A Violet Fire (Vampires in Avignon #1) - Kelsey Quick Page 0,7

the only one that I told about my escape plan, even going so far as to beg her to come with me. But Savvy was born into these walls, scouted and purchased based on potential traits and blood type when she was five years old—like most other humans in Cain.

She could never understand why I wanted to leave, or why I didn’t want to be the best supply unit I could be for my owner. I always knew Savvy and I were different in this way—mainly due to Cain essentially brainwashing all of their human investments—but it never bothered me because she was the only one to not let it affect our relationship. It was when I realized that the best I could ever wish for Savvy was that she wouldn’t be sent to Saya’s Breeding Houses until the late age of forty, that I truly lost all faith in happiness while living in the Stratocracy of Cain. The only thing that awaits a human slave is forced reproduction, and there will never be a day where I’m okay with that.

The doctor removes my bindings from the table.

“Sit up.”

I do, and he grabs the back of my neck, forcing me to stand on the marble ground. His claws dig into my skin with each hesitation as I readjust to the art of walking. He motions me by his grip to move forward. Although I can’t see anything, I’ve learned to trust the direction in which vampires lead me. Most don’t have the sense of humor to walk me straight into a wall.

We emerge from the darkness to a room with a curved, glass desk. Dim lantern ropes trace the circular room, highlighting two women on either side of the edifice. Younger than most, and beautiful, the dorm mothers are female vampires that take responsibility for the supply dormitories, keeping all situations and issues that arise within them under control. They also prepare their assigned units for the Distribution Ceremony.

The doctor pushes me forward and I take cuff-restricted steps toward the mothers, all while cursing him under my breath. I’m sure he heard me, but what can he do about it when I belong to one of the five highest ranking officials in all of Cain?

The scrutinizing, black-lipped beauties examine me before motioning me toward them. One leads the way, while the other floats behind. As we turn left out into the hallway, we walk in sync with several other lines of supply units, all led by their own dorm mothers. By the vaulted ceilings, intricate designs, and deviated murals upon the bronze-stone walls, I conclude that we are still in the Selection Hall. It’s a southern, temple-like structure that is used only once every year for the Distribution at Nightingale.

While distracted by the designs and architecture, I manage to run myself into another supply unit. A black-haired male whose brown eyes skirt over me with surprise. My lips barely utter a quick and somewhat flustered, “Excuse me,” before I trot out of the way. My heart thrums violently.

Whoa.

I’ve never been that close to a male supply unit. In fact, I haven’t even seen a human man since my childhood in France.

It’s forbidden for the genders to mix at Nightingale, for obvious reasons, so they keep and teach us in completely separate sectors. No narcissistic, broad-pocketed vampire wants his goods pregnant before her reproduction stage. It affects the mental health—and thus, the blood quality—of a woman when she is forced to give up her baby at birth. Loveless reproduction is something they save for later when your blood is no longer desired.

After I recover from the run-in, an all-too-familiar, cruel feeling of being judged surges up my spine. My fellow classmates stare me down. Some whisper beneath breaths, some behind palms, but all have the same intention and it cuts me deeper than fangs ever could. All the female humans are flawless dolls in make-up, flaunting beautiful, loose and long dresses strapped with thick silver belts just under their bosoms. The men’s wear is similar, although theirs are more relatable to a nicer version of our standard tunics. I, by much contrast, am in an infirmary robe, and smelling about as wonderful as a dead fish. Needless to say, I’m the only one sweaty, hand-cuffed, and wrapped head to toe in arument bandages.

Awesome. More rumors to look forward to. Not that it’s surprising anymore. Following my first escape attempt from Nightingale, I lost nearly all hope in friendship among the supply