Ravenous (Triskaidekaphilia Book 2)

by Wendy Nikel

  But seemingly overnight, the monarchy devolved into a cutthroat regime, complete with a militarized guard and an order to swiftly execute anyone who dared to speak in opposition of the royal family or the laws of the Republic.

  Jules could rail openly against the injustices of her race in the safety of her underground lab, but in public, she remained mute. Angry, but mute.

  She didn’t feel angry now, peering at Vinnie dressed in her finery. She felt sad. Sad that the vampire Vinnie once was seemed to be disappearing before her very eyes like fingers of a fine mist evaporating in sunlight.

  “Don’t you miss it, Vinnie?” Jules asked.

  Lavinia tilted her head. “I do miss the adrenaline, the rush of the chase, the satisfaction of a good meal.” A sentimental smile bloomed on her lips, but just as quickly, her face fell into a frown. “But what’s the use in romanticizing the past? Right now, I’d rather romance a prince.”

  Jules rolled her eyes. So much for a meaningful political conversation.

  “You haven’t said a thing about my dress, Jules,” Lavinia said, raising a blonde, perfectly arched eyebrow. She executed a slow spin. Soft red fabric swished across the tile floor. Lavinia’s waist glittered with blood red sequins. The dangerous neckline of the dress plunged nearly to her bellybutton, hinting at the curve of her breasts from just the right angle.

  “You look amazing, Vinnie, as usual,” Jules said, but then she teasingly waggled a finger at her sister. “But if you woo the prince and become royalty, I have a feeling you’ll need to switch to a more conservative wardrobe.”

  “Oh, I’m aware of that. I know the king and queen are old school. This,” she said, gesturing to the dress, “is just to whet Prince Fabian’s appetite. Show him what he could have behind closed doors.”

  Jules couldn’t squash the amusement that tugged her lips upward. There was the Lavinia she’d met in a grungy, underground bar. She wasn’t gone. Yet.

  “Speaking of my future husband…” Lavinia sidled forward, her brown eyes alight with excitement.

  Jules followed Lavinia’s gaze and looked up at the TV screen. A reporter shoved a microphone in Prince Fabian’s face. “Do you think you’ll find a fiancée tonight, Your Highness?”

  Prince Fabian looked boldly into the camera and clenched his square jaw as though considering an appropriate answer. His blue eyes seemed to peer right into Jules’s skull, and she felt a pleasant twist in her belly. Embarrassed by her body’s reaction, she pinched her arm. Pain bloomed across her cold skin, and the flurry in her stomach dissipated. Jules scolded herself inwardly for succumbing to Prince Fabian’s manufactured charm, even if momentarily. She straightened her spine and waited for the prince to speak.

  “I certainly hope so.” His voice was deep and melodic. “You never know. It could be you.” He winked at the camera and then strode away. Apparently the press conference is over.

  Jules picked up the remote and turned off the TV.

  Lavinia sighed. “Can you imagine being engaged to that man?”

  Memories lit up Jules’s brain like a Christmas tree—Prince Fabian before he was a prince, dressed in a black trench coat and unforgiving leather boots, a smear of fresh blood across his cheek, fangs bared and lips luscious, a warm kill still in his arms.

  “Like our politics, I think our princely fantasies are a little different, Vinnie.”

  “Your vials are on the counter by the sink,” Jules said over her shoulder, plucking fresh leaves of sage from a bushel. She’d need to stay late at the lab to remake the sage and white wine infusion or suffer the wrath of a vampire housewife who wanted to host the soiree of the year this upcoming weekend. Of course, she couldn’t possibly do that without a carafe of novelty blood.

  The sealed and stamped vials of Lavinia’s blood clinked as she scooped up the samples. There was a loud zip, followed by the rustle of Lavinia rearranging the contents of her small purse to make room for the tubes. “I can’t believe they’re testing everyone’s blood at the door. The entrance line will be worse than Disneyland.”

  “Bloodlines.” Jules sighed. “Couldn’t King Yanis and Queen Belinda have figured out a better way to establish a vampire hierarchy? Democracy, maybe?”

  “You’re suggesting a traditional voting system would work for us?” Lavinia chuckled. “Vampires are egomaniacs. We’d ignore the candidates and write in ourselves for every position imaginable.”

  “You have a point.” Jules tugged at the plant in front of her. “Still, it’s bullshit that it’s their bloodline that supersedes all others.”

  “I’m sorry you can’t go,” Lavinia said.

  Jules snorted. “So I could dress up and rub elbows with people who think they’re better than everyone else and probably be called a lowblood to my face? No, thanks.”

  Silence prickled the air and Jules stopped pulling leaves. She sighed, knowing she’d probably insulted Lavinia, not having meant to. “I know you’re not like that, Vinnie…”

  Her sister’s hand, cold as ice, fell on her shoulder. The chill of Lavinia’s skin snaked through Jules’s white lab coat. “Like I said, I’m sorry you can’t go. Even though you don’t want to, you should be allowed to.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wish me luck.”

  “Bite Prince Fabian—hard.”

  Lavinia laughed. “I hope I get the chance.”

  Jules stared at the sage between her fingers as Lavinia clicked off into the night.

  When the door to her lab snapped closed, Jules dove into her work. She synthesized and mixed and heated and swirled. As she measured ingredients and adjusted temperatures, her lab came alive with the clinking of glass and the bubbling of liquids. Jules’s loud thoughts added to the steady cacophony. Her brain ran a mile a minute as she thought of Prince Fabian and her chosen family and the Crimson Moon Ball. Questions ricocheted through her head like bullets that had missed their mark.

  If Lavinia happened to catch the eye of the prince and he fell all over himself in love, what would happen to Jules? Surely, their vampire-mother, Cassandra, would ascend to royalty, but King Yanis and Queen Belinda would never let a lowblood like Jules set foot within the palace.

  Would she be put up for auction? Purchase a synthetic-blood maker and earn an additional tax break for expanding your family! She could just hear the queen’s speech from a few months ago: “Since humans have families, vampires should, too—the bigger, the better, so they think we’re like them.”

  And if Lavinia didn’t bag the prince, Cassandra would inevitably find some way to blame Jules.

  When the Republic was formed and the monarchy implemented new laws requiring vampires to form familial units, Lavinia invited Jules into her home—without consulting her mother and maker, Cassandra. It had been a shit storm ever since.

  Cassandra tolerated Jules at best. She was the dirty smudge on her family’s reputation, a blue-haired radical. Cassandra had given a snarled speech about “keeping my eye on you” the day she discovered Jules had moved in. And, of all things, Cassandra growled when they passed on the stairs.

  Jules’s blood business was the only reason Cassandra put up with her “treasonous, ungrateful tongue”—taking a twenty-five percent cut of Jules’s profits “for room and board.” If she kicked out the blue-haired menace, as Jules was sure she’d love to do, Cassandra would also have to say goodbye to her disposable income, which she spent on designer clothing and radiant jewelry, anything to proclaim her status to every vamp she met.

  Though Cassandra’s greed was substantial, Jules knew she was always walking a razor-thin edge with her vampire-mother.

  She sighed. How could Lavinia endure the dog and pony show that would be the Crimson Moon Ball? Lavinia was an opportunist but the girl had limits. Jules could readily understand her sister’s ambition to ascend to power, but at what cost? Was she really that removed from who she once was?

  Jules floated back in time. To California. To when she threw back beers, listened to Metallica,
and lured tourists into her apartment with Lavinia by her side. The Pacific Coast seemed so far away now, both literally and figuratively.

  As Jules’s synthetic blood boiled and the aromas of sage and chardonnay filled the lab, she came to a conclusion: Lavinia’s chances of winning the prince over were slim. Not because she wasn’t worthy. The prince would be goddamn lucky to have someone as incredible as Lavinia in his life. No, Prince Fabian would pass over her sister because he would undoubtedly choose a boring, spineless girl for his wife. His perfect match in every way. Someone easy to groom for the cameras. Someone whose spark had completely died out. A girl more human than vampire.

  When the sage and white wine infusion had cooled, Jules took a sip and smiled. Damn, she was good. Thanks to years of research and development, Jules had perfected a recipe for synthetic blood that retained the briny, metallic taste of the real thing. Over the copper, she tasted notes of butter, greens, and spice. It was well-balanced and aromatic.

  Jules poured the blood into a fancy crystal decanter, set it aside, and went to work wiping down her workspace. She glanced at the clock on the wall and discovered it was only 11 PM, earlier than she’d thought. Perhaps she’d have time before dinner to whip up a batch of Blood Boiler, her top secret elixir, synthetic blood brewed with just a hint of garlic. Vamps of the masochistic persuasion sought the concoction because one sip lowered inhibitions and incited a dance with mortality (though Jules never imbued the elixir with enough garlic to actually kill a vampire). Because it was so taboo—and maybe a little illegal—Jules could charge double for Blood Boiler. She made it a goal to always have a carafe or two on hand. You never know when goth vamps will come calling.

  As Jules rinsed beakers to prep for the Blood Boiler batch, she noticed a skinny tube of red liquid on the counter. She turned off the tap and grabbed it. “Dammit, Vinnie, you forgot one of your vials.” Nearby, a silver rectangle glittered in the light. Jules shook her head. “And your cell phone, so I can’t call to tell you.”

  The ball began at midnight. Lavinia and Cassandra were likely at the palace, waiting in line.

  Jules couldn’t call Cassandra, though she knew her vampire-mother would likely have her cell phone with her. If she did, Jules would undoubtedly receive the brunt of the blame, even if Lavinia owned up to her forgetfulness.

  Jules sighed. She knew what she needed to do. She had to go to the party and slip Lavinia the blood vial without Cassandra seeing her or risk this being the incident that left her homeless. She took off her lab coat and hung it by the door. She threw on her black leather jacket and tucked the vial of blood and Lavinia’s phone—a good excuse for showing up unannounced and unwanted—into an inside pocket. She turned out the lights, grabbed her helmet, and tromped out to her waiting motorcycle, annoyed that she needed to save the day.

  Tendrils of Jules’s blue hair whipped around her chin as she weaved in and out of traffic. She leaned hard into turns and zoomed dangerously close to other vehicles on the road, zigzagging in and out of the glow of headlights. She felt lightning bolts of envy strike her as she soared smoothly past driver after driver, avoiding the gridlock, rarely needing to touch her brakes.

  As Vlad the Impaler’s castle came into view, its magnificent and imposing arches illuminated by slow-moving event spotlights, Jules’s insides flip-flopped. The sudden excitement that raced through Jules battled a feeling of imposing dread. Every time she saw the spires of the castle twisting into the clouds, its moody gargoyles and dark brick, Jules felt a little nudge in her heart, as if something or someone was calling to her. As if she belonged there.

  And yet, King Yanis and Queen Belinda had transformed this mystical landmark, which Jules regarded as a kind of vampire Mecca, into a steadfast reminder of their ruthless rule. Perhaps in honor of Vlad, the king and queen decorated the tall, iron fences surrounding the castle with the decapitated heads of those that defied them. And the grounds were ever crawling with members of the royal guard, hulking men with grim mouths and hellfire eyes. Jules would place a bet they were brainwashed, trained to be ruthless, always seeking a new head to hoist up as an example.

  How anyone could ignore the gruesome trophies to kick up their heels and try to woo a prince, she would never understand.

  Jules decelerated as she approached a guard booth. When she came to a stop, she didn’t remove her helmet, which was more of a political statement than a necessity—a motorcycle crash wouldn’t kill an undead like her. Plus it shielded her from the rest of the world. Right now, it blocked Jules’s view of the grisly scene above her, a decapitated vampire head displayed proudly atop the gate.

  How welcoming.

  As Jules’s bike hummed beneath her, a hulk of a man in a finely pressed gray uniform approached and gave her a once-over with a flashlight. Through the glare, Jules caught glimpses of a square jaw, sallow cheeks, and Cupid’s-bow lips. Her grip tightened on her handlebars, and a jolt of fear raced through her. She recognized the guy, and it wasn’t because he was a Boy Scout.

  This particular guard went by the name Maddox, and his mug had been plastered on every news outlet as of late. Last week, he’d raided a home of vamps suspected of treason. Without so much as a word to the inhabitants of the condo, he decapitated everyone inside—with a fucking scythe—and set the house ablaze.

  Soon after, Maddox learned he’d raided the wrong home; his true target lived in the house next door, which he promptly decimated in the same fashion after staking everyone inside. When asked about his error, Maddox shrugged his meaty shoulders and said, “Treason—even that by association or proximity—will not be tolerated in the Republic. Insolence is a disease. I’m the cure, commissioned by King Yanis and Queen Belinda. May they rule eternally.” He smiled while he said it, holding his bloody scythe aloft as an unspoken warning. Even now, Jules could smell the faint stink of bloodlust rising from him, a curdled, reeking stench.

  She shouldn’t have come.

  Maddox slowly looked her up and down twice as if to say, What the fuck are you doing here? What he really said was, “Identification.”

  With shaky hands, Jules took her driver’s license out of her back pocket and handed it over. The guard peered down at the ID and then cleared his throat. “Remove your helmet.” Jules brought her fingertips to her helmet and flipped the visor up, only revealing her eyes. If she could help it, she wanted to remain as concealed as possible from Maddox’s probing eyes.

  Maddox’s hand drifted to his waist, where a wooden stake was holstered on his hip. “Take off the helmet.”

  Jules clicked her visor closed and tugged the helmet from her tousled mop of hair. She dropped her eyes and curved her spine, slinking as far back on her seat as she could. Her nerves danced frantically as the guard compared the picture on her ID to the woman in front of him. Finally, he said, “Enjoy your night, Juliet Hammond.”

  His use of her full name made Jules’s dead blood jump in her veins.

  Inside the gates, Jules parked, patted her breast to ensure the vial and phone were still in her pocket, and walked toward the castle’s front entrance. Droves of vamps in their Sunday best were lined up like cattle, clutching vials of blood in their cold fingers. Their desperation was palpable and heavy, like a warm, suffocating wind.

  Jules gazed skyward as she approached, admiring the dramatic architecture of the castle, its grooves and curves and hard stops, which reminded her of a complicated maze. This close, her feelings of belonging increased tenfold. Her fingertips tingled. A more confident stride peppered her walk. What was it about the palace, the epicenter of everything she opposed, that called to her like moonlight?

  As she neared the line, Jules tore her eyes from the palace façades and scanned the pale faces in the queue, trying to find Lavinia to no avail. It was dark, and most vamps were mere silhouettes, edged with starlight, making her task that much more difficult. She meandered to the end of the line, then doubled back, ignoring the glares of hoity-toity vamps who clearly thought she was trying
to sneak in. Trust me, if I were trying to get into your fancy party, I wouldn’t be so stupidly conspicuous. Pacing is for amateurs.

  Even more unsettling were the throngs of guards, outfitted with highly visible wooden stakes and machine guns, that loomed in every dark corner of the enormous courtyard. Bullets wouldn’t kill vamps, so Jules didn’t know what the guns could be loaded with. Quite frankly, she didn’t want to find out.

  At the front of the line, guests relinquished their vials of blood and waited while a palace official ran the samples through a machine to confirm their lineage. Jules had yet to find Lavinia, and she was getting antsy. The guards seemed to be edging closer. And why wouldn’t they? She was drawing gazes like a circus freak.

  I can’t stay here. Lavinia can suck on her forgetfulness. Jules decided to make one more pass, and if she didn’t find Lavinia, she’d ride home, wait for the inevitable phone call that would come when her sister discovered one of the samples was AWOL, and hope that Lavinia could plead on her behalf enough to stay Cassandra’s hand once more.

  She turned suddenly and crushed her nose into a very broad, very firm chest. Jules stumbled back, groaning, blinking hard to keep surprised tears at bay. Her fingertips found the bridge of her nose and inspected it. Nothing seemed out of place.

  “Are you okay?” said a sultry, masculine voice.

  If Jules had a pulse, it would have quickened substantially. She looked up at an angular jaw, searing blue eyes, and a round head of perfectly coifed brown hair, familiar from Prince Fabian’s television appearance only an hour before. And there was that roguish smirk, the one that looked so good on camera—and even better in person.

  Jules gulped and then sent a message to her thighs that no, it was not okay that they were quivering right now. Not for Prince Fabian. This guy represented everything wrong in the vampire world. And yet, he was so pretty, so appealing in flesh and blood, that Jules wanted to throw her legs around him and nibble his ear right there in front of everyone.