Blood Debt: A Reverse Harem Vampire Romance (Kingdom of Blood Book 1)

by Callie Rose

  I shove the question out of my mind before the potential answers can make my blood boil. That path leads to exposure. I have to embody the fangirl, exude the fangirl, be one with the fangirl.

  A particularly ugly vampire in the crowd catches my attention as I step onto my pedestal and smooth down my dress’s heavy skirt. He’s got a scarred, pock-marked face, but I force myself to wink at him and stroke my throat, shoving my disgust deep into the recesses of my mind.

  Maybe I shove the disgust down a little too far, because when I cut my gaze away from the scar-faced vamp, the next man I look at actually looks attractive.

  No, scratch that.

  He looks fucking gorgeous.

  He’s standing by the door near the back of the crowd, watching everything play out before him. His broad shoulders and tan skin, thick brown hair, intense dark eyes make him look like the kind of vampire all the fangirls fantasize about—the kind with otherworldly beauty, the kind who can’t possibly be human because no human could look that fucking sexy. A nose ring glitters on his face, and he’s got his thick arms crossed over his chest, his features set into a stoic scowl.

  I must stare at him for too long, taken aback by his appearance, because he turns his head suddenly, catching my gaze. Our eyes meet, and his brows draw inward a little. His scowl softens.

  My heart does a strange thud-thud in my chest, as if it tried to fit in an extra beat out of nowhere.

  What the hell?

  Adrenaline surges through me, panic not far after it, and it takes all my self-control not to react with a physical jerk.

  Keep it together, Mikka. Maintain eye contact, maintain goopy expression, and analyze.

  There are plenty of possible reasons for my strange reaction to this man.

  I’m in a dangerous place surrounded by vampires with no way out, for one thing. That’s extremely fucking stressful. I’ve been doing nothing but fight and hunt for the last month… maybe two.

  When was the last time I even got laid?

  I can’t remember, and that’s a bad thing. I learned a long time ago that the best way to keep a clear head and manage the stress that comes with this job is to have sex at least twice a month, preferably more. But I’ve been too busy hunting bloodsuckers recently to be in the mood to hunt down a good lay.

  And the man standing by the wall is objectively attractive. He was human, once upon a probably very long time ago. And if he were still human, he’s the kind of guy who would be very much my type.

  That’s all it is. Simple physical attraction.

  Now that I’m sure I’m not being subtly seduced by this surreal environment or some kind of vampire pheromone or something, I relax into my role a little bit more. I flirt with the vampires nearest to me and show off my neck, letting my earrings caress my skin as I tilt my head. The moves are familiar and come easily to me. It’s not the first time I’ve teased a vampire, although it is the first time I’ve done it without the intention of immediately killing the damned thing.

  After a few moments, a vampire in a sleek, deep red tux jumps gracefully onto the stage with a microphone in his hand.

  “Good evening, everyone,” he purrs. “We have a lovely selection for you tonight. A stunning array of tributes just dying to be chosen.”

  His word choice sends a ripple of chuckles through the crowd. Gross. With his microphone still held loosely in his hand, he turns and scans the stage behind him. To my horror, his eyes land on me immediately. A grin spreads across his face, and he walks over, stalking toward me like the predator he is.

  “Hello, my succulent little friend. Let’s tell our audience about you, shall we? What’s your name?”

  “Darcy,” I say, putting a flirty lilt into my voice. There’s no fucking way I’m telling him my real name. I knew a girl in high school named Darcy, and I never really liked her. I think she ended up working as a stripper at a club on the outskirts of Baltimore, actually.

  “Darcy.” He rolls the word around on his tongue like he’s tasting it, and goose bumps prickle over my skin. “That’s a lovely name. Tell me, Darcy, what’s your favorite food?”

  Refusing to think too hard about how a lot of the occupants of this room would answer that question, I pretend to consider my answer.

  “Well, I love fruit,” I say with a little purr. “And red wine.”

  “Fruit and wine. We have ourselves a fine dessert here, gentlemen.” He turns to grin at the crowd as if they’re sharing an inside joke, then refocuses his attention on me. “You have a lovely physique, if you don’t mind me saying so. How do you stay so fit and trim, Darcy?”

  “Gymnastics.” I give what I hope is a mysterious, sultry smile, drawing in a deep enough breath to make my breasts strain a little against the semi-transparent fabric of my top. “And I dance a lot.”

  “A dancer and a gymnast.” His eyebrows rise a little, and now he’s looking at me with real interest, not just the type meant to hype up the crowd. That’s a good thing, but it still makes my skin crawl. “My, my, my, you’re two dessert courses in one,” he purrs. “Tell us a bit about why you’re here, little one. Why do you want to become a blood tribute?”

  Even though I’ve been expecting the question and have prepared a lie in advance, my jaw momentarily locks up, refusing to let me answer. I bite my lip, dragging it through my teeth and hoping that will be enough to cover up my internal struggle. Then I arch my back just a bit more, give him a sultry look up and down, and let my anger flutter like excitement in my pulse.

  “I’ve dreamed of being a consort to a vampire for years,” I say breathlessly. “You’re all so strong and powerful. My greatest wish and desire is to be penetrated by your magnificent fangs and give myself to you. Any of you… all of you… I’m strong enough to take it.”

  A few murmurs and appreciative whistles break out in the crowd, turning my stomach. They’re clearly buying it, which was the point. So why do I hate myself so much right now? I feel dirty, and the excited nods of agreement from a few of the girls onstage is making it so much worse. The fact that anyone honestly feels that way disturbs me.

  The vampire in the red tux gives me one last slow perusal with his gaze, as if he’s considering claiming me for himself. Then affixes the dazzling, charming smile to his face again and turns to address the crowd.

  “Well, there you have it, ladies and gents. Darcy, the most willing little morsel you’ll ever trifle with.” He steps toward the woman on my right, sweeping an arm out in a gesture that encompasses her full form. “Next, a very curvaceous blonde beauty. What’s your name, girl?”

  She opens her mouth to answer his question, but I tune out the words, everything disappearing under the rush of blood in my ears.

  I did it. I kept up the charade and managed to keep from blurting something I shouldn’t.

  Now I just have to hope I’m chosen.

  Chapter Four

  My heart doesn’t stop racing as the auctioneer makes the rounds to the rest of the human women stationed on pedestals around me. Some of them gush and flirt with him, some seem too awed to do more than stare, and one or two are crying too hard to really answer any of his questions. Not that it matters. Their obvious fear and discomfort is in no way disqualifying—in fact, it’s probably considered a plus for some of the vamps in this room.

  Once all of the women have been introduced, bids are placed. Since every single vampire here belongs to the Vampire Clan of Baltimore, they’re not bidding on us individually. Any women who are chosen will be considered tributes to the entire clan, brought to live in the palace for the duration of their contracted term.

  I don’t know much about how it works beyond that. Every bit of knowledge I have about the process for humans to sell themselves to vampires is from snippets and rumors I’ve picked up on the street, stories about someone who’s friend of a friend traded their freedom and blood for a time in exchange for money.

  I have no idea who makes the ultimate decision about how much to bid or who to bid
on, but when the auctioneer starts the bidding, several serious looking vampires step forward. They’re much less raucous than the rest of the crowd, probably representatives from the palace, and they point to the women they want and call out numbers as the man in the red suit keeps everything running smoothly.

  The first time one of the vamps points at me, my heart leaps. I’m tempted to just accept his offer right away, but I worry about looking too eager and drawing suspicion. Even vampire fangirls probably do it partly for the money, so I hold out until I get a higher offer and then nod to the auctioneer.

  The whole thing only takes a few minutes. Once the bidding ends, the girls who weren’t chosen step down from their pedestals, some of them looking relieved and others disappointed. The woman who greeted me when I first walked in ushers them off the stage, and they disappear through the crowd. I lose track of them before they reach the door, dragging my attention back to what’s going on around me.

  “Lovely, lovely. Another successful auction. Now I know you’re all ready for a feast, am I right?”

  As he speaks, the auctioneer moves to the center of the stage while a red-tinged spotlight follows him. The crowd whoops enthusiastically, as if they don’t do this all the damn time. He drinks in their excitement like it’s lifeblood—ironically—and continues to amp them up. As he’s gesticulating, he moves back behind the pedestals, to the center of the stage. He pulls a rope that I mistakenly assumed was a pull rope for the velvet curtain, and a second later, the whole stage begins rocking and shaking under my feet.

  “Escorts, to your tributes,” the auctioneer says.

  Just like that, there’s a massive vampire by my side. His chest is bare except for the two straps of leather crossing it, which end in a belt slung low around his hips. He’s wearing combat boots, and his pants are covered in chains. Apocalypse punk seems to be the standard uniform for these “escorts,” though none of them are wearing exactly the same thing. He glances down at me, clearly bored. He must have wanted a flight risk. He keeps glancing eagerly at the tear-streaked woman in front of us, silently daring her to bolt.

  She doesn’t. She seems smarter than that, even if she did end up on the auction block along with the rest of us. She must’ve done something stupid at some point to get here.

  The part of the stage behind the pedestals has sunk into the ground now, revealing a broad hidden passage almost as big as the auction room itself. At the end, stairs lead down into the dark. I glance around for a mechanism to open the stage from below, but I can’t see anything. I want to look harder, but I don’t think I can get away with it. Not now.

  Two vampires guard the top of the stairs. The escort-tribute pair in front of me is stopped, the tribute is searched, and then they’re allowed to pass.

  I deliberately keep my breathing even and steady, trying to keep my heart rate down. I expected to be searched and prepared for that eventuality, but there’s always a chance I didn’t do as well as I think I did. I’m not a master-level seamstress, although I’m usually handy enough when I need to be.

  Unaware of my inner anxiety, my escort drags me to a halt in front of security. I paste on my most inviting smile and look up at the guards through my lashes.

  “Is it a… strip search?” I ask, trying to look both nervous and excited by the idea, instead of just nauseated.

  “No,” one of them says shortly. His expression is hard and blank. Unlike the raucous crowd who came to watch the auction, he’s clearly just here to do his job. “Only a quick once-over. Don’t need you accidentally bringing garlic down there.”

  I gasp, forcing my eyes to go wide. “Garlic? I would never do that. It could hurt someone.”

  Not even bothering to acknowledge my words, the guard jerks his chin, and his friend gives me a perfunctory pat-down. My nerves scream with awareness as he reaches for the skirt of my dress, but he doesn’t run his hands over the length of the fabric, just parts the slit at one side and reaches beneath the heavy layers to check that I don’t have anything strapped to my legs.

  My breath hitches a little, but I hope he’ll think that’s just from having his hands on me. It’s a good fucking thing I hid my weapons, but I’m so used to having daggers sheathed at my thighs when I hunt that I almost worry he’ll somehow feel the lingering imprint of metal against my skin.

  But he doesn’t. After running his hands up my thighs again, way too close to my fucking vagina for comfort, he steps back, then nods and waves us through.

  “Pretty little thing, that one,” I hear him murmur to his stoic counterpart as we walk away. “More muscular than I usually like them, but soft where it counts.”

  I almost manage to suppress a shudder. My escort glances down at me, a vague sort of concern on his face.

  “The stairs are cold,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly. “Palace is warm, though. Don’t worry.”

  “I can’t wait to get there,” I say breathlessly, rubbing my arms as if for warmth. I’m not even cold—I’ve worked in ice storms with just enough layers on to avoid frostbite—but I’d rather him assume that than realize that I’m disgusted by this whole thing.

  The stairs are loud. They’re steel on steel, with rattling grates on every step. The walls are smooth, hard, and multi-faceted in just the right way to make every sound echo. The railings aren’t really railings, but smooth steel bars standing vertically from floor to ceiling, with a handspan between each one.

  Fuck. So much for sneaking out once I find Nathan. The stairs are clearly set up to be an early warning system of any intruders—or escapees—and there’s no chance of climbing a bannister.

  We go three stories down beneath the ground. I don’t see any other openings, just smooth walls at every landing. There are more guards at the bottom, but they don’t stop us. We’re waved through to a steel vault door, which opens from the inside after one of the escorts nods his head to a camera embedded in the wall. I try to suppress the curling dread in my stomach as I’m herded forward with the rest of the women. So far, I’m not seeing any easy way out. I can’t imagine that this is the only entrance to the palace, not with how big the place must be. There have to be other ways in and out. Hopefully they won’t be quite as secure.

  The vault door closes with a dull thud behind us, and I glance around my new surroundings to see a female vampire waiting just inside. She steps forward, giving us a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her face makes her look middle-aged, but that just means that’s how old she was when she turned—it has no relation to the actual amount of time she’s walked the earth.

  “Welcome, darlings,” she coos, pressing her hand to a few girls’ cheeks. “Oh, so many pretty things. We leave the men here. Follow me.”

  Once again, we’re all herded forward, and I get the unpleasant sensation that I’m part of a flock of sheep being led to the slaughter.

  This place is a maze. I’m trying to keep track of all the twists and turns, flights up and down, long hallways and random doors, but I can’t honestly be sure I’ll know how to get back to that entrance even if I do figure out a way to get up the stairs without dying.

  The vampire matron moves at a vampire pace, which is just slightly faster than comfortable for the average human. It doesn’t bother me, but I need it to look and sound like it does. I put on a show, moving at the same rate as the two girls nearest me. Jog for a bit. Get a little winded. Fall back, catch up.

  The first thing she does is bring us to a large room that looks sort of like a massive study or a library. There are contracts laid out on the cherry wood table in the middle of the room, and she leads us over to them.

  “You’ll just need to sign these, my dears.”

  I step forward, willing my hand not to shake as I reach for the elaborate ink pen next to my contract. These fuckers could get simple ball point pens if they wanted. They’re living in the twenty-first century along with the rest of us, but they clearly like to go for the effect of making us sign with these ancient and intimidating l
ooking things.

  The contract is long and full of a million lines of fine print. I see a few girls try to scan theirs quickly, glancing at the matron as if expecting to have their heads bitten off by her for dawdling, but most of them just pick up the pens and scrawl their names.

  I do the same, only pausing long enough to check that the bid amount is accurate. Honestly, the words of the contract don’t matter to me. I don’t plan on staying for the full term of the contract anyway, and if the vamps find out why I’m really here, they’ll kill me in a heartbeat, contract or no.

  Another little piece of my soul seems to shrivel up and die as I scrawl Darcy Claymore at the bottom of the page. Even though the signature doesn’t say Mikka Dawson, the act of signing a blood tribute contract still gives me the fucking creeps.

  Once everybody’s finished with their contracts, two silent vampires come to collect them, and the female vamp ushers us out of the library.

  She leads us down a few more long hallways before we finally reach the wing of the palace where the blood tributes are kept. We’re each deposited in our own rooms with a promise that the matron will come back to collect us again soon and instructions to get changed into something “suitable.”

  With that alarming pronouncement, the female vampire disappears.

  I close my door, thanking whatever gods might be listening for small favors. I expected to be bunking with other tributes, or at the very least, sharing a room. Keeping my façade up interminably would have exhausted me, probably to the point of making a mistake. I can never afford mistakes, but especially not now.

  After waiting a few moments to make sure that no one is going to burst in, I strip out of my dress and stretch. Being out of that constricting thing makes me feel like myself again, and I revel in it—especially since I know the feeling isn’t going to last.

  Kicking off my shoes, I work out the kinks in my toes and the arches of my feet, still stretching out my back and shoulders too. My muscles are used to all kinds of punishment, but stiletto heels and corsets are pure torture. I know I don’t have a lot of time before the matron will return, but it feels so good to be in my own skin that I push the limits a little bit. They can’t very well bring me to a feast naked, after all.