Hearts At Stake - By Alyxandra Harvey Page 0,2
We aren’t undead, like the horror novels say, though we definitely look it during our transformation. That particular stereotype clings so deeply that sometimes it’s easier to embrace it. Lucy’s mom calls us “differently abled.”
“And you’re a jerk.” I touched his sleeve. “But thanks for coming to get me.”
“You’re welcome,” he muttered. “You know you shouldn’t let her talk you into stuff. It never turns out well.”
“I know. But you know how Lucy is. And she meant well.”
He grunted. Logan grinned.
“She’s getting cuter. Especially from behind.”
“She is not,” Nicholas said. “And quit looking at her butt.”
I was so totally going to tell Lucy they’d been talking about her butt.
“You’re such an old man,” Logan said scornfully, turning off the ignition. “We have all this power. We should use it.”
“Flirting is not a power,” I told him drily.
“It is if you’re good at it. And I’m very good at it.”
“So you keep telling us.”
“Being charming’s my gift,” he said modestly. No one else could have pulled off such an old-fashioned shirt with lace cuff s and such a pretty face. The pheromones that vampires emit like a dangerous perfume keep humans enticed and befuddled with longing, and Logan’s are especially well tuned. They don’t have an actual smell that can be described, except lately in my case. It’s more subliminal than that, with the power to hypnotize. Kind of like the way wild animals can smell each other out in the forest, especially during mating season. If a vampire is particularly strong, humans don’t even remember being a meal; they just have a craving for rare steak or spinach. If we drink too much, they become anemic.
The pheromones don’t work on other vampires, except, of course, for mine, which are rapidly becoming a beacon for all of vampire kind. I’m special, and not in a good way, if you ask me. Vampires are rarely born, except in certain ancient families . . . Exhibit A, me and my seven obnoxious older brothers.
But I’m the only girl.
In about nine hundred years.
And the closer I get to my sixteenth birthday, the more I attract the others to me. It’s all very Snow White, except I don’t call bluebirds and deer out of the woods—only bloodthirsty vampires who want to kidnap me or kill me. Vampire politics are messy at best, and all Drakes have been exiled from the royal court since the very hour I was born. I’m considered a threat to the current ruler, Lady Natasha, because my genealogy is so impressive and because there’s some stupid prophecy from centuries ago that says the vampire tribes will be properly united under the rule of a daughter born to an ancient family.
And Lady Natasha, unlike me, wasn’t born into an ancient family— even if she considers herself to be the reigning vampire queen.
As if that’s my fault.
Luckily, my family much prefers living in quiet exile in the woods. I’d heard enough rumors about our ruler to be glad we’d never actually met. She feeds off humans and is barely circumspect about it; in fact, she loves the attention and the vampire groupies. She apparently doesn’t like pretty young girls; they never seem to survive her mood swings.
Technically, she shouldn’t be feeding off humans, and certainly not so nonchalantly. It was becoming an issue, even among her own people. There are royalists who follow her just because she’s so powerful, not because they particularly respect her. Fear, as always, is a great motivator.
And lately she’s been turning more and more humans into vampires, in order to gather more followers. The council makes her nervous, and I make her nervous, but most of all Leander Montmartre makes her nervous.
He has that affect on all of us.
He’s been turning humans for nearly three hundred years now, and he’s so violent and careless about it, he’s basically created a new breed of vampire. He leaves them half-turned and usually buried under the ground, to conquer the blood change on their own without any help at all. The thirst is so strong that it twists them and gives them a double set of fangs instead of just our one retractable pair. The ones that stay loyal to Montmartre are called the Host. The ones who defect call themselves the Cwn Mamau, the Hounds of the Mothers. They were either strong enough to survive alone, or were rescued and trained by other Hounds. Everyone knew they wanted to kill Montmartre, but they were so reclusive they wouldn’t accept outside