And what was most terrifying? Not only Maverick but the cult’s leader wanted Kathy and me, as well as the babies. Now we were being hunted by a monster and his god.

  8

  TUESDAY 22nd NOVEMBER 1977 PARIS, FRANCE

  My Kathy,

  It’s a month now since I first discovered about the Moon Cult, and history is repeating itself.

  This is where I show you the true darkness beneath First and Blood Life alike. I reckoned — some rebel — that there were still rules in Blood Life. The most fundamental of all those rules was keeping ourselves hidden from the humans. But now I know that to those who worship our gods, there are no rules, only a world of pretense that we dance through, oblivious.

  You and I were exiled on a lie, and that’s bloody broken me.

  This evening, I’d slouched against the redbrick, shivering in the cold night. I’d watched through into a restaurant, soaked in the freezing rain, whilst Versailles had sprawled in a velvet chair at the head of the table. His Parisian followers had flocked around him, even kneeling at his feet. Versailles had only to raise his pinkie, and one would jump to refill his crystal glass or twitch his lips into a smile, and they’d piss themselves laughing.

  They were under his spell: fanatics.

  And me? I’d been on the outside again, only looking in and I hated how much I’d craved to be on the inside with Versailles and for his smile to fall on me.

  I’d hunched my shoulders, blinking the rain from my eyes. Would it be wrong, just once, to let go and lose myself to Versailles’ spell…?

  Versailles had been dressed in an elegant purple silk coat that was threaded with gold, along with a muslin cravat, which was pale against the dark tumble of his curls. All night I’d watched him be nothing but punctual, polite, and pleasing. But then, monsters never look like monsters and if they do, you don’t fear them: you pity them. Wickedly beautiful monsters like Versailles, with their pretty manners and posh clothes...?

  They rule the world.

  It’s three nights until the next full moon, which means that I only have until then to kill Versailles and save us, or die.

  Gods and monsters. They’ll carry us all into the darkness.

  Your Light

  9

  I didn’t return to Kathy after the beating at the police station because this whole mystery had become about more than saving three human babies. At its heart was my species’ god, and the dark reaching for both Kathy and me.

  Hidden. Alone. Safe.

  Who was I kidding? Kathy and I had been like children playing hide-and-seek with grownups, and now playtime was sodding over.

  All right then, no more tamed Light. I’d lived a century with my Author, Ruby, as a savage predator. I’d feared no Blood Lifer, aflame with mayhem.

  It was time to get serious again.

  I hugged my broken ribs, limping down the silent alleys. The mob would be gathering at the police station for a monster hunt, so I’d better be quick. I wove towards the harbor and the stench of cat shark and crab, in the same direction that Maverick had swaggered. He’d hunted me, so now I’d hunt him. If I could at least discover if the babies were still alive, then I could face Maverick and the cult without endangering Kathy any further. She might not want a white knight, but she still had one. She could kick my arse over it, if I survived.

  At least, she’d be alive, and that’s all I’d ever bloody cared about.

  The air was sharp with brine; I licked my lips as the salt exploded on my tongue. The ocean curled in black fury beneath the moon’s protective white face, as I stumbled alongside the western seawall. Then I crept through the marina, amongst the bobbing feathers of masts and the slap, slap, slap of water against the bows. I crouched beside each boat, listening for the wail of a baby or the scream of a Blood Lifer supper.

  Nothing.

  There were only the toys of the superrich and their elitist owners. What would those powerful men ever do if they discovered that they shared the world with creatures who their money couldn’t buy? Maybe we’d become their next shiny toy.

  I sliced my nails into my palm, enjoying the brightness of the pain, before forcing myself on with shaky legs.

  The crescent harbor curved, whilst granite outcrops and sandstone surged up into cliff faces. Beyond it, were the slope of sand dunes below the industrial town, and white apartments on the heights.

  Cherbourg was a poor town rebuilding itself with factories, military might, and…

  Nuclear power.

  I pressed against a stack of crates on the edge of the shipyard that built nuclear submarines, gagging on the reek of oil. Why would Maverick have come this way? What could a Moon Cult have to do with submarines? I peeked around at the huge holes, which looked as if a whale had burrowed into the earth, and in one of them, wallowed a nuclear submarine.

  The sleek beast was only half-built, like a gladiator waiting for its armor, but it was no less terrifying for that. I was never one for weapons: nuclear is all you First Lifers. Blood Lifers never needed more than their fangs or fists to fight their battles.

  At least, that’s what I’d always reckoned.

  Then my eyes widened with shock because caught in the bright lights around the submarine stood two Blood Lifers: Maverick, who was messing about with the ends of his lasso impatiently like he was imagining that I or some other bloke was still caught in it, whilst the lights shadowed his cheekbones and…

  I ducked behind the crates.

  Ramrod straight, with his hands clasped behind his back, waited a Blood Lifer who wore a chunky cardigan and an adorable pout. He looked so sweetly safe that you’d take him home to meet your granny.

  If your granny was a Nazi.

  I recognized him as the Nazi scientist who in his First Life had been behind cruel human experiments that paled to parlor games anything that I’d done in my Blood Life. I shuddered to think what dark emotions election to Blood Life had amplified in him.

  I steadied my breathing, before having another peek around the crate.

  Maverick kicked the submarine — it groaned like a wounded animal — and then sneered at the Nazi. “You’re friend’s late, Exitus.” Maverick stretched his long arms.

  Exitus’ pout deepened. “And you’re impatient.”

  I itched to smash Exitus’ pretty head against the submarine but I couldn’t take on both Blood Lifers in my beaten state and I had to do this the stealthy way to find the babies.

  It was interesting that Maverick and Exitus weren’t best mates, and not family in the special way that Maverick had offered to Kathy and me. Plus, it didn’t look like Exitus was the Moon Cult’s leader because I felt no draw to worship at his feet…or anything else that flushed me to think about.

  There was still no sign of the kids.

  When a dumpy First Lifer strode towards Exitus, I bit my lip bloody to stop myself from calling out a warning. The human pulled at the cuffs of his suit, smoothing down his graying mustache. Exitus brightened, instantly dropping the pout and preening.

  Dinner time.

  My pulse raced, whilst saliva pooled. My venom surged behind my gums in sympathy for the kill.

  I might be a penitent, but I was no sodding saint.

  I jittered, crushing the edges of the crate splintering under my fists. I yearned for the slicing pain: my shame bloomed. My Author had trained me so that pleasure and pain teetered on a knife’s edge, but I was in pain’s shadow long before Ruby led me blindfolded, intimate in our cravings. Sometimes, it was the only way that I survived.

  The human blood-bag had reached the pool of light around the submarine’s bulk. His breath was raspy. When he wiped his spittle on the back of his sleeve, Maverick flinched.

  “Good evening.” The First Lifer beamed at Exitus like he was in charge.

  Yet maybe Exitus was only the one who fronted the cult in…whatever the hell this meeting was. Who was the Long-lived who worshiped the Blood God? Where was he hiding?

  I blinked when the French First Lifer went in for the cheek kiss on Exitus with a wet smack, smack, and then again — smack, smack, smack like they were about to sit down and crack open a bottle of wine together.

  This First Lifer knew Exitus. Strike that: he was friends with the torturer. He slipped open his cigarette case and offered one, whilst Exitus took it with a grateful grin.

  Did the First Lifer know that he was swapping cigarettes and chatting with Blood Lifers? Even if he didn’t, what the buggering hell was he doing in the dead of night by a nuclear submarine, whilst the guards were conveniently absent?

  I narrowed my eyes. I’d known that there was something going on in this town, but I hadn’t realized that it spanned both worlds.

  Whilst Maverick lounged, staring up at the sky with a look of infinite boredom, Exitus passed on technical details about nuclear particulars and submarine missiles. Just because you died and became a Blood Lifer, didn’t mean that you lost your intelligence, and it seemed that Exitus had been working on some side projects. I paled at the realization that I’d been wrong: some Blood Lifers did still care about weapons and warfare. It couldn’t mean anything good that he had this knowledge.

  I perked up when papers were swapped between them. Blood Lifers had no business sharing military tips with First Lifers. It shook me to the core.

  What was Exitus gaining from giving this information to a First Lifer?

  When Exitus banged on the side of the submarine with a clank, I jumped, and the crate behind me tumbled. I twisted to catch it, wrenching my wrist. I smothered my yowl, but the smash as the wooden corner caught the ground sounded overloud in quiet harbor.

  I sucked in my breath, gently easing down the crate.

  Maverick pushed himself upright, suddenly alert. His gaze was piercing, as he stared straight towards where I was hiding.

  I hardly dared breathe.

  Silence.

  Then suddenly…

  Sobbing. Begging. Screaming.

  Then silence again.

  Despite myself, I crawled to the edge of the crates and peered around.

  Exitus’ fangs were buried in the neck of a lad who was dressed against the chill in only a faded t-shirt and filthy trousers. His arms were hooked around the human’s waist like a lover. Except, a lover who got his kicks from his partner being trussed up: the young man’s hands were tied behind his back with rope.

  The rope had rubbed. I could smell the human’s blood; it called to me, singing its dark beauty. I shook from it. Yet this time, I also shook from fury, because as Exitus’ neat blond waves of hair caressed the young man’s neck, and his fangs paralyzed, the wanker of a First Lifer who’d kissed this killer on the cheek took deep drags on his ciggie, tumbling the ash with contemptuous taps at the dying man’s feet.

  This suited First Lifer who I’d been worried for, wasn’t dinner, he was the one who served it.

  When Exitus pulled back, the lad’s head lolled; the First Lifer’s eyes were dazed but wide like those of a terrified horse. Exitus snogged him, tonguing his lips open. When he drew back, resting his forehead against the First Lifer’s, his sulky lips were swollen.

  Then Exitus casually turned back to chat with the suited First Lifer, whilst he took delicate sips from the young man’s neck like it was a champagne flute. He glanced at Maverick, who’d returned to studying the stars in what I reckoned was a way to avoid having to look at Exitus. “Taste?” Exitus spun the lad’s body towards Maverick.

  Maverick shook his head. “I never could abide orphan blood.”

  “Why not? Poverty and misery are most invigorating.” Exitus grinned around his fangs as he clutched the drooping lad closer.

  Orphan…?

  My eyes were bright with hidden tears.

  Christ, don’t make me remember…

  After all I’d endured at Orphan School because of the death of my papa, I couldn’t be taken back to the cruelty of my own First Life. Why did being an orphan always make you the prey?

  10

  1855 Orphan School, London

  The blankets were thin, scratching my palms, as I shivered under them. I was alone because my papa had died and I’d been separated from my mama and sisters. They hadn’t even allowed me to say goodbye. Yet I felt safe under the blankets because at least in the black, no one could find or hurt me. Under here, in the world that I’d created, papa was still alive. Even whilst my eyes burned from holding back the tears, I imagined that I was in our garden back in Watford beside the willow tree, I was playing with my sisters, Polly and Nora, whilst mama watched from the steps of the house.

  In the dark, you were never alone.

  I’d made a nest, pulling the covers over my head, until the dormitory disappeared, along with the world and my grief. Here I could live in my fantasy, where I was still loved.

  Hidden, alone, and safe.

  Then I couldn’t stop the tears from falling anymore, even though I knew that it was unmanly. Because in the day, in the cold chalk classrooms and the push and shove of the polished corridors, boys didn’t cry, even under the sting of the birch. Yet I couldn’t help the sobs because I’d lost my family, home, and freedom and now all I had was this darkness.

  Then, violently, my nest was invaded, and the blanket was torn off.

  I screamed my outrage like an animal dug out of its burrow, hurling myself onto my back.

  Pale, curious faces watched my tantrum, whilst I howled.

  This was my safe place: the secret world where my family were still alive. How dare they steal that away from me as well…?

  I didn’t notice the shadow over me until it was too late: Wakefield in striped pajamas, studied me, stern but smiling. One of the oldest boys, his aristocratic features usually wore an expression of haughty arrogance beneath the sweep of his red hair. Half the boys had a crush on him, but then they weren’t the ones that Wakefield was bullying.

  I didn’t miss the curved cane swishing from Wakefield’s hand.

  Wakefield was the sadistic Prefect, for whom I fagged: I hadn’t even known what fagging was, before I’d been forced here, but I’d soon learned that it meant I was his personal servant. If he wanted toast, I warmed the bread in the fire, just as I blacked his boots and ran his errands, until I stumbled each day from class to class in a fog of exhaustion. I shuddered at the way Wakefield would parade me before his Prefect friends, putting me through my paces like his toy and punishing me if I slipped up. Even worse, was the way that his hands lingered too long tracing the welts that he’d painted on me.

  “This is too bad, Blickle, disturbing your fellows with such a display.” Wakefield didn’t sound disappointed about it. In fact, he sounded gleeful. Swish, swish, swish. The other boys, ghost-like in white nightgowns, cringed back from the cane as it cut through the air. “It appears that I shall have to teach you some manners. Perhaps a public punishment will be beneficial for the other boys as well.”

  I met Wakefield’s smug gaze — the tear tracks still coldly wet down my cheeks.

  My hands clenched into fists. My papa would’ve hated Wakefield. “You can try.”

  Then I slipped from the bed, as quick as a hare, diving across the dormitory and out into the corridors that stank of cabbage.

  My heart thundered like it’d burst out bloody.

  I skittered on my bare feet through the black, stumbling over my nightgown.

  Behind me, hollers and whoops echoed. The other boys, led by their hero Wakefield, were hunting me. I didn’t fit into a school like this with its strict rules and unjust punishments: I didn’t understand why the boys or the teachers acted in the way that they did and I knew that they didn’t understand me. I was a rebel in their structured lives, and I’d already been flogged enough to know what would happen to me when I was caught.

  I’d never stood up to Wakefield in front of anyone else before, though. I trembled with the terror of what I’d done…of how many rules I was breaking by running through the school at night. I glanced at Matron’s door as I sprinted past. Matron was a troll of a woman, who I’d hoped when she’d first examined me after Wakefield had beaten me bloody would help. Instead, she’d drawn me over her knees and beaten me a second time for daring to complain about a Prefect. If she woke up now...

  Overwhelmed with the horror of everything that I’d lost and what would happen to me now, I vomited in a puddle, as if it was a gift for Matron. My mouth was sour with gruel. Then I gripped my stomach and forced my aching legs on through the twisting corridors, panting.

  Finally, I dragged myself up a wooden staircase. I gasped, as footsteps clattered after me.

  “Blickle, Blickle, where are you, little pig?” Wakefield’s taunting voice called after me.

  “Little pig,” the other boys singsonged, sniggering.

  Hot tears burnt my cheeks. I’d been nothing but a game, chase…hunt.

  I circled up to the attic like I could sprout wings and fly away through the windows into the heavens. But I was no angel, and now there was nowhere left to run. My legs buckled, but I wouldn’t allow myself to fall to my knees.

  “Blickle, Blickle, where are you, little pig?” Wakefield’s lazy call shot white hot terror squirming through me.

  With short, panicked gasps, I faltered further into the attic. My nightgown stuck to me with sweat. I wriggled, wiping my hand down my neck.

  Hoots, titters, and footsteps up the staircase.

  “Blickle, Blickle, where are you, little pig?” A chorus this time of excited voices.

  I dashed away the tears, as I rushed from rusted bed to cracked rocking chair. There was nothing up here but broken things, and I was one of them.

  They were outside the door. The doorknob turned…

  I swallowed a sob as I staggered to the oak wardrobe in the corner. I flung myself inside, closing the door with a click.

  Dark.

  “Hidden, alone, and safe,” I clung to the mantra, as I whispered it like it was the last of my childhood.

 

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