‘Now don’t you be wishing we had my shank?’ Will hissed – oomph – elbowing me in the ribs.
‘Let’s not go through this again: you’ve got a bigger gun than me. And by gun? You mean todger. Got it. Now stop playing with it in public because my boy here’s a First Lifer; he won’t just hop away and heal like me.’
‘He shot you?’ Will’s peepers were wide with terror. He’d grasped my wrist –around the bracelet – as if I’d disintegrate to ashes. When I realised that terror was for me? It booted me in the gut.
I shrugged. ‘Yeah. A little. In the foot.’
Emo tittered
I glared at the brat. Then gasped as the bones in my wrist were pressed together; Will was holding on so tightly, I could see the bone white of my skin between his fingers, but it wasn’t terror – it was rage.
If looks could kill? Emo would be a flayed bloody mess in black-and-white socks splayed on the streets of Southwark.
I prised Will off my wrist. ‘Look, I got better. Fast.’
Emo examined me, as if wishing he’d had me strapped down on a lab table to watch my poor foot heal - only so he could do it all over again. He cocked the shooter.
Bloody hell, sometimes I wish I was wrong about the psychos.
‘Where shall I shoot you next? Knee? Hip?’ Emo smirked. ‘Groin?’
‘You ain’t gonna do nothing,’ Will’s breathing was harsh, but I’d never heard anyone so definite; I wish I’d ever been certain of anything, ‘I’ll bring arms house to your ends…’
It’s like when a kitten pounces at a tomcat; the tomcat doesn’t even bother to bat them back.
Emo studied me calculatingly. ‘What will hurt most?’
‘Behave or I’ll send you to the naughty step. Just tell me why the buggering hell you’re following me. I’m tired of the games.’
Sulky as Will earlier, Emo booted a discarded coffee cup skittering.
Yeah, teenagers.
I watched the shooter weave casually through the night air, as if Emo was conducting a silent orchestra.
No one had noticed: the passersby, the streams of cat-eyed cars, black cabs and red night buses or the customers through the glass front of the chicken emporium. Here we were held up at gunpoint on the night-time streets of London.
And nobody had a scooby.
‘Can’t. Won’t. Don’t want to.’ Then the smirk was firmly back in place. ‘And you will like my games. Soon.’ Emo levelled the pistol at Will.
Straight at the heart.
None of us moved.
‘Don’t,’ I breathed, ‘just…please, don’t.’
Emo’s finger was pressing down on the trigger. The shooter was going off.
Bang.
I threw myself in front of Will - in front of the gun – and the bullet.
I encircled Will with my arms, as we crashed to the pavement.
Will howled, when I crushed his ribs but he was alive; I was flooded with simple joy, whilst I waited to die.
Will was sobbing and calling my name.
Angel of Light, Angel of Light, Angel of Light…
Then he slapped my mush. Hard.
I opened my peepers.
What the sodding hell?
When I clutched at my chest, my hand came back clean: no gory crimson.
I twisted round to look up at that strangely blank expression on the Emo kid’s mug.
He’d tucked away the gun. I had the feeling of being a bug under his scientist’s gaze. ‘Blanks. No bullets. Interesting reaction. How did it feel to face second death?’
Don’t forget me…Sun entwined around me like a steel snake; her bite into my jugular was explosive rainbow end of days. I panted, squirming and gasping. Trapped in her embrace, I juddered. Then Sun was snogging me and I could taste my copper blood… Don’t forsake me…
I could feel the vibrations of Hartford’s anguished plea in his soulful song through every fevered atom. We curled around each other on the black cushions, which were piled on the lounge floor. Donovan was sprawled on the sofa, smoking wacky backy, serenaded by Hartford’s new routine for the club. But it was meant for him because one thing I knew..?
Love.
…Live for me…
Hartford was singing to Donovan: the dead bloke he craved to resurrect.
I twisted Sun, splaying her over the cushions. She laughed in surprise. I’d forgotten how young she still was. ‘My turn.’
I bit but gently. The moment when my fangs slid through her ivory skin was divine. Her blood was like coming home. Her body was quivering… Don’t forget me… and we were snogging, both our bloods bonded as one… Don’t forsake me… our hearts beating united… Live for me…
Crash.
Splintered door. Black balaclavas. First and Blood Lifers. Shooters.
‘Bloody down.’ I threw myself over Sun, shielding her. I couldn’t hear anything over the rat-rat-rat of gunshots. The sofa’s foam sprayed like snow.
Screams.
Christ in heaven, Hartford.
I peered up.
Dark shapes, like black ghosts, were thronging through our flat. A dozen at least.
Hartford was huddled by the wall: he was riddled with bullets. His breathing was laboured; crimson was seeping down his white shirt.
Donovan had dived from the sofa and was stroking Hartford’s cheek, snarling at the bastard, who had his semiautomatic pressed to Hartford’s forehead.
Enough was bleeding enough.
I stood up, straightening my shoulders. As if with a collective mind, the black balaclava bastards turned their shooters to point at me. Apart from the one who had his trained on Hartford. ‘Reckon there’s been a bit of a mix up, gents. So why don’t you pack up and get your arses out of here. By the way, what type of Blood Lifer brings either a gun or a First Lifer to a barney?’
‘That’d be me.’
Bollocks.
Captain neatly stepped through our smashed front door, as if appalled to discover it in such a state. He brushed at his peak of strawberry blond hair: he still had the dimples.
Sodding baby-faced wanker.
‘Found an even more morally outrageous way of fuelling your ambition at the Blood Life Council, than enslaving your own species?’ Hartford was taking agonised gasps – how many times had they bleeding shot him? When I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, I hurriedly gestured for Sun to stay still. We’d seen what Captain could do; I didn’t want a repeat. ‘Like taking over the banks? Or going into coalition with the First Lifer Government?’
Captain sauntered in front of me; in sky blue jacket and shirt he was the only colour in a sea of black. ‘I have a busy day, absolutely back-to-back with meetings. So, precious as you always are, let’s get down to it. Do you remember knocking out my tooth?’
For the first time, I smiled. ‘One of my happiest memories.’
‘I’m so pleased because I’m certain this shall be one of mine.’
A steel knuckleduster was slipped with practised precision over Captain’s right fist. ‘Fangs out.’
This time I couldn’t stop either Sun or Donovan shooting to their feet. ‘Bloody well stay back,’ I hissed at them.
‘How cute,’ Captain was weighing us up one at a time; I felt like I was at a slave auction and remembered the file Captain had written on my weaknesses to help the slavers capture me, ‘a Plantagenet has made himself a family.’ He eyed Donovan. ‘Excuse me, two Plantagenets.’
‘You want your tooth for a tooth? Sodding well get on with it and stop boring us to death.’ I couldn’t let the others see what it was doing to me to force out my fangs, knowing they were going to be stolen from me again.
I glanced at Hartford. When our gazes met, I saw he was silently weeping and I knew it wasn’t from the pain: it was because he knew what this meant to me.
When Captain stroked my cheek, I flinched. ‘You see, I decide what happens. I’m in charge. If you can get with that programme, well then, we’ll get on swimmingly. But f
or now? You need to take your punishment.’
Captain raised the knuckleduster. My fangs ached. I fisted my hands, as I screwed shut my peepers.
Bloody do it…
Then softly I felt Captain’s finger tracing over each fang. It was…a violation.
My peepers snapped open.
Captain was watching the way his finger outlined each fang with fascination. The knuckleduster, however, had disappeared. ‘I don’t need to take your fangs, Light, I already own them. Now since your firebug impression with the Blood Club (an administrative headache by the way), we’ve been at war. Terrorists have been inspired by your brutish example to free the remaining Blood Lifer slaves and to work against us at the Council.’
‘Terrorists? I don’t..?’
Captain caught my chin between his fingers hard enough to hurt. ‘You’re delicious when you’re playing innocent. But this is how I own your fangs.’ He clicked his fingers.
Suddenly two Blood Lifers snatched Donovan on either side, bundling him out of the apartment.
‘Don’t… Stop…’
One moment Donovan was there. The next? Gone.
All that was left? Hartford shaking and shouting from the corner, ‘Donovan! Donovan! Donovan…’ Until he made a lunge for the door, shredded guts and all.
‘Want to see what a brain-dead Blood Lifer looks like?’ Captain gestured at the goon, who pressed the gun to the back of Hartford’s nut.
‘Alright, you own me. What do you want?’
Captain smiled: bleeding Cheshire cat. ‘The Renegades. Their leader served up on a platter, so I can put them on trial for their crimes. You were asking about power? A celebrity inquiry..? Now that’s power.’
‘We’ve been keeping a low profile. No playing Spartacus. I haven’t even heard of these wankers.’
Captain glared between us then. From me, to Sun and finally at Hartford: there aren’t many blokes who can hold a Long-lived’s gaze, especially one blazing with the type of grief and fury, which was threatening to sear Hartford open in more places than he was already shot.
It’s a dangerous thing to underestimate a bloke; Captain might be a babe to the black waters of Blood Life but he was a shark.
Captain shrugged. ‘If you don’t hand over the leader of the Renegades? We’ll have to – sacrifice - Donovan in their place. Your call.’
‘This is what you’re reduced to?’ My voice was low and raspy with tears. ‘Joining forces with corrupt First Lifers? Bastard guns because you won’t dirty your fangs or fists? Kidnap?’
Captain tilted his nut, considering. Then he slugged me in the gut. I coughed, doubled over. ‘I dirty my fangs and fists but only for pleasure.’ He wiped his palms down his dun trousers, before slapping his thighs. ‘Best be off, busy, busy, you know how it is.’
When Captain pulled out his iPhone, we all jumped. Then he jabbered into it, as if we were forgotten, even though he’d torn apart my family, destroying my home. His silent army trooped out after him.
Numb, I stared around at the shattered remains of our apartment: the door swinging on its hinges, busted cushions, exploded sofa…and Hartford in a tangled heap of blood, tears and impotent fury.
I fell to my knees next to him, Sun on his other side, as we wrapped our arms around him like we could absorb his pain.
Except it wasn’t enough.
Because one of us was missing.
I rubbed my mush against Hartford’s hair, as we rocked him. ‘We’ll get him back, I promise; I’ll get Donovan back.’
Family, you see, they do make you weak. What’s there in life, though, if not love?
Captain? What’s he ever loved except power?
Does he even love you?
NIGHT 5
Love was always your greatest weakness, wasn’t it?
Not family, loyalty or obsession.
Love: the fear of losing it.
Come on, Thomas, wake up. There are only nine more nights before your trial. You must give me something more than dead papas, homeless boys and--
Kidnapped cousins? Sorry to bore you, sweetheart. How do you know my weaknesses flayed bloody? Seems you’ve been reading Captain’s file on me.
Sod it, I’m right?
There were photos in there; Master got off on telling me. Starkers ones of me: chained, collared and leashed. Enjoyed them, did you? Had a good laugh?
Or did you touch yourself instead?
Mr Blickle, I assure you--
Right cozy feeling to know my torture and enslavement does it for you.
What would do it for me, would be some tangible evidence. You dance around like a boxer. This is your second life: I’m trying to save it.
I investigated, and you were right: you were being starved and sleep deprived. Plus of course, you’re no leader for the Renegades.
I’ll be off then, shall I?
We still need our Spartacus. Yet I don’t like being tricked, as much as I do like a puzzle.
That’s what this is to you?
Isn’t it to you? A vast world of infinite puzzles? A continual search for a challenge worthy of that astounding brain, which you attempt to hide behind the banter? Come, we’re not so different.
I’ve been around for 150 years. I’ve learnt a few things, like when you struggle – sacrifice – and finally open that puzzle box, and it’s empty..?
It wasn’t worth one single bleeding thing you lost.
Silence. Crimson. Cold.
I couldn’t stop shivering. Water trickled down my back, through my soaked t-shirt. When we’d dashed out of our flat into the freezing rain, I hadn’t even paused to grab my leathers.
Hartford’s pale body gaped with wounds, like an abused voodoo doll, scarlet against the pale. He lay motionless on the top of Aedan’s stripped bed, in the flat above Peter Pan’s. He looked so small on the grand four-poster, underneath the kitsch mosaic of Adam reaching (and failing) to touch God’s outstretched finger; Hartford’s damp hair was as golden as the thick wallpapered walls.
Hartford stared at the ceiling, but he didn’t even blink. For a horrifying moment, it was like we were back at Abona House, and he was laid out after some sadistic john had got his jollies from shooting holes in him.
Aedan hovered at my shoulder. All things considered, the chinwag when we’d turned up as if out of a warzone, hadn’t been as awkward as it could’ve been.
‘So what gobshite did..?’ Aedan’s green peepers gleamed, as he waved into the bedroom. He was whispering, like Hartford was sleeping - I wished he had been. ‘So I can ball him, before I castrate him with my teeth.’
‘You’ll have a bloody long queue,’ I patted Aedan on the back. ‘Cheers for this and sorry for…’
‘Not being human?’
I shifted. ‘Never for that. Lying. Missing work. Getting blood all over the bed.’
‘No bother, I’ll dock your wages,’ Aedan grinned, slapping my arse.
I could hear Aedan nattering to Sun, as he tramped downstairs. There was the stink of pigs’ blood – alien, thin, wrong – after breaking abstention. Hartford wasn’t up to sinking his fangs into me, however, for his fix, so the 24 hour butchers it was.
Hartford would heal but only if he drank.
I perched next to Hartford, sweeping my hand through his hair. ‘Hey, helmethead.’
Not a flicker.
‘Tasty blood - alright, pigs’ blood - but it’ll take away the pain.’
Still nothing.
I leant closer. My clothes stuck to me, as cold tremors shook me. I couldn’t – didn’t want to – think of Donovan with Captain. What Captain was doing to him.
My predator roared. My fangs were owned - again. I was an idiot to think I could be free; we were none of us free. Donovan was abducted, whilst Hartford was silent and unmoving.
Frustrated, I threw myself up from the bed. ‘Not bloody good enough. Snap out of it.’
Nothing.
Furious, bubbling, impotent rage, which had been repressed from the
moment Captain had slipped on that knuckleduster, whilst holding a gun to Hartford’s nut, erupted. I swung my palm.
Slap.
Shocked, I stared at the crimson handprint on Hartford’s white cheek. His motionless doll cheek.
‘You’re a Long-lived. Sir didn’t break you. Master couldn’t. After everything they did to both of us – our species – you protected us all. Then you tore those bastards apart, remember? You. I know this hurts; I’m bleeding out here too. You need to transform that pain to rage because what we did to the Blood Club will look like child’s play by the time we’re done with the Blood Life Council. I promise. Right now? It’s fangs and fists; it’s not time to hide. Please, Hartford?’
And then?
Hartford blinked.
He saw me; he heard me. He was a Long-lived once more.
‘What’s the plan, mac?’ Hartford’s voice was croaky but determined.
There was a sound in the doorway; Aedan was behind me. He’d heard. At least…enough. He simply slipped to Hartford, however, his red braids swinging over his cheeks, as he pressed a mug of blood to his lips, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Confused, I no longer knew who was predator or prey: Blood or First.
Yet I did know my family were both species. And that?
Sodding terrified me.
‘Grayse Cain, upon my Soul. Where the frak have you been?’ Fernando (perfect prat that he was), glared out of the smeared screen at the Internet café.
In checked shirt, which was buttoned up to the top and backlit by a tech lab of computers, which were glowing as if they’d bloody invented sunlight, it was like Fernando had been trapped in amber: unchanged from when he’d helped us take down the slavers. Maybe the whole world was in amber, and it was only Sun and I – under the false light of the café’s computers – who’d moved on.
Evolved.
Grayse Cain had. Now she was Sun.
Only Fernando didn’t know that…yet.
Sun shifted next to me on her plastic seat – squeak, squeak – as awkward as me. ‘Hey, ‘sup Prof? I know this is fried, but we had to book it outta there that night and--’
Blood Renegades (Rebel Vampires Book 3) Page 10
