Blood Renegades (Rebel Vampires Book 3)

by Rosemary A Johns

  Lies transformed alchemic into truth.

  That’s why bastard politicians get stiffies over inquiries, yet erase the parts, which don’t fit with their narrative.

  I’m not figuring on mine fitting.

  Breakfast now, please.

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

  Stop shaking.

  I didn’t know 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 favourite band? 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 favourite 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 chinwagging about bands, and this has suddenly turned--

  You weren’t, though, were you? You never just chinwag.

  So 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 tall arches of our gabled villa. Mama was out visiting friends, stiffly 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).

  I’d unchained them from their tutor’s lists of accomplishments: piano, watercolours and posture. My sisters were more than that, even if he couldn’t see it.

  I’d sneaked them out of the bay window, shunting at the sash. Polly’s cotton pinafore had snagged; I’d flinched at the rip. Then we’d torn down the manicured lawn – every blade of regimented grass saluting – to the willow at the bottom. Our refuge. Before we’d tumbled in a giggling heap of arms and legs.

  I stroked through Nora’s long locks. Papa had once pinned a primrose there on our walk up Primrose Hill, once we were out of the fog smoke of the city and gazing over the vast world of London: Barrow Hill Reservoir, cottages, zoological gardens and St Paul’s Dome.

  Nora had pressed that primrose between her heavy Bible: I don’t wish it to die, she’d whispered.

  Yet when the primrose’s creamy petals and sun heart had shrivelled to mummified brown, I hadn’t been able to stop myself: I’d stroked its moth wing strangeness. It’d been dry, desiccated - dead.

  Under my touch, it’d crumbled.

  Shocked, I’d tried to hold it together, but some things can’t be saved.

  When I’d forced myself to look up into Nora’s teary mush, I’d been as devastated as her at the loss.

  It was Polly, however, in defence of her sister, who duffed me up.

  Their tutor would’ve been horrified.

  Here’s the thing: I never was one for mates. In First Life, I didn’t have one. Instead I was my papa’s apprentice in his experiments into the science of photography; our adventures were of the mind. Around kids of my own age? I stumbled and stuttered; all I knew were beatings and contempt. My sisters were dolls, with which I could play.

  And today I intended to initiate my sisters into the secret club of the den.

  I flicked open my Swiss army knife. The sun glinted off the steel. As my sisters encircled my waist with their small arms (their familiar weight pressing against me like choir bursts of gold), I cut branches, stripping them with quick efficiency. Sweating, I shifted, the light ghosting the garden pale.

  When there was a pile of birch branches, we swept them up in our arms, carrying them under the veil of the weeping willow. Our world. Nora and Polly chattered in their own language, which I’d never decoded, whilst we built a birch igloo, weaving the branches together with nimble fingers. Nora clapped with joy at our creation, as Polly crawled inside.

  I grinned.

  They were filthy; their pinafores and cheeks smudged with dirt. Their hands as black as a chimney sweep’s. When mama saw? I was going to cop it.

  We were together, however, and happy. Gold flowed like a wave over me; I wished I could always be bathed in its warmth.

  Until I heard the tutor’s outraged bellow. ‘What in heaven’s name is going on here?’ He strode towards us like a man on a mission from God himself. ‘Girls, inside. The state of you! This is…despicable…a disgrace…wicked. Such unwomanly behaviour is unbecoming. And you, boy?’ When he grabbed me by the ear, wrenching hard, I yelped.

  Nora and Polly jumped up, but I waved my hand to stop them terrier-like savaging their tutor. Reluctantly, they trailed inside, glancing back at me. They were gripping each other’s hands, tears dancing down their cheeks.

  I felt as guilty as hell.

  The tutor’s long mug and blazing peepers was mottled crimson. When he booted the den, it collapsed.

  I struggled, but he twisted my ear harder; he was going to bloody pull it off. Then he was stooping down and snatching up a wicked branch, waving it through the air – swish – like a switch.

  I swallowed.

  ‘Hands against the tree.’ At last, the tutor let go of my ear.

  I edged towards the trunk, placing my palms against it. It was dark so far beneath the willow. I shivered.

  The tutor’s hands were around my waist (so different to my sisters’), undoing the button flies on my trousers. Then he slid the jacket from my shoulders, tossing it over my destroyed den, before sliding off my braces and trousers and pushing down my flannel drawers.

  I reddened, all the way from my cheeks to my chest.

  Even though I was only a kid, inside I raged at the humiliation, the punishment I knew I had coming and at my powerlessness.

  I stood there motionless.

  And I waited.

  ‘You’re spoilt,’ the tutor’s voice was hard, close to my ear. His hand was caressing my bare arse: backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards. I trembled. ‘Your papa indulges your eccentricities, but I will not. If I had the misfortune of having you as my son? I’d have you shut up. The whip and the dark. Bedlam. That’s what you need, boy.’

  I shook, terrified. What if papa listened to this man’s poison?

  Because what if he was right?

  I was different: I always had been.

  What if I was destined for the dark?

  ‘Boys need the rod to teach them,’ with one hand the tutor was reaching between my legs – touching – with the other he was swishing the switch. Its cut was cruel through the air. I jumped at each swish, expecting the red-hot brand to light up my arse. I was tormented by the anticipation. ‘I intend to give you the thrashing of your life. Beat the devil out of you. Count each stroke.’

  Then he wasn’t at my ear. I felt him move back, allowing himself space to truly swing that sodding switch.

  I clenched: every muscle tense. My fingers curled against the smooth trunk of the willow. My peepers screwed shut, as I prepared to have the life whipped out of me.

  But the stroke never came.

  Confused, I shifted, glancing back over my shoulder.

  Papa was standing, like a vengeful
Zeus, gripping around the upraised switch with white knuckles. The tutor was stilled, his gob open in gormless surprise.

  Neither was backing down.

  At last, the tutor lowered his arm.

  Papa inspected me, before trying to smile, but I could see the strain. I forced myself to smile back. ‘Please make yourself decent, Thomas.’

  Hurriedly I yanked up my trousers, fumbling over the buttons. I slipped on my braces, tucking in my shirt with shaky hands. I retrieved my jacket from the collapsed den, before dusting it down and pulling it on.

  The tutor waved his arms in horror. ‘You do not understand, sir. This contemptible boy--’

  ‘I understand quite well. His sisters came to me in the study. It appears my son was teaching them engineering.’

  The tutor blinked rapidly. ‘But…they’re girls. Surely you must--’

  ‘I am only disappointed their endeavours have been broken. They may rebuild again tomorrow.’

  I laughed. Then quickly looked down. ‘Thank you, papa.’

  The tutor stared between us, like he actually had stumbled into Bedlam. ‘You’re not saying you encourage..?’

  ‘What I am saying,’ Papa towered over the tutor, who quailed back, mouse-like now he wasn’t intimidating kids. Powerless? I was learning there were strata to these power games in the grownup world - and I bloody wanted to be the man wielding it. ‘Is you will not strike my son. He’s,’ papa paused, considering, ‘my little Light.’ Papa smiled down at me, as he took my hand, leading me out of the willow’s veil and into the sunlight.

  Except we never did build that den again because that was our last day together.

  The following morning everything changed. One gin-soaked hansom cab driver and papa was lost.

  After that, all I knew was orphan school.

  So Will? If he didn’t want foster or a kiddies’ home, I’d give him a glorious new world instead.

  Because when you remember the good, it hurts twice as much as remembering the bad.

  In First Life I’d lost everything. In Blood Life..? I’ve lost it several times over.

  Abandonment issues? Don’t even bloody start.

  Yet the secret childhood fear always worming at the edges..? That the dark would come for me and catch me at last, swallowing me whole.

  I wouldn’t let that happen to Will.

  Cold sliced across my skin, as I ran beside the Thames. Even here CCTV recorded every hunter’s step; London was a watched over city. Predator energy, however, roiled through my bunched muscles, as I pelted down the pavements, leaping over damp benches, whilst The Animals in all their gritty glory beat through my iPod.

  I was lost in the past. In wild joy. In a time when I’d been…

  Free.

  I was bloody free.

  At last I slowed under the orange-sun of a streetlight, gasping for breath.

  Footsteps.

  Then small fingers wormed out one earbud, like a claim of ownership.

  Will: he was burrowing the earbud into his own ear, sharing the bluesy beat and guts of the music. I shook with the sudden intimacy. The shared experience was like blood tongued between us - sacrosanct. The music twining between us was a bond.

  The track transported me to 1965, when things were as simple as my Triton on a clear black motorway, with Ruby at my back and hot First Lifer blood thrumming through me.

  I licked my lips. The zing was intense…thrilling…overwhelming…

  Abruptly, I shut off the iPod, tearing away the earbuds from both our nuts.

  Will was staring at me – his peepers colourful in black and purple – with this look of wonder. ‘The song…that’s you, ain’t it?’

  ‘What did I tell you about bloody angels?’ I grinned, flicking a quick bit of fang.

  Will shivered.

  I still had it.

  Then I felt like a tosser.

  Wankering conscience.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets. ‘That a new look for you?’

  Will had magicked up from somewhere black jeans and a t-shirt. He was still wearing ratty trainers but points for trying.

  I’d never been anyone’s role model before.

  Daft kid.

  ‘Come on, I need to see a man about a dog.’

  We strolled away from the Thames, through the dripping arches and towards the parade of shops with broken awnings and faulty neon signs. The rich doughy aroma of the bakers warmed the streets in sticky waves, as the beat – beat – beat of dance music thudded from the solitary cocktail bar on the corner.

  When I heard a strange metallic rasp, I turned to see Will unscrewing a battered flask. He sneaked a glance at me, before taking a swig. Then he choked. I could smell the stink of cheap vodka on his breath.

  Quick high kick…the flask was history.

  I crossed my arms. ‘Not bloody milk that.’

  ‘I ain’t no baby, and you drink.’

  ‘Playing copycats, is it?’ I studied Will’s determined mush speculatively. ‘You don’t drink to escape.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Will flushed. ‘What would you know anyway?’

  ‘More than you’d think.’

  I sauntered further down the parade, with Will scampering awkwardly after me. He was still hugging his arms around his middle.

  Broken ribs.

  Of course, he didn’t follow me until he’d made me wait a minute or two’s sulky protest.

  Teenagers, yeah?

  Then there was a snick of a lighter, flare of flame, curl of smoke and…

  The little git was smoking.

  One spear hand later – stamp – and the ciggie was dead.

  But my nicotine craving had flared to life from the grave.

  Will was staring at me with wounded doe eyes; I could’ve strangled the blighter.

  ‘Those?’ I pointed at the smouldering fag, ‘Don’t hurt me but they kill you. Try and smoke again? I’ll ground you. We have an understanding?’

  ‘You like a ninja or something?’ Will had edged closer. He’d gripped my wrist and was stroking over the green strands of his sister’s bracelet; I don’t reckon he even knew he was doing it.

  ‘MMA. How about I teach you?’

  The fragility of First Lifers - I’d forgotten that - the decay, mutation and dangers.

  Death has stalked me, and I’ve stalked this world as death.

  Even now I could see the bruise reminders of Will’s beating; my blood couldn’t regenerate his cells. I couldn’t heal him faster but if I could teach him to fight..?

  Then I thought of Sun. How she was my elected, yet it was Will who needed me.

  ‘Safe, man.’

  A flash of cartoon fangs, and a green stripe on long black fringe.

  The Emo kid was stalking us. If I hadn’t been so distracted by the boy who sang to my Soul, I’d have realised: we were now the prey.

  ‘In here,’ I shoved Will through the first shop door we came to: a fast-food restaurant. The stink of chicken and greasy fries both disgusted me and made my mouth water. I watched through the smeared glass: Emo prowled first one way and then the other.

  No mistake then.

  Donovan had sent me out for some grub.

  ‘What do you fancy? My treat.’

  Will reddened, as he shook his nut.

  ‘Give over, you’re sodding starving. I’ll order everything in large.’

  It was when my order, in a humungous brown paper bag, was being slid over to me that I clocked we were being hunted…twice.

  An officious geezer in snazzy tie and trousers (his name tag thingy read Kev), was hovering just to one side of Will; he was herding Will away from the other customers, as if he was going to nick something.

  Because those ketchup sachets were worth a bomb on the black market.

  Will’s shoulders were hunched but he didn’t say a word. The boy wasn’t stupid; he knew what Kev was getting at.

  You know your place in society, when you’re not welcome in a fast-food restaurant.


  I snatched the grub, passing it to Will; he clutched it to his chest. The manager’s mouth tightened.

  ‘Kev, is it?’ Surprised, Kev stepped back, as if he’d never expected his prey to talk back. I stalked closer, before catching him by the tie – not hard enough to choke but enough to stop him retreating again. The beep and clatter of the tills continued like infernal machines. The other customers didn’t look up from the wet munch of their chicken burgers. But Kev saw me - and only me. ‘When you’re warm inside, paying your rent by serving this muck? Do you think about the kids, who are cold and hungry outside your window?’

  When Kev didn’t answer, I let go of his tie with a shove; he stumbled backwards, compulsively stroking over the silk like he could wipe it clean. He’d been touched, however, it was too late: the dark of my world had infected him. If I couldn’t kill the bastard? I’d settle for that.

  At last Kev opened his gob to reply, but I grabbed Will’s hand, dragging him after me out of the shop.

  Kev was no predator. The real one was out here - waiting for us.

  Will stopped dead.

  Emo stood nose-to-nose with him, his skunk scrutiny assessing.

  Will grinned. ‘Heavy crepes, man. Check out mine,’ Will waved his tattered trainers in disgust. Emo’s mush was blank, as he remained motionless. ‘My crepes be clapping, innit?’

  ‘Shot some kid. Drank. Took his trainers.’ Emo nibbled at his chipped black nail varnished fingers thoughtfully. ‘I like your jeans.’ When Emo smiled, his fangs were already out.

  I dived to seize Emo by his stripy scarf but then I heard Will’s furious growl.

  Will launched himself at Emo in a bizarre imitation of my high kick and spear hands; the fast-food splattered to the pavement. I only just stopped the splutter of laughter in time.

  Surprised, Emo still stepped back.

  Will was panting like he’d gone three rounds in a MMA final; I patted him on the shoulder. ‘Well done, champ, but best leave the fighting to those of us with fangs now.’

  Emo tilted his nut. ‘A mini-you. He your son?’

  ‘He’s none of your business, you rat, that’s what he is.’

  Emo pursed his lips, as if considering, before pulling out the snake sleekness of his shooter.