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

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.
    Ruby took the old bird splayed over a counter in the kitchen, amidst the remains of her shattered Portmeirion coffee pot. Then we worked room by room, dividing up what we found on gut basis because blood calls to you, sometimes to one more strongly than another.
    Here’s the thing, we can smell, long before we open a door, the First Lifer inside. Look, that’s important, because I don’t have a go at kids. That’s a line for me, especially as they smell… unripe . There’s no urge to touch or taste. All the wankery , yeah ?
    Some Blood Lifers specialise in the young, like a niche market. The same as veal. Every emotion amplified? You don’t need to think too hard to guess what dark corner Blood Life shone a light on there.
    Most Blood Lifers are repulsed, but it’s the choice of the few, who justify it on taste grounds. They insist the blood’s sweeter on account of the innocence.
    Bollocks to that .
    Kids aren’t innocent: being closer to birth, simply means being closer to animal instinct. Society artificially imposes civilization, as age teaches self-control. Kids are humanity at its rawest.
    I imagine they taste nasty.
    So we got to the last room and discovered the young Rocker.
    Ruby and I were already throbbing, pulsing with the fresh blood ripping through us. We were tripping like we hadn’t in years. The world was detonating in colour and light; we were licking the walls and each other - tasting the universe.
    We were laughing - I know that - giggling at sodding nothing.
    The Rocker actually opened the door to us with this look of surprise, like we were interrupting his kip and he intended to tell us to keep it down. Then his expression changed to a sort of stupid incomprehension, when he saw the blood dribbled down our chins, since we were too bleeding gone to even wipe it off.
    Before he could slam the door, we were in and like all the rest, we didn’t give him the chance to scream.
    Ruby snapped the bloke’s neck before we drank. Our fangs sank in deep, as Ruby held the Rocker between us, like a fallen