Red Grow the Roses (30 page)

And though he tries, he can't quite hide the look in his eyes: his hurt at her betrayal.

She finds that most amusing.

* * *

Rosa ‘Mixed Feelings': red-pink stripes, miniature rose

The planks are splinter-coarse and white with the dust of old limewash. Amanda's hands look nearly as white and her pristine nails are ragged. She broke them while they were playing with her, him and Naylor. For some reason this irrelevant detail wakes a creep of guilt in Ben's gut. She always takes such pains about her appearance, and now they've really messed her up

With infinite effort Amanda pushes herself up and starts to crawl away on her belly, away from Naylor and Reynauld. Ben doesn't know what she's thinking of but she's aiming for the platform edge so he intercepts her and she crawls right up to his shins. ‘What are you doing?' he hisses, stooping.

‘Stop him, Ben,' she whispers as he scoops her upright. She feels light and frail in his embrace. Her lips tremble against the whorl of his ear; she doesn't seem to care that he's taken as much blood from her as Naylor has. ‘Stop him. You can't let him do this.'

He forces himself to resist the lure of her warm throat, so close to his lips and already ruptured by Naylor's teeth. ‘I can't, Amanda …'

‘What are you playing at, Ben?' demands Naylor, momentarily distracted from taunting Reynauld.

‘Nothing.'

‘Put her down. Put her fucking down. She's not yours.'

He lets her slide back to her knees. Naylor has the knack of making him feel inadequate. ‘Well,' he mumbles. ‘I thought …'

‘You thought what?'

‘She could … I could have her.'

‘Really? What's the attraction? She tastes like Old Man's jizz, she's so well used.'

Ben shakes his head, feeling hopelessly inarticulate, his eyes not meeting Naylor's. ‘She's not a problem. I mean … I'd quite like … There's no need to …'

‘Fuck me, Ben. You getting sentimental? You like the old biddy?'

He shrugs. How could he explain that sort of thing – especially to someone like Naylor?

‘Or are you hedging your bets?' Naylor casts a narrow glance at Reynauld. ‘Having second thoughts, are you?'

That makes him jump. ‘No!'

‘You'd better not. It's a bit late for that. You'd better put her down, Ben. I mean, right down. Drop her.'

He doesn't want Naylor turning on him. The guy can be a bit of a nutter sometimes. ‘OK, I …'

‘I mean enter her into the indoor skydiving championships. Now.'

He freezes, dismayed. ‘That isn't fair.'

‘Fair?' The concept sounds ludicrous, the way Naylor says it. ‘What sort of hippy shit are you on? Why should it be fair?' His face is barred with teeth. ‘Now throw her away.' His voice becomes a growl that reverberates through the roofspace. ‘I mean it.'

It's best not to think, just to act. Ben makes a funny noise in his chest, then with a convulsive movement jerks Amanda's body sideways out over the empty space, shakes off her clinging hands, and lets her fall.

Reynauld howls with rage, the cry echoing under the glass.

* * *

Rosa ‘Angel Face': mauve, floribunda rose

Amanda, who wants to die, still screams as she plummets. Scaffolding poles blur past her; there's ninety foot of drop between the platform and the tracks below.

But before she hits, something snatches her from the fall, nearly snapping her neck. She stares up into Roisin's colourless eyes. The vampire woman is standing in mid-air, solid as rock although her garments flare to white mist around her, her slender wrists supporting Amanda's weight without effort. The expression on her face is one of intense concentration, as if she's trying to remember who Amanda is.

‘Oh, please,' Amanda mouths.

Then Roisin lets go, and she hits concrete. But it's only a six-foot drop this time, though it knocks all the wind out of her and for a moment she can do nothing but lie there. Her neck feels numb; she's glad about that. Most of her is numb and heavy. If she were lying in a comfortable bed she'd even describe the lassitude as blissful, but in this context it's anything but.

When she opens her eyes and manages to focus through the gloom, she's staring at the cracked leather of a pair of narrow boots, right in front of her nose.

‘Chatelaine?' says a voice.

Wakefield's.

* * *

Rosa ‘White Spray': clear white, floribunda rose

The moment Amanda drops out of sight Naylor forgets her. The prospect of Reynauld's helpless body is just too much to be distracted from. He's wanted to do this so long. He's fantasised about this moment for decades, almost from the first time they met – when he was just newly blooded and Reynauld was clearing the ground for his domain.

What a hypocrite. This shit-bag systematically wiped out every vampire in the City after he first got here, sparing only Roisin and Naylor because he thought they were harmless. Scorched earth: literally. He burned the last of them out. You wouldn't know that from the way he talks now. You wouldn't think from his fine words that he'd burned down a city to lay claim to the ashes.

Well, now it's time for the Good fucking Shepherd to get what's coming to him from the wolves. He hangs there, spread-eagled and trembling with the strain and the pain. His skin is charred in patches from when they unwrapped him to hang him up, making him even more naked; he reminds Naylor of the skinned carcasses down at Smithfield market. His hands have flexed into claws. It's a pity he doesn't have a heartbeat – Naylor would dearly love to hear the fear in his racing pulse. But he's breathing hard, and his pupils are so dilated they look like obsidian, and the sinews in his neck stand out like wires.

Naylor's going to enjoy this. He's got a triumphant hard-on already. Which, he figures, he might as well make use of. Springing up on to Reynauld's chest, he drops to a squat, relishing the heave that tells him his prisoner is fighting the pain his extra weight inflicts. ‘There are times I really miss being able to take a piss,' he remarks, cutting the shadow-fabric of his clothes with his nails and stroking his cock. ‘Still, this'll do. Open wide.'

He starts to tug on his stiff shaft. He's so fucking hard he feels it throbbing like a wound, and the surge begins almost at once. This is the revenge he's dreamed of; the first of a hundred lovingly crafted humiliations. He wants Reynauld to curse and protest, but the older man goes quiet; having vented a howl when Amanda fell, he now sets his jaw. He twists his face away, though, in a most satisfactory manner, and Naylor enjoys clamping him in place as he spurts all over his face in fluid dollops. The physical thrill is almost an irrelevancy; it's an act of contempt, not lust. But there's a lot of pleasure in seeing his pale spill painted on that sallow skin.

‘Was it good for you?' he asks, straddling Reynauld's chest before dropping back to the boards. He intends to get a lot more use out of his dick before the night's over, but he's denied himself the main reward for too long. Besides, he's hungry.

* * *

Rosa ‘First Kiss': light-pink, floribunda rose

‘Give us a kiss, darling,' he mocks. ‘I always like a kiss and cuddle afterwards.' Taking hold of that thick hair he pulls Reynauld's head right back and sinks his teeth hard into his throat.

* * *

Rosa ‘Euphoria': yellow-orange blend, ground cover rose

It barely has time to hurt. That's the worst thing about it: the physical shock is breathtaking but it's followed by a surge of intense euphoria that nearly knocks Reynauld out. It's like the rush of morphine, it's like sex and death dancing together through his veins, it's like the distillation of surrender. It goes on and on. He can feel Naylor's teeth grinding against the gristle of his Adam's apple and it
doesn't hurt
. He hates that: he'd rather have the pain. He wants to be able to scream but his body is no longer under his control. He can feel his limbs spasming, feel the whole scaffolding edifice shake.

For the first time, in the eye of that hurricane rush, he despairs.

Then Naylor pulls away, sucking his teeth, and Reynauld realises blearily that the shaking is still going on. That someone else is making the tower tremble. Someone climbing up. He lets his head hang loose, feeling the wound in his throat leaking, blood trickling down toward his ears. He sees hands appear on the platform's edge.

It's Wakefield. And beyond him, rising through the darkening vault of the station like a spectre, hovers Roisin with her arms outstretched and brows knotted in anger.

* * *

Rosa ‘Blue for You': mauve, floribunda rose

‘Stop this,' says Wakefield, eyes wide, taking in the sacrificial scene laid out before them. Naylor is rising from Reynauld's throat. Estelle stands beyond, between the victim's legs. Ben is lurking to one side, looking nervous. ‘God in Heaven, Naylor, you've got to stop.'

Naylor wipes his mouth, positioning himself between so that they can't see Reynauld's face. The blood smear looks as black as pitch. ‘I don't remember inviting either of you to the party.'

‘Stop,' echoes Roisin – and it is like an echo – it's a voice without substance, without a source: her lips are parted but do not move. It crawls through the air like the breath of death itself and makes the gloom seethe. Paint flakes off the girders in rusty patches; the brittle skeletons of pigeons rise from their resting-places on the joists and strut about; a swarm of dead flies buzzes around them.

Some of them can't remember ever hearing her speak before. Now they wish they never had. Ben actually cringes and even Estelle looks shocked. Only Naylor manages to mask his consternation. ‘Of course,' he adds with a ghastly grin, ‘you're welcome anywhere, Lady.'

‘You don't really want to do this,' Wakefield tells him.

‘Oh, I think I do.'

‘Naylor. Please.' Wakefield spreads his hands in revulsion. ‘Look at yourself! What the hell are we?'

‘Last time I looked … I was a vampire. What about you, Wakefield?' His voice becomes silky as he switches his attention to Roisin. ‘What about you, Lady?' He steps aside, deliberately revealing Reynauld's hanging body – and the damage to his throat – as if drawing back a theatre curtain. ‘What,' he asks, ‘are you?'

Brushing past Wakefield, Roisin floats closer, her face thrust forward, as she takes in the sight of Reynauld's head hanging back below his shoulders, his throat exposed, the trickles of black blood working their way into his beard and down into his dark and dangling hair to drip on the boards. He's still conscious: his eyes are open, but they seem unfocused.

‘Oh,' she says, and everyone there feels the hair stir on their arms as the air vibrates. Then she moves forward to kneel before him, cupping his inverted face in her hands, kissing his lips and pressing her cheek against his: a
pieta
as cold as any carved in marble.

‘That's right: kiss the poor thing better.'

Wakefield feels his stomach lurch, the skin crawling on his spine.

With horror but no surprise he watches as she leans in and nuzzles closer, her kisses becoming sucks, her tongue joining her lips. Lapping at the ooze of blood.

‘Thought so,' says Naylor softly.

‘You bastard,' Wakefield says weakly. He knows he's no match for Naylor on his own.

‘Don't you want to try it?' Naylor moves in close, slipping a hand behind Wakefield's head as if drawing him in for a kiss. Nose to nose, skin brushing. ‘After all those years of abstinence, think how good it'd taste.' Even his voice is soft and full of promise. Wakefield can smell the blood smeared on his lips. It's far richer than anything from an animal or human, a scent that claws at his throat and makes every inch of his skin catch light. Suddenly he knows famine in each bone of his body. He can hear himself starting to pant, hear the little whimpers bursting out of his chest, feel the clutch of his scrotum contracting as arousal surges through his extremities.

‘Let me go,' he gasps, his stomach knotting with hunger, his teeth sliding to sharp points. Even as he says it, he's straining to lick at the blood.

Naylor takes a step back, but his eyes have a surer grasp even than his hands. He directs Wakefield's own gaze down. ‘Look.'

There's blood on his feet. Naylor is clothed but his feet are bare, and Reynauld's blood has splashed on the tops of his feet.

‘Oh, my good God …'

‘Lick it,' he says, and his voice is like velvet and iron and the implacable press of a hundred million years of black silt, pushing Wakefield to his knees. ‘You want his blood. Lick it up.'

Limbs buckling, Wakefield goes down and presses his mouth to Naylor's feet, tasting heaven.

* * *

Rosa ‘Burning Desire': bright-red, hybrid tea rose

Dimly, Reynauld hears Naylor's voice – ‘Come on then. This is what you all really want, isn't it?' – as at the same time lines of fire are scored down his ribs. Naylor's cutting him, he realises; using his nails to make the blood run. And of course the younger vampire is right in what he says. They're all pressing in now, mesmerised by the sanguine flow. The temptation is too alluring. Even with his eyes shut Reynauld can see them all around him, glowing violet against the darkness inside his head. They can't resist. No matter their personalities or their loyalties, whether they prefer him to Naylor or the other way round, they need by their nature to feed. They are, at core, predators. And in the end blood is the only thing that counts.

The Second Noble Truth of Buddhism: all suffering arises out of craving.

He can feel Roisin at his throat, gentle as a leech, offering no succour. Naylor sits astride his waist and bites into his chest. Then come more bites – Wakefield on the inside of his upper right arm and Ben on his left armpit, gnawing at the tears Naylor's nails have made. Bliss storms through his body, an invading army, taking the pain and turning it to arousal, taking the weakness and dressing it as euphoria. All the defences of his body, all the instincts that would make him struggle or flee, are subverted. Every nerve turns collaborator. He can't fight, any more than a human pinned by a single vampire can fight. He doesn't want to. He wants …