Belle Morte (Book 1, the Belle Morte Series)

CHAPTER ONE

Renie

My first glimpse of Belle Morte came as the limousine crested the hill of a sloping road. The vampire mansion was at the far end of the city of Winchester, where historic timber-framed buildings gave way to the green sprawl of the South Downs National Park.

The gated wall ringing the mansion was mostly blocked from view by a crowd of paparazzi. They clamored for a glimpse of the creatures that had become the world's most dazzling celebrities—alongside any people associated with them. As of two weeks ago, I had become one of those people, when my application to become a blood donor had been accepted.

The limo bumped over a pothole, jolting my stomach. I put down my glass of champagne. I was already a hard knot of nerves; the alcohol wouldn't help.

"I can't wait!" exclaimed a girl on my left. "Phillip and Gideon and Etienne—oh, and Edmond." She rattled off the names of Belle Morte vampires like they were old friends.

She wasn't alone in her adoration. Vampires were now the epitome of fame—mysterious, beautiful immortals who had stepped out of the shadows ten years ago and proved they really existed. Now the world couldn't get enough of them. A-list celebs had been shoved down to C-list, and anyone lower had almost dropped off the map. Tabloids, gossip columns, photo shoots, and talk shows—they all belonged to vampires now.

Most people liked it.

I didn't.

"Míriam's my favorite," said the boy opposite me. "I can't wait for her to get her fangs into me."

Another boy shook his head. "Yeah, Míriam's hot, but if anyone's taking a bite out of me, I want it to be the ice queen herself: Ysanne Moreau." A dreamy look crossed his face.

The girl next to me scoffed. "You don't get to choose who bites you."

"Yeah, but a guy can dream."

I sank back in my seat, mentally shaking my head. Belle Morte was one of five Vampire Houses in the UK and the Republic of Ireland, and everyone in this limo was heading into that house as a blood donor. In our modern world, vampires didn't hunt their prey from the shadows anymore, but instead paid people like us to let them drink our blood.

It seemed like a good deal—apply to be a donor, get accepted, move to a Vampire House and live in luxury for months, let the vampires drink from you, and eventually leave with a very full bank account. People like me, coming from a poor family and struggling to find a permanent job, really needed that money.

But I couldn't forget the tales of blood and bodies, death and evil that I'd seen so often in movies and books, before vampires were reimagined as romantic heroes rather than villains. There had to be some truth to those legends.

As we approached the mansion, the flash of cameras grew more frenzied, and I had to clench my hands to keep them still. Maybe this was a mistake. Donors remained in a House until the vampires got bored of them—that could be weeks, months, even years—so once I went inside Belle Morte, I had no idea when I'd come out. That wouldn't have been a problem if I was in it for the money or the glamour, like everyone else who signed up.

But I wasn't.

Five months ago, my sister had walked into this house. She never walked back out, and all communication from her ended abruptly several weeks ago. I'd applied to be a donor solely to find out why.

The girl on my right fluffed up her pixie cut. "Got to look my best for the cameras," she said when she saw me looking.

As the wrought-iron gates barring the way into Belle Morte swung open and the limo crawled forward, the flash of cameras and the loud voices became overwhelming. I turned my head so a curtain of auburn hair hid my face. Unlike the other donors, I didn't care if my picture landed on the front of a magazine.