Blood Dragons (Rebel Vampires Book 1) by Rosemary A Johns Page A
Authors: Rosemary A Johns
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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
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
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