“Master has a plan for you.”
More than anything, Flynn wanted to kill Master. Each time it was rumored he would visit them, Flynn felt a surge of hope that he might have a chance. But Master never did visit. He suspected it was because the band of vampires that held him were not what Master considered noble enough. Flynn nicknamed them the hairy unwashed.
Keeping clear of the major cities, the band of vampires stuck to the country lanes and killed as and when they wanted. Often, they forced Flynn to torture their victims for them. Flynn hated to do it, but he refused to cry again. He stopped crying after his mother’s death.
And then, on a rainy, bleak England morning, he was summoned. “Master wants to see you.”
Stitches did not have the prettiest face to wake up to and Flynn often had to shield his face from being hit. This time, however, the smelly thing actually seemed somewhat submissive and he refused to look Flynn in the eyes. “Hurry up and get your coat on. We got a ways to walk.”
Flynn pulled himself from the frigid cot and sat up gingerly, testing the cuts on the insides of his arms. They had only healed him the night before and the pain was incredible. Dried streams of blood ran down his arms and off the tips of his fingers. They hadn’t even bothered to clean him up after he lost consciousness this time.
Catching his breath, he grabbed his shoulder gingerly, fingering the knot that had developed when one of the killers had hit him as he tried to fight them off. He always fought them off. He always lost.
Sighing, he looked around his corner of the room. The dirty apartment they’d purloined in the poverty stricken part of St. Thomas Camden New Town was the most disgusting place they had stayed in yet. Given the chance, Flynn would have willed himself into the depths of the earth. It was amazing he hadn’t become ill and died. Perhaps it was the anger in him – his wanting to kill Master that allowed him to live.
He stood, grabbing the ankle length brown leather jacket Stitches stole a year ago and pulled it over his shoulders. Even his back hurt. He was seventeen and already he felt like an old man.
“What in God’s name you doin’?” Stitches shoved his head in the doorway. “Move your arse or I’ll do it for ya!”
Flynn ran after Stitches down the stairs and out into the bleak morning. The rain pitted his face, immediately soaking his platinum hair. Keeping pace with his tormentor was easy now – he’d had just over three years and many beatings to get used to it. A carriage passed splashing a wall of dirty water upon them and Stitches stopped, cursing.
“Bloody hell!” He turned to Flynn, his face furious. “It’s not enough we have to walk in this rain, but now we have to meet Master with mud all over us!” He eyed Flynn’s white shirt, stained with blood from the feeding the night before. A trace of guilt passed over his face.
“Button up your jacket,” he murmured and continued walking. Quick as he could, Flynn did as he was ordered and followed Stitches. Not one more word was uttered between the two of them.
The trip to the wealthy part of Aberdeen Park, Highbury, took over an hour to walk, but Flynn didn’t mind. For once, he felt somewhat normal again. The buildings and scenery improved with each step and by the time they arrived at the doorstep of the stark white building, the rain had ceased and he’d nearly forgotten why they were there. Nearly.
The butler led them to the third floor and a door hidden behind a crimson carpet hanging on the wall. When two knocks from within were sounded, he slid the door to the side and motioned them to enter.
The room was darkly lit without a window to expose the dismal gray sky. Flynn took a moment to adjust to the darkness before focusing on a man sitting on an ornately decorated chair on the opposite side of the room. A long green velvet carpet led to the chair. To the side sat a heavy redwood side-table with a silver goblet in the center.
After a few seconds, Flynn recognized the Master. His heartbeat and breathing quickening, barely containing the frenzied rage within him. Stitches stepped away from him.
“Welcome,” Master greeted as if receiving old friends. “I have waited three years for this.”
“As have I,” Flynn chewed on the words.
“Careful,” Stitches whispered a warning to Flynn.
“There’s no need to tell him what to do.” Master stood, grasping the goblet. “You are no longer his superior.”
The statement surprised Flynn and he did a double take as Stitches hid himself against the wall, his eyes glued to the floor. Master snaked his way toward Flynn.
“Stitches takes his position a bit too far at times. But in order to break someone, well, I’m afraid I have to allow it.” He brought the goblet to his lips and took a sip, keeping his eyes on Flynn.