by Callie Rose
He told me he didn’t want to be a burden, and I eventually gave in and let him have his way. And this is the fucking result of that.
Blowing out a breath, I shove down my anger, guilt, and sadness, focusing on the task at hand. I need to grab anything valuable and get back to my place to change out of my hunting clothes. Every second counts.
In the tiny bedroom, I spot a framed picture hanging on the wall over his bed. The frame is the nicest thing in the apartment, and I’m pretty sure it must’ve cost him a whole dollar. It’s a picture of the two of us from ten years ago, at one of the “Family Forever” picnics the foster families in our neighborhood used to throw. Officially, they did them so that separated siblings could maintain relationships.
Unofficially, it was an auction. Foster moms would literally sit there and trade kids. Some of them wanted docile kids. Some wanted kids who could hold their own with the bullies at school. Some wanted hard workers, and some wanted girls at risk of pregnancy because hell, two checks were better than one. Didn’t matter to me and Nathan, though. We were just happy to see each other. I was fourteen in this picture, which would have made Nathan fifteen.
I press my fingers to the cold glass over his face. That smile, that real smile, the one that reached his green eyes and made the corners crinkle—I haven’t seen it in so long. Not since that summer, in fact. One year after this picture was taken, I moved to a house on the good side of Federal Hill, with a family who assumed my brother was bad news just because he was older than me. They stopped letting me see him. I fought it, but there was only so much I could do at that point.
So I threw myself into building skills. Knife-throwing, swordsmanship, martial arts… anything I could get my hands on. Since I was living with a relatively wealthy family at the time, they indulged all of my extracurricular requests—as long as I also agreed to do ballet and gymnastics. At the time, I thought those two things were useless, but once I was actually out fighting vampires, I found out how priceless those skills really are.
Nathan went the other way. He never got lucky enough to match with a family who were interested in helping him deal with our parents’ deaths. Without me around, he went looking for his own ways to mend his broken heart. Someone gave him a needle and told him to stitch his heart back together with that. It didn’t work, obviously, but it masked the pain enough to keep him hooked.
Then there was the alcohol and women and gambling. It’s real easy for a tall boy to be treated as a man around here, for better or for worse. In Nathan’s case, it was worse. At seventeen, he’d seen and done things that no grown-ass adult should even know about, let alone a kid.
When I graduated and got out of the system, I tried to take him with me. My foster parents set me up in an apartment and let me choose between college or having my bills paid for a year. I chose the latter, which they were happy about—it was cheaper, after all—and I brought Nathan home to live with me. I thought I could save him back then, I really did. But he just kept getting worse and worse. I dealt with it for as long as I could. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
“I’m not going to let you down again,” I promise the smiling boy in the photograph. “Never again. I’m going to get you out of there. I swear to god, I am.”
And I know exactly how to do it. No matter how much I hate what I’ll have to do.
With my lips pressed into a tight line, I pull the little frame off the wall and slide the photo out. Tucking the lightly faded picture into my jacket’s inner pocket, I turn on my heel and leave the room.
Stay the fuck alive, Nathan. Just stay alive. I’m coming.
Chapter Three
My first impulse is to go straight to the auction house, but as it turns out, I don’t exactly own anything suited to auctioning myself off.
Shocking, right?
Besides, Nathan’s already too deep in with the vamps for this to be any kind of smash and grab job. If I’m going to properly infiltrate their hive, I need to do it the right way. And that means taking enough time to do it right.
So after finding another cab to take me home, I spend the rest of the night on the dark web, browsing the vampire fan chatrooms. Several hours in, I know exactly what I need to do to maximize my chances of being chosen as a blood tribute—everything from the dress to the scent. Eventually, I try to sleep a little, but it’s largely useless. My eyelids don’t want to stay closed, and I’m restless and twitchy all night.
After a few hours of sort-of-sleep, I haul myself out of bed and mainline almost an entire pot of coffee. Then I head out, hitting up several boutiques downtown to search for the perfect dress.
I know it as soon as I see it. I don’t even bother trying it on, just hand my credit card to the woman behind the counter and try not to think about the number on the price tag.
Whatever it costs, whatever it takes, I’ll fucking do it. I’m not letting my brother rot in a vampire palace.
When I get home, I hang the dress from the curtain rod over my living room window. The dark red fabric is the most colorful thing in my whole apartment—which isn’t saying much, I guess. I didn’t exactly put a whole lot of thought into decorating this place.
The walls are light gray, the carpet is dark gray, and the second-hand couch is a muted olive color. My bedroom is just as monochromatic, though the furniture is a little nicer. My captain’s bed doubles as a weapons locker. So does the cedar chest at the foot of it. Nathan’s old room is a gym now, but once I get him back here, I’ll turn it back into a bedroom for him. I still have all his stuff stashed in a storage locker. Well, everything but the bongs, pipes, and syringes. I smashed the hell out of those.
Shoving my thoughts away from my struggles and failures as a sister, I gaze up at the dress again, sizing it up like I might do with a new weapon. Evaluating its usefulness for its intended purpose.
Then I pluck it down from the curtain rod and get to work, spending the next several hours making a few key alterations to the garment. Between modifying the dress and doing some additional research on the vamps’ underground palace, the day flies by. It seems like all I do is blink, and suddenly, it’s dark outside.
Time to get this show on the road.
Stripping out of my faded jeans and tee, I step into the dress and lace up the corset, then turn to look at myself in my bedroom mirror.
This gown is unlike anything I’ve ever had in my closet; it’s brazen and eye-catching and absolutely gorgeous. The bodice is a corset, and the skirt flares out at the hip, with enough fabric for me to hide weapons inside it. Above the corset, my breasts are cupped in a semi-transparent halter which lets just enough of my nipples show to tease the eye. Below, the skirt and petticoats fall to my ankles, with a slit up to my hip on one side. I’ve sewn weapons between the layers of the skirt—just my two favorite knives, although I wish I could bring a whole fucking armory with me.
I do a practice spin in front of the mirror to make sure I’ve balanced it all properly and that the knives are truly undetectable. I think they are, but I can’t be entirely sure since I can’t really see how the back spins. I know I’ll be dead if I’m caught smuggling weapons in there, but there’s no way I’m leaving them at home.
I try to evaluate the odds in my head, but there are too many unknown variables. I know I look and smell good. I know that my weapons aren’t strictly visible. I just don’t know if I’m too obviously fit from fighting and training, or if any of them will recognize my face. I don’t think I’ve ever left a witness after a kill, but there’s really no way to be certain of that.
“Only one way to find out,” I tell my reflection, grimacing slightly
Blowing out my cheeks, I slide my feet into the new stilettos I bought this morning. They’re comfortable enough for what they are, but I can feel my anxiety start to increase as I straighten up. I can walk just fine, I’m light on my feet and have good balance. But there’s no fucking way I could run or climb in these—not without breaking a leg or two.
And that message is: prey on me, I can’t get away if I change my mind.
“I can’t believe people actually do this shit for the thrill of it,” I mutter. I may have a personal vendetta against vampires, but even if I didn’t, I can’t imagine myself voluntarily choosing to throw myself into their clutches as a blood tribute. As a fucking groupie.
Shaking off the impulse to check and double check my weapons, I lock my feet in with the thin straps on the shoes, tuck a bejeweled comb in my dark hair, slip a pair of blood-drop earrings in my ears, and turn around in front of the mirror again to look at the final result.
My sharp features look almost model-like when combined with the stunning getup and the makeup I applied before getting dressed. My blue eyes look even brighter next to the red of the earrings and the scarlet color of my lips.
Good enough.
Passable, anyway, assuming I can get rid of this scowl.
I try on a few bubble-headed smiles and settle on wide-eyed awe.
That’ll work. Let’s do this.
I throw on a ratty trench coat so I can get downtown without too much hassle. This dress would have me stopped for solicitation in a heartbeat. Not without cause, I suppose, considering what I’m about to go do.
The cab I hail only takes me three-quarters of the way there before I stop the driver and tell him to pull over. It’s not so much because I’m afraid of being followed or traced, but because I really need to settle my nerves before I walk in there. Knowing that I’m going to be around dozens of vampires is making me itch to fight. I need to find softness somewhere inside of me, some sort of doe-eyed naivete, something to hold on to so that I can present the right face to these vermin.
The walk helps—a little, at least. Every time I feel my fingers curling into fists or my shoulders bunching up, I force myself to take a deep breath, hold it, and then release it.
When I finally arrive at my destination, I almost think I’m in the wrong place at first. The bar is fairly quiet, playing some soft-rock bullshit while middle-aged people sit around communing with their drinks. There’s a subtle black door in the back beyond the bathrooms. The bartender catches my eye, glances down at my feet, and nods his head that way.
Perfect, thanks dude.
At least I look the part enough to fool the human bartender. It’s not much, but it’s a start, and I’ll take it.
I follow his silent directions, heading toward the back. Through the door he indicated is a coat check, and beyond that, another door. The second door vibrates with the beat of the stage music beyond.
“Is there a cover charge to get into the club?” I ask the girl who’s standing at a little lectern to one side of the door. My heart stills as I look into her crystal blue eyes. Her narrowing pupils tell me she’s a vampire, and every instinct in me screams to take her out now, while no one is looking.
“Not for women,” she drawls in a bored tone as she takes my big coat and drapes it over one arm. “Here’s your coat-check ticket. Have fun.”
“Yeah, sure.” I crumple the ticket in my palm and toss it to the floor as soon as I’m through the door. I’m not planning to come back for the jacket anyway.
The club is about what you’d expect. It’s not at all my scene, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not why I’m here anyway. All I want is to find the door to the basement. Threading my way through the press of bodies, I pass by stages full of topless—and occasionally bottomless—women, keeping count of any vampires I notice. There are at least a dozen watching the dancers, and just as many dancing.
My stomach tightens, my jaw clenching. I guess that’s one way to get a meal.
When I’m about halfway across the large space, a burly man steps in my path. I stop quickly enough not to run into him, and he eyes me for a second, his gaze running up and down my body.
“You look lost,” he rumbles.
Shit. I knew I was being too obvious. I scramble to think of something to say, debating whether it’s better to attack now before he has a chance to anticipate it—but then he leans down next to my ear and whispers, “Employment or tribute?”
“Tribute,” I breathe.
He nods once and jerks his head, indicating for me to follow him. I do, taking several more breaths to unclench my muscles again as he leads me to a curtain. When he draws it aside with one hand, I see stairs covered in red carpet leading down to the basement.
“Take a left at the bottom,” he tells me. “Ask for Boris.”
“Thanks.”
Lifting the heavy skirts of my dress, I make my way down the stairs, not looking back at the man who waits at the top.
As I step off the last stair at the bottom, I can feel the change in the air. There’s a thick atmosphere of sex and debauchery down here. A flat-screen TV is playing porn on mute, and neon arrows are pointing to the left. There’s a window cut into the wall on the other side of the room with another bored-looking vampire sitting behind it. She flicks her gaze at me and away again, not seeming interested or impressed. She clearly knows why I’m here, and I allow that knowledge to bolster me a little. The disguise I picked is working.
Since the woman behind the window seems content to ignore me, I ignore her too, venturing deeper into the underground club. Scanning my surroundings with a subtle glance, I turn left and step through another curtain. This one leads to a narrow, dingy, poorly-lit hallway which, as soon as I turn the corner, becomes a narrow, dingy, poorly-lit tunnel.
My stomach churns. Fucking hell.
I wasn’t hoping for puppies and rainbows, but this isn’t what I was anticipating at all. It’s creepy as shit, as if every level of this place I pass through is peeling back a layer on the vampires’ veneer of humanity.
Down here, they clearly don’t feel a need to keep up any pretenses.
But I grit my teeth and keep walking anyway. Not only do I refuse to back off and leave Nathan to his fate, but running would probably only make the vamps suspicious at this point, or give them an excuse to chase me down.
Never turn your back on a fucking predator. I learned that lesson a long time ago.
At the end of a tunnel, a huge man stands beside what can only be described as the biggest vault door I’ve ever seen. His arms are crossed, and he’s got a gun on each hip. I don’t know why a three-hundred-pound body building vampire needs any guns, but he’s got them. He lowers his arms as I approach and looks me up and down. His eyes linger on the blood-drop earrings which are brushing seductively against my throat as I walk.
“Lost?” he asks gruffly.
Gotta be stupid. Gotta be vapid. Come on, breathy tone, wide eyes.
“I don’t think so.” I step closer to him and drop my voice to a stage whisper. Cue the drama. “I’m here to offer myself as tribute… to the vampires.”
He frowns thoughtfully and circles me like a shark, feeling me up with his eyes. I smell the hunger on his breath and see it in the bulge of his pants. I bite the tip of my tongue gently, just enough to remind myself to keep my expression neutral, but I hate the way he’s looking at me. This expensive as fuck dress won’t be worth a damn if he decides to take me for himself.
I stiffen my posture as his hand brushes my ass, my heart jolting into overdrive. I can’t let him keep touching me, or he’ll feel everything that I have hidden.
“This is the auction house, isn’t it?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound uncertain and a little panicked. He drops his hand. “Did I come to the wrong place? A friend told me about it. I heard that… but maybe I was wrong…”
“Nah. This is it,” he says. He looks me over once more then shrugs as if deciding I’m not worth the trouble. “You’ll do, I guess.”
He opens the door, and despite his casual dismissal of me, I can still feel his gaze glued to my neck. I suppress a shudder, re
minding myself that this is why I’m here. I want this attention. I want to be noticed like that. At least for right now. Later, once I’m in the palace, I’ll do whatever it takes to blend in to the damn wallpaper.
Shit. Do vampires even use wallpaper?
“Stupid question,” I mutter to myself. “Not relevant, Mikka.”
The auction house contrasts strikingly with the rough tunnel outside. The ceiling is so high that it fades away into the shadows as chandeliers plunge low over the crowd. Grand pillars and expensive chairs dot the marble floor. Every wall is a patchwork of intricately carved molding and ancient tapestries, with the occasional heavy oak door breaking up the pattern.
On the stage are twelve pedestals. People—humans—stand on eight of them.
A woman strikes a sensual pose, putting her neck on display. Another one stands stiffly, staring off unblinkingly at a shadowy part of the ceiling. I figure the first woman watches too many movies and the second one has too many gambling debts. I write them both off as idiots and do my damnedest to mimic the energy of the sultry woman.
A female vampire stands at the foot of the stage. I make a beeline toward her, and when she sees me coming, she holds out her hand to me with a smile.
“Welcome,” she purrs. “Such a lovely tribute. Choose your pedestal, darling, and put on a show. It’s a great honor to be chosen.”
“I know,” I breathe, pitching my voice a little higher and softer than usual. “Thank you so, so much.”
Ugh. Fuck.
Suppress the shudder, Mikka.
I keep the awestruck expression firmly in place on my features all the way to the pedestal, subtly turning my head this way and that to get a closer look at the others as I walk. I’m surprised at how many tears I see on more than a few faces. It can’t be that hard to avoid this place, can it? How are there so many people—men and women alike—who have ended up here against their will?
