it - unlike Kathy. The waiting was agony. ‘Come back to my home.’

  There – I’d said it. Exploded myself out of the water; it was too late to go back.

  I was buggered.

  ‘Not cool man,’ Donovan whispered, glancing at the closed bedroom door.

  Scarlet candles dotted the floor in upturned beer bottles, their flames votary offerings in the black.

  It’d been Hartford who’d offered to take the bloody pile of rags and curls from my arms and sweep Will into the kitchen to patch him up like my latest stray, before the hollering could begin; Hartford had an uncanny nose for that.

  See here’s the thing: that coffee cup of thick crimson – human – blood? Will’s blood? Hartford acting all demon possessed on the floorboards?

  Don’t reckon I hadn’t figured on one unleashed Long-lived scenting Will’s grazes and thinking grub’s up.

  Yet there was something about the way Hartford took Will from me – Will’s skinny arms transferring from my neck to Hartford’s, as if he’d always known him or he was family.

  Like he trusted him.

  And trust? It’s harder to find than love.

  You can lose it too, twice as fast.

  Donovan’s intent stare could’ve set the chipped bedroom door aflame. ‘You told us you were at Peter Pan’s? You lying to us now, man?’

  Heat flooded my cheeks. ‘Sorry.’

  Sun was sprawled on the lumpy mattress, her hands clenched in the faded sheets. Her ash blonde hair hung in a veil masking her mush; I could just see the laser slits of her peepers. She was dressed in a tight pair of jeans and a flint-speckled top, which she’d returned with from a charity shop. Wearing them, I always reckoned, was a protest.

  ‘Sorry?’ Donovan shook his nut, ‘What’s happened to you and my baby? These First Lifers..?’ He spat out the words like they were venomous. ‘Bringing one into our home..? Unless he’s a snack…’ I had my hand around Donovan’s throat, as I slammed him backwards and onto the bed, so fast I didn’t even know I was doing it, until we were both breathing hard and staring into each other’s startled peepers. ‘Hey, no need to wave the fangs around.’

  Surprised, I licked my teeth with my tongue and then yelped. I drew my fangs back slowly.

  Donovan could’ve kicked my arse, if he’d chosen to take offence 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 I’d never meet that wanker Plantagenet. He probably wore other bloke’s fangs as trophies: or poncey cravats.

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

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

  ‘No one eats him,’ I ordered, ‘the boy’s hurt and our guest.’

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

  I should’ve known. The bottom line. The profit margin.

  ‘If I take on extra shifts--’

  ‘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 it could’ve cut glass. ‘You’re soft if you reckon I’m 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: Author and elected.

  I wanted to plan such fantasies with Sun. To thrill our dark pleasures. To know if I couldn’t be mentor, then we’d swagger side by side into our Blood Life together.

  I forced myself to saunter closer to Sun. ‘If you figure you can do better, luv…’

  ‘I do.’ Cool and considered.

  Devastating.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Reckon 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 notha deal.’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ 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 mush snogging by Mutt. ‘What’s that..?’

  ‘Will’s not a pet. He’s--’

  ‘You know what’d be mint? If I start trading again. Then we’d be wealthy enough to afford your young First Lifer.’

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

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

  ‘First,’ reasonable voice (I was not the nagging wife), ‘we don’t have the readies; you’re not getting your mitts on our wages either. Second: you’re dead. Your daddy killed you; I know because I had to watch, before I sank my fangs into the bastard’s throat. So no identity. No Grayse.’

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

  ‘I was only saying--’

  ‘I’m dead ‘cos I chose you. And I’m alive? ‘Cos you made me.’

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

  ‘I’m sorry--’

  ‘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 frickin’ chaining me?’

  Terror moth fluttered in my belly. Tremors shook every nancy boy inch of me. Because what Sun had said, gave wings to the torment I’d suffered under Ruby. For a hundred years I’d been happy, lost in the fug of a false freedom. When in fact all along I’d been – chained – by her love. I’d sworn I’d never control another First or Blood Lifer as she had.

  Never chain them.

  ‘It’s to keep you safe,’ I spluttered, when all I wanted was to hold Sun – snog her – force her to take it back. Make her sw
ear 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 you could deal with would be other Blood Lifers.’

  ‘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 set to much now either.

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

  Sun’s gaze was mocking. It burnt me. ‘Fear, huh?’ I startled, when she sidled so close her dry mouth brushed my lobe, as she whispered, ‘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.

  ‘Gonna need to breathe any moment.’

  ‘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 I’d managed to buy with my first pay.

  Bought - not nicked.

  It carried me back to Grayse’s apartment in Primrose Hill, when we’d been mistress and slave, and the scent of her posh 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. The aroma of Fernando’s perfume.

  Now she was Sun? She wore mine: and she smelled of freedom.

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

  Yet when Sun pulled back her wrist? Her mush 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 – caught tame between First and Blood – in which we’d found ourselves, it turns out even freedom costs.

  ‘Hey man, you wiggin’ out?’

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

  I stumbled backwards, my heel catching an empty Guinness bottle. It skittered over, rolling with flying hot wax. The scarlet candle flared extra bright, as if it’d escaped.

  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 mush was very still.

  Then I realized.

  No Will.

  Lucky I can’t have a coronary.

  ‘Where’s my Will?’

  ‘Ankled it out of this joint once all the hollering started.’

  ‘And you didn’t…I dunno…stop him?’

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

  Why did Hartford always have to be so bloody right?

  I 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.

  It’s never a good sign when you know 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. All a watercolour wash: nothing but background.

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

  I was going to kick his arse.

  ‘Alright?’

  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 nut twisted round, his swollen peepers shocked. ‘You ain’t gotta bother, man. Go back to your fam.’

  Family.

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

  ‘They’re not perfect; this isn’t simple though, and Hartford’s--’

  ‘Safe,’ 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.

  ‘That’s why I took you there, until you had a case of the runaways.’

  ‘I ain’t gonna lose you fam, wifey and home. Or cause you bother; it’s all I do.’

  ‘Save the sodding self-pity. I’m a big boy; 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 - sly now. Will looked at me through his curls. ‘Thought you ain’t no angel?’

  ‘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 thin sweater. I yanked him – none too gently – to me. Then I was cradling him. Sod the fact 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 was vibrating, like a mouse when it’s played with by a cat.

  Problem was? I was beginning to reckon 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 it, 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 baggy bracelet. Then he shuffled closer. I hunkered down, until our mushes were close. I hadn’t seen him look so solemn - or less like a kid.

  ‘My sis made it me when we were…’ Will’s voice dropped to a whisper, ‘I done run from the rents; that be why I ain’t going no hospital. No po-po, 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--’

  ‘Foster, yeah?’

  I could’ve sung hallelujahs.

  ‘Why?’

  Will was caressing those green threads again, as if they were strands of hair. ‘My sis. She’s safe. All that matters.’

  I’d caught it, however, the darkness in Will’s peepers.

  I knew it was in mine as well.

  I was going to sodding dismember those bastards. Slowly.

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

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

  NIGHT 4

  ‘You have sisters and whatnot? First Lifer?’

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

  Puppies to torture before midnight? Sisters, have them?

  One sister. Had.

  Ate her?

  Of course not. Why would you..?

  Knock that holier than thou look off your mug; I didn’t nosh my sisters. Orphan school kid, wasn’t I? I didn’t go to private--

  Boarding school, actually.

  It’s just what some Blood Lifers do: blood’s richer. The DNA intimate-like, almost blood sharing. It’s as close to eating yourself as you can get; Freud would’ve had a field day. Plus what with working here…

  And that means…what precisely?

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

  You’re the Big Bad Wolves.

  Captain made a weekend feast of his family. I wouldn’t look it up: the photos aren’t pretty.

  So why had?

  She’s no longer my sister.

  Depends how you look at it. Ever been to just look at her..?

  Your meal’s getting cold. Captain was most insistent--

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

  Here’s a question: if you now know I’m not the Renegades’ leader--

  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?

  We both know 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; 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, which it hasn’t earned.