Blood Rebel [COMPLETED]

Prologue

Fifteen Years Earlier

The long corridors of Institution One were empty; as empty as a new coffin, which is a strange comparison when you come to think of it, because this was not where people came to die. That happened elsewhere: in the streets, in the theatres, on the stage. But here, within these walls, the oppressive institutional silence shrouded every child's entrance into the world, for this was where humans were created. 

To wander without permission was to break the rules; and no child broke the rules because the punishment was harsh. 

It was the middle of the night and the windows stretched along the external wall, showing nothing of the outside world but rectangles of blackness, onto which was projected a reflection of the corridor, superimposed like an old movie. But there was a flickering, an energy that thrummed in the air, as though someone stood right behind you, just out of sight, but when you turned to look there was nothing there.  The place had the feel of spirits in the shadows.

The electric strip lighting buzzed over the head of a young girl who sat at the far end of the corridor on a metal chair that had one leg shorter than the others. It wobbled, and she tried to reach her toes to the floor to stabilize it, gripping the edges of the seat with tiny hands, her eyes prised open by the innocent alarm of childhood.

A heel tapped on the floor and a door clicked shut; fabric softly rustled.

"Are you ready?"

The voice distracted the girl, who looked up at the tall female whom she knew only as 'nurse'. The girl pushed her straggly dark hair off her face with crumpled fingers and nodded, her small mouth pursed and tight.

The sharp smell of institutional disinfectant tickled the child's nostrils: she sniffed and scratched at her nose. The nurse bent down and snatched her hand away from her face, gripping it by the wrist, and raised a warning eyebrow: don't fidget.

"Follow me," she said, standing upright again, a tall tower of a woman.

The child hopped from the chair and began to trot to keep up with the nurse, who made no allowance for the length of a infant's stride. Turning this way and that, the nurse weaved through the Institution's warren-like corridors, the girl bobbing behind, eager to keep up, fascinated by the satisfying click of the nurse's high-heeled shoes on the green swirls of the linoleum floor. She gurgled a giggle, a bubble of saliva forming between her lips before bursting and splattering her chin with tiny globules of spit.

When the nurse stopped, the child slid to a halt also, and waited for the nurse to turn and face her. The tall woman knelt down and looked into the girl's eyes, her gaze flickering first to one, then the other, as though to look at both at once was too strenuous an effort.

"Be polite to Mr. Stanley. Do you understand?"

The child nodded fiercely, her hair spreading over her shoulders like the frayed ends of a rope. She twisted her hand into the white institutional gown she wore, and stood with her bare toes pointing inwards.

She knew this name: 'Mr. Stanley.' For a reason she did not know it filled her with a sensation she could not name. An adult would have called it dread.

The nurse snatched up the girl's hand, tugging it free of its burrowed nesting place, and pulled her through into a large office. Behind the desk sat a man in a white coat; an institution official. Opposite him sat another gentleman, wearing a navy suit and camel coloured overcoat, a red cashmere scarf wound round his neck and leather gloves pulled tightly over his hands. He stood up when the nurse and child entered the room, his leather-soled shoes making not a sound on the carpet.

"How do you do?" He asked, slipping off a glove and holding a hand first to the nurse, and then to the little girl.

The child squirmed and tried to hide behind the nurse, who reached down with long arms and pushed her forward.

"Give Mr. Stanley a kiss." The voice was phoney and sickly-sweet.

The child shook her head, her hands scrabbling at the nurse's white dress, unable to gain satisfactory traction. The nurse dug a finger into the girl's back and forced her towards him.

"Oh leave her. She doesn't have to." Hector Stanley dismissed her with a flick of his wrist and slipped the proferred hand into his trouser pocket, hitching his camel coat up behind his forearm on one side. He lifted his head to smile at the man behind the desk.

"But can she dance?" He asked, rocking onto his toes and back again.

"She's not even three years old. She can't do much of anything."

"She has potential," said the nurse.

"She needs to be able to dance." Hector raised an eyebrow and dropped his chin.

"She belongs to you; she will do anything you want as soon as she's old enough," said the other man.

"But she needs to be good." Hector cleared his throat. "No, she needs to be great."

"If you pay for it, we can make it happen," said the nurse, smiling, her voice now only a note less sweet than when she had urged the child to kiss him.

"She'll be sent to the right place. She'll be trained. We'll make sure she's the best dancer London has ever seen," added the man, pushing some papers across his desk.

Hector nodded and bowed, turning to leave the room. But, as though an afterthought, he turned back and bent down to look in the child's eyes. She returned his gaze, transfixed, and when he spoke she flinched.

"I have waited a hundred years to meet you, Selene."