Blood Debt (Kingdom of Blood #1) - Callie Rose Page 0,5

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.

That’s the whole point, really. If I showed up in my black tactical gear and combat boots, they’d kill me before I could even get in the door. These shoes send a different kind of message.

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