Blood Dragons (Rebel Vampires Book 1) (7 page)

I’d witnessed thousands of bodies heaped on the fiery furnaces of Flanders. It was a sense of connectedness to the earth itself, fresh and unsullied, for which I hungered.

It did fade, the shock or whatever, of it. Yet for years the sight of First Lifers triggered something sickening, jolting me back with flash shot clarity, to the
boom
and the lights.

At those times, Ruby would sit with me as I shook, holding a woman’s neck pressed to my lips, so the blood would run in because I couldn’t hunt, more quietly patient than I’d ever have guessed my lover could be.

Sometimes Ruby would disappear for days, weeks, even months…

But she always came back. I reckoned Ruby simply needed to be alone: I sodding knew how that felt.

We settled in Deadvlei - death valley - in Namibia, which in the twilight, looks like a surrealist painting and in the dawn is otherworldly; withered trees are silhouetted, against the highest sand dunes in the world. Where once there was a whole bloody forest, now the encroaching desert had smothered all life.

Ruby and I felt at home there, like the sands and we were kin. We kept only the company of the black mambas, which coiled round us as we slept, as if we were no more alive, than the branches of the murdered trees.

Years later when I was much more myself again (don’t roll your eyes, I get there’s no such thing as
myself
, all right?), when my mind was in fewer fractured pieces and spent less time screaming, stuck in that hole in the Great War, we were in Waitomo, New Zealand, as I prepared a special do to celebrate the day of my election into Blood Life.

Ruby and I hunted together through the undulating green fields. Then fed on the same farm girl, whose lips smelled of the lad she’d been snogging, only moments before we’d snatched her in the dark.

We whooped through the ice waters of a waterfall, in a rite of shared blood and bond of love.

I wanted to surprise Ruby, so I led her down into the limestone Glowworm caves. Thousands of tiny, luminescent glowworms lit the ceiling of the grotto an eerie blue.

‘My dearest prince has indeed been busy.’

‘For you. Anything for you.’

We were on the deepest level. I’d strewn furs over the damp cavern floor, along with a bottle of local gin, which I’d nicked (and might just blind us), and Ruby’s favourite toys: ropes, blindfolds, leather braided and knotted floggers…

That’s when Ruby turned to me, serious all of a sudden and commanding as any aristocrat ever was. ‘I wish to go back to England,’ she said, her brow furrowed, ‘we should go back.’

Bollocks
.

I knew, don’t reckon I didn’t? We’d go, there was no doubting that. But it also meant something was wrong - dead wrong - and for the first time Ruby wasn’t letting me in on it.

Where was my Author, muse and liberator now? Where was my love, if secrets abided in Blood Life, just as much as First?

Lost to me, that was where.

I could feel Ruby slipping.

4

‘Looks worse today, doesn’t she?’ Wednesday was peering into your still face, her sour mouth pulled down at one side. ‘Another
accident
earlier. They get like that at this stage, although I know it’s part of the job. Oh yes, I’ve seen a lot of clients go downhill fast when they’re close to--’

‘Shut your bleeding mush, all right?’ I threw myself away from the wall and down onto my knees next to you, as you lay entombed under the white sheets, as if I could protect you from the likes of Wednesday and every poisonous word, which dripped from her venomous lips. I grasped your limp fingers between mine, stroking the backs of your hands, in the way you always loved. They were cold. But I knew you could feel me. I just sodding knew it, all right? Affronted, Wednesday had raised her sharp eyebrow. ‘Just…don’t yammer on like… Not in front of her.’

‘I see. You really think your…
grandma
, is it?’ Wednesday inflected the word with cruel mockery. ‘That she can still hear us? She’s lost to the world. I’m putting a brew on.’

Wednesday bustled down the stairs, sniffing loudly. I flinched, when I heard her banging the mugs about.

What the bloody hell did any of it matter
?

As soon as the lazy bitch had slurped her tea, her time would be up, and I could sign her timesheet. Then she’d bugger off for another night, leaving us alone together, like it’s always been - well, for you.

For me? There was my First Life, followed by a century of Blood Life with Ruby.

Yet when I think about it, it’s odd how alone I still was, until we…

I never knew it though. Or admitted it. We’re all practised liars to ourselves.

Funny thing, the lives we paint in pretty pictures, drawing ourselves a world to trick our minds, hearts and Souls that we’re part of something dead important. Even a great love.

Love - yeah, I was always one for that.

MAY 1964 BRIGHTON, ENGLAND

‘By heaven, look at these ruffianly roaring boys. This is it - your tonic - to get back into the fray. The blood and heat of it.’

I’d nicked a bright red Jaguar E-Type (beautiful little number), and we’d tonned it up to the coast for Whitsun Bank Holiday. Yet now we’d found ourselves caught in a war between two gangs.

A Mod in smart Italian suit and fish-tailed Parka sped past us on his Lambretta Li150, only to be blocked by a wall of hard men Rockers, in dirty motorcycle jackets, who were swinging heavy bike chains. The poor git was dragged away by his lapels, like a fancy sacrificial offering to the gods of leather.

‘What do they want?’

Ruby shrugged. ‘What do First Lifers ever want? Question is, what do
we
want?’

I hesitated, before grinning. ‘The Bedlam. To revel in the madness, like we used to. I want--’

That’s when Ruby kissed me. She hauled me close, as her tongue thrust deep, like she’d only just discovered me again after a long absence: I realised she only just had. When she drew back, we were both smiling. ‘To live in the world again?’

I nodded.

Screams? The shattering of glass? Curling smoke on the night air?

I was
bloody alive once more
.

Ruby and I swaggered through the shadowed streets, towards the promenade and Palace Pier - her in crimson silk, me in military Great Coat - two creatures from another world and time, unnoticed by these petty First Lifers because we weren’t painted in the colours of their tribe. We twirled each other round, dancing in the carnage and the flames.

Mods fleeing, with gashes on their foreheads, their coats flapping behind them. Couples sprawled under the stars, on a beach where the pebbles met the sea, as turned on by the violence and danger as any Blood Lifer, pretending to be oblivious to a ring of Mods, who were kicking a curled foetus of a Rocker bloody with their sharp winklepickers. Deckchairs smouldering in orange bonfires, which lit a town prowled by leather clad kids on Triton motorbikes.

Flick-knives, coshes, knuckle-dusters…

Here’s the thing, the deadliest weapon of all? It was this type of wild confusion, which was like a force of nature. The quick change from predator to prey and back again, in the turn of a corner.

It was glorious to watch: it fizzed. We laughed at the brutality. It was a cosmic bloody joke. But I know you won’t get the irony. First Lifers never sodding do.

It was powerful - the smell of all that free flowing blood, which surged with adrenaline.

Remember what I told you about Grace’s blood? Well take that and amplify it tenfold, hundred fold, sod it
, a thousand fold
. Bugger me, was it mind blowing.

It had this added masculine, tooled up excitement; don’t tell me those blokes weren’t getting off on it because they were and without the excuse of blood drugging their veins. They were high on the fear and the fight and it was delicious - to them and to me.

That’s what awakened me to the world again. Ruby had been right: all I’d needed had been a right good barney.

As we flitted towards the onion-domed Palace Pier, however, the night was quietening, as the pigs rounded up the oiks and battered them. Those who were left, had broken down into aimless wandering. All right then, so there was a hard-core, still battling it out in the blackest corners, slashing and carving or giving some bleeder a hiding. But do you know what I saw? Amidst a night of folk devils?

Some hulking Rocker, with skull and crossbones on the back of his grungy leathers, jumped off his motorbike to help an old biddy safely up the steps of her Regency terrace.

Ruby and me exchanged a disgusted glance.

Bored, Ruby slipped her hand down towards my todger, but I caught it.

Swearing. Loud scuffles coming from the Palace Pier. Ruby and I both turned to listen.

The pier was spooky in the evening light (and yeah, I can still find things spooky because we’re not the only things that go bump in the night). The lights were blazing down the pier’s ornate length, even though it was closed up. The funfair was shut too, which was a shame because I could’ve done with a game or two.

Ruby nodded. Then we swooped towards the pier, hands entwined.

A Mod - not a scratch on him and dead smart in a reversible jacket and polo shirt buttoned up to his pale neck - was scrapping with a Rocker, who was twice his size (and twice his age as well). Strange thing was, there were bands of Mods and Rockers slouched around watching, smoking and bantering, as if they were at a bloody football match.

This wasn’t the white hot rush of Bedlam: it was the cool truce of Christmas day in wartime.

Then I saw him - this wanker of a photographer - snapping away at his staged fight, like a god.

And I knew I was going to taste him, just to hear him pose for me, whilst he screamed.

‘They came for a real fight, did they not?’ Ruby’s mouth curved into a smile.

I hunched my shoulders, as I pulled Ruby closer to me by her waist; I wanted to feel every inch of her. ‘Then how about we give them one?’

We threw ourselves down the pier as one, towards the make-believe. We, however, were real - we were
too
bloody real and with fist and boot, like the Blue Fairy, we made them into real little boys too, Mod and Rocker alike: bleeding little boys.

I launched myself at the photographer first. Just like I’d reckoned, he had no bottle for reality. He turned, scarpering before I’d even duffed him up.

That’s the best part, when the hunt begins: in and out of the closed stands, dodging the railings and kiosks.

I got to play
after all
.

The photographer’s panted terror was the beat I danced to; I extended the cat and mouse because we all deserve our fun, right?

He blubbered when I let myself catch him.

Don’t get shirty, not over him. What type of geezer prefers to watch, than do? Dodgy, that’s what that is. Psycho written all over it.

I did the world a favour.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I know what your view would be; you’ve lectured me about it often enough. But all the
nasties and wankery
, right?

Tell you what though, I nicked his camera: blinding little model.

Those daft berks laughed, when Ruby first leapt into the rumble. They weren’t laughing, however, when she broke their arms, noses, legs and less said about what she did to their goolies the better because that one’s a queen of hurt (and I’d know).

We did our bit for First Lifer peace, as Mod and Rocker united against us. The blood in me soared, when I picked them both off equally in the roar of battle.

Mine was no pretence, you see, no peacock preening or nomadic romanticism of anti-authoritarian anarchy. It wasn’t a sham loner status, culled from the flicks or the clobber on my back. I was the true outsider, and these First Lifers were too busy playing at it, to even notice.

In fact, you know what? You First Lifers still are.

I booted the last twitching body, trapping Ruby in my arms, before dragging her away, back to the seafront.

I buzzed, shaking, nauseous now with the hunger for blood. Tonight hadn’t been about feeding. Somehow Ruby seemed to always know just what I needed.

Yeah, you’re right: I was her good doggy on a leash.

The fat stars were bright, pulsating shards in the sky; the salty air was sharp. We strolled arm in arm between the puddles of light from the lampposts, staring up together in silence.

It was beautiful.

‘Wanna go to the chippy tomorrow?’

Ruby shrugged. Then she nodded towards a pale stuccoed hotel, through the green railings of the promenade. A young Rocker, with a dark pompadour, was wearily knocking up its owner.

‘Would you rather not feast tonight?’

What do you want to hear? Every crunch and bite? I bloody promised, didn’t I? It’d be a piss poor attempt at honesty, if I got poufy now and… Oh, sod it.