Belle Morte

  Belle Morte

  Belle Morte

  Belle Morte Book One

  Bella Higgin

  Contents

  Dedication

  Map of Bella Morte

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Revelations Sample Chapter

  Copyright

  Creatures of the Night Sample Chapter

  To every dreamer looking up at the stars.

  Dreams can come true.

  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.

  Three vampires strode out of the mansion grounds, flanked on both sides by human security in black uniforms. Vampires were strong enough to hold overeager press at bay without help, but they had cultivated an image of elegant, mysterious immortals. Tossing media vultures around like cheap toys would have a negative effect on their public persona, so human security did their dirty work for them.

  The limo stopped close to the gates and someone opened the door to let us out. When it was my turn to exit, I found myself looking up at a man in his forties, a smile crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes, moonlight glinting on the shaved dome of his head.

  “Dexter Flynn, head of security,” he said, helping me out of the car.

  I ducked my head again as the press crowded around, shouting questions and barking my name.

  “Renie Mayfield . . .”

  “. . . how do you feel about . . .”

  “. . . hope to achieve . . .”

  “. . . vampires . . .”

  A vampire moved to my side, glaring at the press as they swarmed too close. “Easy now. Give the lady some space,” he warned.

  Like all vampires, he was classically handsome, his dark-red hair a striking contrast to his blue eyes, and when he smiled it was close lipped; I couldn’t see his fangs.

  Etienne Banville. Before completing my donor application, I’d done as much research as possible so I would know what I was heading into. Inevitably, I’d fallen down the rabbit hole of fan art and fan fiction, polls about favorite vampires and donors, endless forums speculating on which vampires were sleeping with each other. It all seemed so ridiculous, but at least I knew everyone’s name.

  Etienne’s expression wilted as he looked at me. I had no idea why.

  I wanted to get through the press gauntlet as quickly as possible, not stopping to answer any questions, but one man surged too close, almost hitting me in the face with his microphone. I reeled back, stumbling into the most beautiful vampire I’d ever seen.

  Strands of raven-black hair fluttered around the pale planes of his face, the cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes were as dark and hard as onyx. Edmond Dantès.

  “That’s enough,” he said, pushing the man back.

  The man backed off, but the cameras continued to click and flash. So much for me wanting to keep out of the limelight. By tomorrow pictures of me and Edmond would be headlining every gossip magazine and vampire site in the country—maybe even in the world. Vampire mania wasn’t restricted to the UK; there were Houses a
round the globe, and serious vampire fans—or Vladdicts, as they liked to call themselves—were always desperate for more gossip.

  Edmond signaled to Dexter, who strode over.

  “Get a handle on this situation. These people shouldn’t be able to touch the donors,” Edmond growled.

  “Yes, sir,” Dexter said.

  Edmond looked down at me. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice softer now, a faded French accent curling around the words.

  Suddenly, I was breathless, a shiver rolling through me. Edmond lifted one dark eyebrow.

  “I’m fine,” I mumbled, feeling like an idiot. All those times I’d sneered at people who treated vampires like gods, and the first time I spoke to one I’d gone to pieces. Good job, Renie.

  With a brisk nod, Edmond swept away. The girl who’d sat on my left in the limo gave me an envious, vaguely murderous look, but the short-haired girl winked. At least she was enjoying herself, pouting and blowing kisses like she was sashaying down the red carpet, knowing photos of her would appear everywhere. Vladdicts and other vampire fans always wanted to know about us—both the newest donors going into the mansion and the castoffs released from their contracts and tossed back into their old lives, where they went on to nab spots on talk shows, release books, and star in reality-TV shows.

  “Okay, enough now,” Dexter barked, using his forearm to push back another overenthusiastic photographer. “Let’s get the donors inside.”

  The gates clanged shut behind us. No one was allowed inside without permission from Ysanne Moreau, the Lady of the House. Of course, she wasn’t actually a lady—that was just the title used by female rulers of Vampire Houses across much of Europe and North America.

  I gazed up at the mansion. Lit by huge spotlights positioned on the grounds, it was designed to look old—a towering, Gothic structure of gray stone, with oriel windows perching on ornamented corbels, their glass panes covered from the inside by UV-blocking shades.

  Above the brass-studded door, a stone bas-relief spelled out the House’s name—Belle Morte. Beautiful dead. How appropriate.

  How had June felt when she came here? My sister was a bona fide Vladdict, caught up in the vampire obsession of the last decade, so this would’ve been the greatest thing in the world to her.

  There must be a valid reason she’d cut off contact. Mum thought I was overreacting, pointing out that no donor had ever been injured by a vampire, and if anything had gone wrong, then Belle Morte wouldn’t have accepted June’s sister as a donor, but I couldn’t shake off the fear. And since donors weren’t allowed visitors, my only way in was to become one.

  As we walked up the stone-flagged path to the huge front door that Dexter was pushing open, my chest knotted.

  No turning back now. I was here, and nothing would stop me from finding out what had happened to my sister.

  Dexter led us into a spacious vestibule with parquet flooring and mahogany-paneled walls, lit by a crystal-drop chandelier. Marble plinths topped with flower-filled bowls bracketed the door, and burgundy drapes long enough to pool on the floor hung on each side of the windows. Various arched entryways led off the room, and a wide staircase with a scrolled banister sat at the far end.

  Several people in Vladdict forums online speculated that secret passageways lurked somewhere in the mansion’s depths, but they were probably the same people who believed vampires were angels or aliens.

  Vampires gathered on the staircase, keenly eyeing us. Edmond stood at the head, alongside Isabeau Aguillon, a tall, willowy woman, whose chestnut curls fell almost to her waist. She surveyed us with the measured calm that seemed to come so easily to vampires. There was no sign of the vampire I’d expected—Ysanne herself. Belle Morte was her House, every vampire here answered to her; essentially, for as long as we were here, we belonged to her.

  Aside from the security team there was no sign of any human staff, but it was nearly midnight. Maybe they’d gone home.

  “On behalf of the Lady of the House, I formally welcome you to Belle Morte,” Isabeau said. “The first floor is almost totally accessible to donors, comprising the ballroom, dining hall, library, the bar, feeding rooms, art rooms, the music room, meditation room, and the theater.

  The kitchens and supply rooms are out of bounds for donors.

  “The second floor consists of four wings. The north wing is where we sleep. No donor is permitted there. The east wing is mostly additional supply rooms. You may visit these if you wish, though I cannot imagine you will find much excitement in doing so. The south wing is where donors sleep.

  “The west wing is off limits to everyone.” Isabeau’s voice took on a warning note; without moving a muscle she’d become . . . different.

  The unnatural stillness of her body, the calm hardness of her face, the fathomless look in her eyes screamed not human. “The rules of Belle Morte are taken very seriously, and none more so than the west wing.” Her eyes landed on each of us in turn, burning like lasers.

  “Any transgression of this rule will result in immediate termination of your contract.”

  I rolled my eyes. What was up there—a red rose in a glass dome?

  Isabeau waited for that to sink in before continuing. “The other rules of the House were laid out in your contract, and there are copies in all bedrooms, but I shall run over the basics once more.

  Donors are expected to keep themselves in good shape. All meals are provided and donors must eat precisely what they are given. Good nutrition is essential to the healthiness of the blood. Smoking and drugs of any kind are strictly forbidden. Drinking is allowed, but don’t get carried away. All items of clothing are provided, as well as any necessary cosmetics, which are found in your rooms. If you require anything else, you may fill out a request form. There are no computers in Belle Morte, and mobile telephones or other methods of internet access are not permitted.”

  The last words sounded awkward in her mouth, as if modern technology was something that she still struggled with.

  “You may write to loved ones as often as you wish. All letters will be inspected before they are sent.”

  The boy next to me looked baffled at this, as if he’d forgotten pen and paper even existed.

  “Until your contract ends, donors cannot refuse any vampire who wishes to drink from them,” Isabeau continued. “But romantic relationships between humans and vampires are strictly forbidden.”

  My gaze shifted from Isabeau to Edmond, standing silently at her side, all ebony hair and moonlight skin. Okay, I could see why people were fascinated by these beautiful creatures, but I still didn’t trust them. What happened if the world got bored and donors stopped signing up? Would vampires start stalking the streets and dragging prey into the shadows like the vampires of legend?

  Isabeau’s eyes briefly landed on me and something slid across her face; it was too brief to identify, but it made me uncomfortable.

  The short-haired girl from the limo poked my shoulder. I was average height but she had a good few inches on me; I had to tilt my head to look up at her. “Hey, roomie!” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Weren’t you listening? We’re roommates.”

  “Oh. Great.” I didn’t really care; I was here to find June, not to make friends.

  “I’m Roux.” She offered her hand. She looked about eighteen, same as me—apparently young blood tasted better—and her angular features and mile-long legs made her look like a runway model.

  “Renie,” I said, shaking her hand. Her fingers were long and slim, with polished nails.

  Roux grinned, and I noticed a tiny ruby piercing in her nose, gleaming like a drop of blood. Was that a turn-on for vampires? I guess she’d find out.

  New donors and existing donors never met on the same night, supposedly to give the newbies a chance to adjust, so I wouldn’t see June until the morning, but as a blond vampire named Gideon led us to our assigned bedrooms, I studied every door we passed, wondering which one was June’s.

  Gideo
n didn’t talk much, but I guess we were just food to these creatures. There was no need for them to socialize.

  “I was kind of hoping we’d get to start feeding the vampires tonight,” whispered the boy walking alongside us. Maybe a year or two older than me, he had the same model-like good looks as Roux, all coiffed hair and perfect skin and angled features. “My name is Jason, by the way.”

  Then I registered what he’d said— feeding. The word slithered through me, and I fought the urge to shiver. When I’d submitted my application, I’d known I’d be offering up my veins for vampires to suck on, but I couldn’t imagine it actually happening.

  Jason eyed Gideon’s broad shoulders, lean hips, and long legs. “I’m keeping my fingers and toes crossed that this gorgeous piece picks me.”

  Gideon abruptly stopped. Jason was so busy admiring him that he almost walked into the vampire’s back. Luckily, Gideon didn’t seem to notice.

  “Roux and Irene, this is your room,” he said.

  I cringed at my full name. I’d been Renie ever since I was born and June, then a toddler, hadn’t been able to pronounce Irene.

  “Awesome, thanks,” Roux said. “See you tomorrow, Jason.”

  Jason hurried after Gideon as Roux pushed open our door, and I followed her inside.

  “Wow,” she breathed.

  I silently echoed the sentiment.

  The bedroom was generously sized, the walls papered in flocked velvet of palest gold, the cream carpet so thick it was like walking on a cloud. Darker gold curtains hugged the windows, even though they were fitted with shades that we couldn’t open. At least we could go outside during the day.

  The two beds were almost opposite each other, both featuring ornately carved mahogany headboards and draped with satin covers. A huge wardrobe dominated one wall, a long dressing table the other. Alongside one bed, a bronze Venus de Milo statue posed on a nightstand, and next to the other, an open door offered a glimpse into a cream-tiled bathroom. Another crystal-drop chandelier hung from the ceiling. The whole room smelled faintly of roses.