Red Grow the Roses (29 page)

The room within is silent, and completely bare but for the metal casket. Naylor glances at her. ‘You first, darling.'

Damn. The faint hope she'd entertained of trapping them inside until sunset withers up, as one of the three humans that Naylor's brought with him gives her a firm shove between the shoulder blades, propelling her inside. She staggers and has to catch herself on the sarcophagus. It feels cold beneath her fingers and she pictures her body-heat sinking through the metal to warm Reynauld. If he could hear her, if he could wake …

But he can't. He's helpless.

She can see her blurred reflection in the metal. ‘Roisin,' she whispers. Roisin is the only one old enough to help, if she cares to. Then Naylor struts in like he owns the place, a smirk on his lips that makes that ripe mouth quite ugly. Ben brings up the rear.

‘Beautiful,' Naylor says, eyeing the coffin as Estelle runs her hands across it, feeling for the crack of the lid. ‘Just beautiful. He's like a tin of Spam, isn't he?' He lifts clenched fists in triumph. ‘Fuckin' awesome!'

‘Please,' Amanda says, addressing Ben. There's no point in begging Naylor, and there's no use in being surreptitious either. ‘You mustn't let him do this.'

Ben smiles uncomfortably and shrugs. He's had an expression on since they got here like he's playing a game and he's very proud about how clever they've been, but he's not sure how it's going to finish. ‘It's the way it goes, Amanda,' he mutters. ‘Old guard and all that. It's gotta happen some time.'

‘He was always fair with you!'

‘Shut it,' says one of the men unwisely, reaching out to her.

Ben's hand intercepts his wrist and twists. ‘Don't touch her.' The eighteen-stone man gasps with pain.

‘Girls,' interrupts Naylor testily. ‘Save it for the playground. You – Wrinkly. Get this open.'

‘I can't,' she answers. ‘It's bolted from the inside.' She wonders if Naylor's going to kill her right now, the way his green eyes turn on her, blank as emeralds. She thinks she'd be glad if he killed her straightaway; she can't bear to see the consequences of her treachery.

‘Really.' He's not perturbed. It's late summer and they have hours of daylight yet: he knows time is on his side. ‘Then Daz here had better go get some cutting equipment. You know where to find it, don't you?'

Daz is the one with the cracked wrist. He nods, white-faced.

‘It's specially reinforced,' Amanda says, desperate.

‘Well, you'd better hope it's not too special,' says Naylor, taking out his phone and tapping it meaningfully against the casket lid. ‘Because if it starts to look like this'll take too long, your little Timmy's going to be filling out forms in triplicate for Saint fucking Peter.'

* * *

Rosa ‘Breath of Life': pink-apricot blend, large-flowered climbing rose

Reynauld wakes, and it's nearly as frightening as dying. He feels the blood in his veins turning back to liquid, the burn of air in his lungs as he takes that first gasp, and the surge of hunger in his empty belly just as he does every night at sundown. And then this new thing: the pain. The sensation of blistering rawness across his chest and thighs is entirely overwhelmed by the agony in his wrists and hocks: for a moment it's so terrible that he can't think straight. His eyes fly open but the light's too bright and he screws them shut, howling.

Someone laughs.

The First Noble Truth of Buddhism: all is suffering.

With an effort of will Reynauld seizes the pain and shoves it deep deep down, at the furthest extent of his reach. This is not entirely a Buddhist thing: vampires are tolerant of physical damage – they can if necessary walk on broken bones and crawl away from their own severed limbs. The pain remains at the back of his mind, but as he regains control of his will he begins to properly grasp his situation. His head is hanging back – right back, nearly upside-down, stretching his throat. His arms and legs are spread wide, and the pain is concentrated there at his extremities. Reynauld forces his head up and his eyes open. Blackened patches of skin dance before his blurred vision as he fights to focus. He's been burned. He's naked and he's been exposed to sunlight while he lay dead. That's not the worst, though. He's suspended from wrists and ankles, spread wide, hanging off steel cables that attach to girders that arch overhead. The cables don't just loop round his limbs; they've been punched through them – behind his wrists and his Achilles tendons and grinding up against the bones. He's starting to bleed now that he's revivified.

Panting, Reynauld lets his head fall back and looks at the world upside down as he tries to make sense of it. More girders out there, painted white. Glass panes between them, and beyond that a blue twilight. He's not entirely hanging; there's another metal beam, horizontal this time, that runs across from side to side at the small of his back and stops him folding in half. But he can't move, and he can't reach any of the bolts holding the cable loops. He could rip his fetters out – he's strong enough to do that – but he'd be completely crippled. And he'd fall. How far would he fall?

Another blink, another moment to sort the images. He can see scaffolding, and wooden planks. Many beams, curved like ribs. He's suspended under an immense glass roof, just over a scaffolding platform. He's still gasping, and each breath seems to clear his head a little.

Then Naylor walks into his field of view.

* * *

Rosa ‘Red Rascal': medium red, shrub rose

‘Wakey wakey, Reynauld. Rise and shine.'

Reynauld doesn't answer: quipping with Naylor isn't a priority right now. He rolls his head, still trying to fix his bearings. It's a railway station, he thinks. One of those big glass roofs over the platforms, all Victorian ironwork and pigeon-shit. He can smell that and some sort of industrial grease and diesel fumes. And, more faintly, perfume. But there's no sound of engines or commuters. He's not really familiar with the public transport system. Aren't they restoring the roof at one of the big central stations at the moment? Is that where he is?

If he was Roisin, he'd just take his body apart and escape the cables. That's the irony: he's old enough that he should be able to escape any prison. But he's spent centuries clinging to human form. He's never let go, whatever the temptation. He doesn't know how.

‘Looking for your breakfast?' Naylor asks. He grabs Reynauld's hair and twists his head savagely the other way. ‘There she is.'

It's Amanda. She hangs almost limp in Ben's grasp, where he stands balanced casually on a beam. The makeshift planking platforms don't extend that far beneath them; she's dangling over empty space. Her clothing is dishevelled and Reynauld can see a couple of obvious bite marks on her bared shoulders. Black rage wells up to join the red and gnawing hunger in his belly.

‘Pass her here.' Naylor crooks a finger. Ben makes a face as if – just for a moment – he's thinking of refusing, then takes a deep breath and jumps the eight-foot gap to the platform, with Amanda tucked under his arm. Naylor takes charge of the woman and drops to his knees with her, right next to Reynauld so that even from his position he can see her torn skirt, the tops of those hold-up stockings he likes her to wear and the puncture marks on her exposed breasts. Her eyes are glazed; she's in a bite trance. He can smell her warmth and hear the swift stumble of her pulse, and his dry mouth is suddenly running wet.

‘She did it,' Naylor confides. ‘She let us into the house, sent the guards away, opened the crypt. She sold you out, Old Man.'

Amanda slowly shuts her eyes and turns her bruised face away from her employer. The movement exposes her throat. Like a chained dog, the ravenous appetite in his gut surges forward. Suddenly he can't hide his teeth.

‘Hungry?' Naylor whispers.

Every evening when Reynauld awakes he feeds a little from Amanda, just enough to blunt the crueller edge of his craving, to allow him to concentrate on other matters. He'd normally think nothing of it but now it fills him with shame, a curdling addition to his brew of desperation and anger. Shame, because he can see how she's been abused – and yet he writhes with longing to bite her. His stomach is empty but feels like it's full of knives. He can smell the trickles of blood carelessly spilt down her skin and the rich aroma is sending him crazy. Blood is what he desperately needs right now. Blood would solve all his problems. Blood is healing and strength – and revenge.

* * *

Rosa ‘Crimson Cascade': dark red, large-flowered climbing rose

Helpless, he watches Naylor twist to sink his teeth into her throat and hears Amanda gasp. There are no words in Reynauld's head, only rage. Vampire etiquette is clear: you don't go for the neck unless you mean to kill. Or don't care if you do.

When Naylor lifts his face his mouth is full and overflowing. He holds the woman away at arm's length – she sags like a doll – and turns back to hover over Reynauld, knotting a fist in his prisoner's loose hair to prevent him from snapping up and taking a piece out of his face. Very deliberately he lets a crimson stream dribble over his lower lip, down on Reynauld's chin and cheeks. Red drips spatter olive skin. It's sticky on his lips.

Reynauld's body nearly turns itself inside out with the effort of not opening his mouth and licking at the flecks, but he retains control.

‘Not even a kiss for me? You're such a prude,' Naylor admonishes mockingly.

Through gritted teeth Reynauld says, ‘I'm impressed.'

‘He speaks! The Great One deigns to speak!' Naylor tosses Amanda aside so he can sit down hard at Reynauld's head, and props it up on one hand as if listening to the whispers of an oracle, looking down the length of his torso. ‘Tell us why you're impressed, O Great One.'

‘I didn't think you'd have the balls.'

Despite himself, Naylor's spine stiffens. Reynauld feels the shift of tension, though he can't look at the man at his shoulder. ‘You're about to find out what I have the balls to do,' the younger vampire hisses, drawing a sharp nail along the line of the other man's throat.

‘Oh, I knew you resented me. I understood that. You're a malformed little child hating his daddy for not buying him a bag of crisps. I just didn't expect you'd have the balls to do anything about it. Or the brains.'

Naylor's voice is gloating: ‘Yet here we are. I discovered your weakness.'

‘Yes. You did. And you persuaded Ben and Estelle to back you up.' He twists his head as if staring at Estelle. He can't actually see her – he thinks she's somewhere down by his left flank, though his leg's in the way and he can't lift his head far enough – but he can smell Chanel. She likes to bed down on sheets that have been rinsed in
eau de toilette
. Old-fashioned in some ways, but then it's easy for a vampire to slip into a habit that lasts decades. ‘Smart move. You must have really thought it through. I assume you've given as much consideration to the consequences?'

Naylor leans in to lick his cheek and temple. ‘Oh, believe me: I've thought about it.'

* * *

Rosa ‘American Beauty': deep pink, hybrid rose

From the shadows Estelle emerges, stretching indolently, to position herself between Reynauld's feet. She's wearing a black dress that's more strategic holes than fabric and her hair is moussed metallic gold. Her position grants her the best possible view up his body. For once she's willing to overlook the fact that he's not as beefy as she prefers her men; his pain and his fetters make up for that. And he's no weakling, even she admits. Now every inch of the scorched piebald skin stretched over his taut muscles is shiny with a clear plasma that the sunset's rays squeezed from his pores, and streaked with ash – his own ash. She could count every muscle if she chose. He's a work of art. Everything about his hard frame screams of strength, but his cock and ball-sac are rendered completely vulnerable by the roping apart of his legs and his chest is inflated with the pain he's bottling up. Strength and submission in one; she finds him all but irresistible. She's itching to touch him and to touch herself. Her mouth and pussy are both running wet.

He really does have a beautiful cock.

And oh, God, the smell of his blood …

Reynauld strains to raise his head higher. ‘Estelle. Why?'

What a fool he is. She only lifts an eyebrow and Naylor answers for her: ‘When you're ash, Old Man, we'll all be free. A free-for-all. As it should be. It's what I've wanted all these years: just to live my own life. Don't I deserve that? You and your pathetic rules – there
are
no rules for us: don't you get it? We can do anything we like!'

‘How do you think the humans will react to that?' He's forcing himself to stay rational, she observes. Why's he trying? Naylor isn't a rational adversary.

‘Will I give a shit?'

‘You will when they come for you. They're not stupid. They'll fight back if you start to kill.'

‘Let them. We're the apex predators here.'

‘Oh, yes. Like tigers. And sharks. And grizzly bears. You see any other apex predator they haven't brought to the edge of extinction?'

‘You're boring me, Reynauld. As usual.'

‘They've got weapons and they far outnumber us.'

‘Not for long.'

‘That's what you're after? A war?' He grabs Estelle's gaze. ‘You planning to do business in the rubble, Estelle? Is this your vision too? Is that why you jumped on the bandwagon?'

She reaches between his legs and runs a fingertip from his thigh up to his pierced ankle, tracing a runnel of blood. Vampire blood is much darker than the human variety, almost black. Poking the wound elicits a pleasing tremor from him. She licks her fingertip – it tastes as savoury and rich as raw chocolate – then runs both hands lovingly down the insides of his thighs, all the way to his crotch. She can feel her lips are swollen, her mouth watering. ‘I jumped,' she answers, her voice a purr, devouring his pinned and naked body with her gaze, ‘because I had to see this, Reynauld. I'd give anything to see this.'