Belle Morte (Book 1, the Belle Morte Series)

CHAPTER ONE

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 around 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.