‘Don’t thank me,’ Blake offered, as if I’d been just about to, ‘Hartford was droning on about it – between the screaming. Almost as much as about Donovan and your abductions; I couldn’t get him to shut up.’
My peepers pricked with wet.
Mr Darwin bit harder; I spun round in a wild circle.
Blake was probing his tender jaw, as he watched the battle with cool amusement.
Sod. Him.
I stood still. Simply stood there, whilst that primate prat chomped on me. My blood was soaking my t-shirt sticky to my chest. I didn’t drop my gaze.
Blake clapped lazily.
Smug prick.
‘Mr Darwin, stop.’
Instantly the monkey let go, his lips smeared crimson, before shuffle scampering to Blake’s feet. ‘It’s all about submitting. Anyone can be trained. Even you.’
‘One day,’ I pressed my hands tightly to the teeth marks, as the scarlet oozed between them, ‘your security, guard dog Plantagenet and bodyguard monkey? They won’t be around. And on that day? You’ll be dead.’
A blood packet, followed by a quick wash and brush up in the green glowing bath and I was feeling more – myself – again and ready for a good kip.
At least Blake had decent sheets.
When…shuffle, scamper, shuffle, scamper…
I tucked the white towel (fluffiest I’d ever dried my arse with), closer around my body, as I edged into the bedroom. ‘Mr Darwin?’
I wiped my wet hair back.
Now wasn’t that taking the biscuit..?
A pink mush with whiskers was lying on the plush pillows, with white silk sheets pulled up to his large ears.
On my side of the bed.
‘I don’t think so. On your bike,’ I stomped over, dragging off the sheets. I pointed to the floor, ‘Out.’
Mr Darwin stared up at me – butter wouldn’t melt.
‘Your act’s not going to work on me.’
All I saw were lips bunched in a terrifying scowl, before Mr Darwin was launching himself at me, and I was rolling to the side, losing the towel and all pretence at modesty.
‘Bully!’ I accused, as Mr Darwin wrenched off the steel base of a petal bedside light, before charging at me with it. I jumped onto the bed – not retreating mind – whilst Mr Darwin screamed, slapping his hands and stamping his feet.
Then I watched, shocked, as he dropped the bedside light, staggering instead to the black vase of skeletal flowers. There was a brief stand-off.
I slipped slowly off the bed. ‘Good monkey, now don’t…’
Mr Darwin picked up the vase, before holding it above his nut.
Of course he did.
I bared my fangs at him, but he wasn’t scared. In fact, it only seemed to nark him off.
I only just made it to the bathroom, before – crash – there went the first vase.
Crash – there went the second.
When I peeked out an hour later?
Mr Darwin was asleep in my bed with his long arm slung over Sun.
Sighing, I picked my way around the shards of priceless ceramic, settling down to sleep on the floor, draping the towel over me, as if to hide my shame.
The next evening I groaned stiffly and stretched.
Bloody hell, had I pissed off Sun again?
Then I remembered why I was on the floor: Mr Darwin.
I shot up.
The bed was empty.
Relaxing, I padded into the bathroom. ‘Alright?’
Mr Darwin grunted but didn’t look up from grooming himself in the stainless steel mirror above the ghost double basin.
I ran my fingers though my pompadour; it needed some attention from the Brylcreem fairy. Even here, however, the chimp had me beat.
What did I say about too many alphas?
I turned on my heel back into the bedroom, dragging on my threads – still no shoes or socks – and went exploring.
Plantagenet and Blake only told us what they wanted us to know. Family? Love? Or their version of it?
It wasn’t what I’d learnt, built or needed.
It was intense and dangerous. Yet here’s the thing: I’ve always been attracted to the flames. That moment when the voice inside whispers to throw yourself on the bonfire, until you’re consumed Guy-like?
For the first time, however, I’d found something different with Hartford and Donovan. I’d reckoned with Sun too.
Sun had always loved pretty playthings though, and the Renegades could offer a world, in which I didn’t even believe.
Love – sometimes it truly isn’t enough.
And that bleeding hurts.
Steely piano notes rattled out of the lounge like blues on a business schedule: straightjacketed into the refined neatness of classical perfection. “Rhapsody in Blue” evolved to the robotic.
I stalked into the shadows, pressing closer to the bladdered blokes wallpaper.
The albino Steinway shuddered under the onslaught. I slid over to the Victorian tiled mantelpiece: a black vase stood stark at its centre, which was scarred by cracks like branching veins.
Blake.
No security, Plantagenet or monkey bodyguard.
Blake was still playing, building to a clinically cold climax. He hadn’t even glanced up.
I silently edged closer.
Blake raised his fingers off the keys. ‘Most people request an encore.’
I stiffened, before sniffing. ‘Hartford plays it better.’
Blake’s cheeks flushed, as his hands clenched, before he pointed significantly behind my nut at the CCTV camera and pressed the outline of a Blackberry in the pocket of his purple suit. So that was security then… ‘You don’t like me. In fact, you hate me; Hartford does too. You think that’s new to me? Being hated? I’ve been hated or ignored most of my life. Question is: do you think I care?’
‘Wild stab in the dark here: you don’t?’ Blake gave a sharp, shark smile. I fiddled with the fractured vase, spinning it until the cracks were like holes in the universe. ‘You might’ve broken this, mate.’
Blake’s smile widened to a grin. ‘I smashed it, right where you’re standing now. As hard as I could because it was mine to break. I see it up there every day, remade by my hand: a reminder of that violence and that it’s mine.’
I gave him a long look, as I balanced the vase on my palm. ‘Whatever gets you off.’
Blake shrugged one large shoulder. ‘Now you’re getting it.’
‘Well, cheers for the rescue from the lab, but I reckon we’ll be off. Stuff to do and that.’ I started to sidle backwards.
I could no longer hide my family in the shadows. There were no shadows left. No safety unless we acted. Here with Blake, however, we were prisoners in luxury, whilst the true nasties of the world – pure death and the Blood Life Council – were still out there.
The Renegades with their puppetmaster Blake were so radical they were missing the big bloody picture.
Freedom fighters?
Wankers more like.
‘Leaving us?’ Blake slowly stood. My heart beat faster, as he carefully closed the piano.
‘I’d say it’d been fun but…’
‘Back to that slum? Strip joint? Abductions and being used as lab rats?’
‘It’s not all so glamorous.’
‘Plantagenet doesn’t believe you’re ready to head a family yet, and frankly? Neither do I.’
A hot flood of fury and humiliation prickled me pink.
I opened my hand; the vase tottered and – smash. ‘Whoops.’ Let’s see him glue it back together a second time. A muscle on Blake’s cheek twitched. ‘Wonder what that symbolises now?’
‘How about,’ Blake strolled towards me, his hands casually in his pockets, but I could see they were curled into fists, ‘are you sure your family would even leave with you?’
I stared down at the black shards, trying not to think about Sun nuzzling at Blake’s scarlet arm and sucking at the gash, as she lost herself in the stars. The way
she fit: two sets of shoes next to each other on the silk sheets. ‘Anyway, with my company’s abilities, I don’t need to keep anyone against their will; we can track you from here. This is a prison without bars. So go where you like, but I thought you wanted our help with Donovan? Because if you do this? Go it alone and break up the Renegades, along with this family? Just know you’ll also be breaking Plantagenet.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘I could’ve killed you any time I wanted.’ I dodged back, as Blake paced towards me like a black panther. ‘Hartford too. Do you have any idea, however, how desperate Plantagenet has been to find you? Since he saw you on that website? How frantic to save you? Not to mention the time, cost and resources I sank into the rescue at the lab. It was worth it though, to see Plantagenet’s joy. A family, you see, is all he’s ever wanted. If you knew him – bothered to – then you’d understand. Hate me but love Plantagenet.’
Confused, I nodded.
Controlling, self-destructive and obsessive as it was – Blake’s love was real.
Still, I couldn’t help feeling like another gift, frilly in ribbons and expensively boxed, guilt-delivered to Plantagenet to top even the Mini.
Blake threw himself down onto the rubber hosepipe chair, his leg across the arm: the picture of ease. I was better at reading him, however, and that muscle in his cheek was still twitching. ‘If you’re staying? There’s a mission on tonight to liberate a slave. Plantagenet’s leading it and he’s asked you along. I don’t need to tell you what it’d mean to him…or maybe I do?’
My blood was instantly racing…roaring…rushing. The air was alive with orange flames and the stink of melted flesh and ashes. I fidgeted, fresh to be out, free and on the hunt. Slavers were my prey. ‘So this is what you do? Plan capers to rescue Blood Lifer slaves? All for Plantagenet?’
‘He needs this. It’s like a new family for him.’
‘And you’re looking out for him? Touching.’
‘Of course,’ Blake leant forward, ‘this slave? Actually is family: the Plantagenet bloodline. His elected, the same as your Author: Ruby.’ Blake wiped his large hands dismissively down his thighs. ‘I told Plantagenet he should leave her where she is; she’s…mentally unstable. Then there’s the small matter that she’s betrayed him once already. But family is family to Plantagenet, so I’m allowing him this indulgence. I do always prefer to look to the future; maybe our family should leave the past in the past.’
I saw Plantagenet’s peepers, all fire and fervour in the dark, as we crouched either side of the panelled Jacobean door.
Plantagenet held up his gloved hand. ‘One…two…three…’
Then it was like an explosion lit up the night – bang.
The door splintered; Plantagenet sprang through it, and I was at his shoulder. First Lifers with guns (because God help us if Plantagenet were allowed out alone), were hollering: stay down, stay down. An old bloke (minister of something or other), was squealing: this starkers flabby prat with a comb-over.
Mr Minister was gibbering, as Blake’s team handcuffed him and hauled him out of the richly tapestried four-poster bed. The log fire spat and crackled, casting long shadows dancing across the walls; it smelled like nutmeg.
‘Sweetums, call MI5. Call… Don’t hurt her… She’s not… She’s no one…’
‘Fie, sir! I most surely am. And look – my family come avisiting.’ Mesmerised, I watched the Blood Lifer – my new family – stalk starkers on all fours to the end of the bed, her ivory Bristols swinging. A string of diamonds, like burning stars, was fierce around her neck.
‘F-f-f-family, sweetums?’ Mr Minister gawked between us. Uneasy, I was unsure who was truly the slave.
‘Take the most wicked man outside,’ Plantagenet stepped back to allow the First Lifers to drag the confused Mr Minister out and down the stairs.
The bird was still scrutinizing us, as if she was about to pounce; her blonde sweep of hair was like a Godiva. She was a beauty, like Ruby, but there was something off about her.
Was she one of those Blood Lifers who hadn’t survived election? Or had she been touched before Plantagenet had even chosen her?
When her gaze swung to Plantagenet, I had the unexpected urge to step in front of him.
‘How now? Where have you been? I’m just saying…’ Then she gave a bright, false smile, which twisted my guts.
‘It is merrily met, my dear child. Please, clothe yourself. We have business.’ Plantagenet pointedly turned his back.
No licking, sniffing or snogging for her. No gentle intimacy or well-beloved. Just business.
Even if I knew how hard that must be for Plantagenet, he had to have a sodding good reason - and I wouldn’t forget it.
As I turned away too, I clocked her expression: pained hurt but also a dangerous rage.
Plantagenet and I had ridden down to the caper in the back of a blacked out jeep. Plantagenet had been like a kid on Christmas morning. His slender fingers had wound round mine and for once, I hadn’t been the only one bouncing up and down in my seat; I’d been buzzed for the barney, but for Plantagenet I’d reckoned it was the freedom.
‘If this skirt is such a back-stabbing bitch…’ When Plantagenet’s fingers had crushed mine, I’d grimaced. ‘Blake’s words; not mine.’ Plantagenet’s grip had loosened, as he’d stroked my bruised hand contritely. ‘Then why the white horse business? Let her get hung.’
‘Mother’s a slave,’ Plantagenet’s voice had been very low, ‘I know what it is to be captured, enslaved and defanged.’
Plantagenet had been so subdued, I’d wished to tell him: same here.
Plantagenet didn’t know what it was to be a true slave, however, not like Hartford and me.
Or did he?
‘Mother is also family.’
Christ in heaven – now we sounded alike.
‘Mother? Not going to tell me you came over all nancy and authored your mama?’
Plantagenet laughed this full belly laugh, as he slapped my knee. ‘You jest! Mother named herself that because… Well, such is her tale, not mine. Although she is a witch…whore…traitor…’
‘I get the idea.’
‘She may be all but she’s also my elected. I’ve been kept from my family. Held in the dark…it’s no matter how or why. Only that in First Life I was a bastard. You were an orphan, were you not?’
I nodded, avoiding his eye.
Plantagenet gripped my chin, however, as he had when we’d first yakked in the penthouse, forcing me to meet his suddenly serious gaze. ‘In faith to be different is a hard path. My father was a king, but my mother was the daughter of an Italian painter; she was the jewel of the Court. The fame of her beauty was both much spoken of and envied. Edward the Third plucked that rose.’ Plantagenet’s fingers had trembled, before he’d steadied himself. In the rumbling shadows of that moving jeep, we could’ve been the only two blokes left on earth. ‘I was raised on an Estate away from Court. Away from my mother, father, brothers and sisters. I was a shameful secret: the bastard. The servants who weren’t thrashing or mocking me as weak and feeble issue, branded me with that name.
‘Later, when my Author freed me to Blood Life, I watched as civil wars tore my family apart, and one by one they were executed for treasonable and wicked deeds. I learned then that my mother had begged for my seclusion because illegitimate or not? I had a claim on the Crown, and the brothers and sisters who I’d longed many piteous summers spent alone to play knights with in the sunshine, to ensure their own claim, would indeed have murdered me.’ Plantagenet had licked along my lips, resting his forehead against mine, as if for comfort – touch – nothing more. He’d tasted of oranges and – bugger it – family. I could fight it, but it was stronger than it’d been with Ruby, even though she’d been like breathing to me for over a century. ‘The world rejected me, and so I rejected the world. I forged a new family, even after my Author burned to save me. Because what is a good thing to a man if he has all the worldly wealth and p
ower but not love?’
A rustle behind me.
I jumped when a delicate hand touched my shoulder. ‘What’s the sitch, bitches?’
I carefully eased away from Mother’s hand.
Mother looked like a Californian Valley girl: tight gold trousers and pearly halterneck. Her diamonds were still sharp around her snowy neck. She’d slipped her highlighted hair up into a loose clip.
No chance she wasn’t in charge of that poor old pillock’s credit card.
Plantagenet turned without a word.
I shrugged, swaggering at his heels down the wide wooden staircase, under the sombre gaze of Mr Minister’s framed ancestors. Mother clattered after us on her gold leather kitten heels.
At the base of the staircase, Mother’s cool arms wound round my waist, her fingers wank-wandering, as she licked down my throat. Then she hissed, so close to my skin, I could feel her fangs, ‘We are forced to woo because none dare woo us.’
Before I could react, she was shoved backwards against the wall panelling; Plantagenet’s arm was across her throat. ‘Light is not yours to… By this hand, you will not bite.’
Mother laughed: high and delighted.
I shuddered.
‘But he’s so bomb,’ Mother pouted, ‘and he’s family; I can taste it.’
Plantagenet pushed away from her. Gently, he stroked down her cheek; she leant into his touch. ‘Things are not as they were; you cannot simply take. We are all of us changed.’
‘By my Soul,’ Mother gave a robotic tilt of her nut, which was as disconcerting as her shifts in speech, as if she couldn’t remember what time period she was in – slipping into past lives and roles, ‘you have no fangs.’
Plantagenet reddened, his shoulders hunching.
Blake had been right: she was a back-stabbing bitch.
Mother smiled - vicious and victorious - as she stroked his pink cheek. Plantagenet didn’t lean into her touch, however, in fact he shrank away, as if she was poison. ‘Why do you look so melancholy? I am here now. Foolish man to think you did not need me; I am your creature, as you are mine. Now, let’s go kill the kinky minister. I’m so psyched for this!’
Blood Renegades (Rebel Vampires Book 3) Page 18
