Pure Blooded (33 page)

While thousands of humans died with every incarnation of the plague–which loves this country like a mother loves her child–aristocrats survived. Not only survived, they evolved. In England the plague-born Prometheus Protein led to vampirism, in Scotland it caused lycanthropy.

It also occasionally affected someone who wasn’t considered upper class. Historically, members of the aristocracy had never been very good at keeping it in their pants. Indiscretions with human carriers resulted in the first halvie births, and launched the careers of generations of breeding courtesans. Occasionally some seemingly normal human woman gave birth to a half or fully plagued infant. These children were often murdered by their parents, or shipped off to orphanages where they were shunned and mistreated. That was prior to 1932’s rebellion. Now, such cruelties were prevented by the Pax–Pax Yersinia, which dictated that each human donated a sample of DNA at
birth. This could help prevent human carriers from intermarrying. It also provided families and special housing for unwanted plagued children.

By the time Victoria, our first fully plagued monarch–King George III had shown vampiric traits–ascended the throne, other aristocrats across Britain and Europe had revealed their true natures as well. Vampires thrived in the more temperate climes like France and Spain, weres in Russia and other eastern countries. Some places had a mix of the two, as did Asia and Australia. Those who remained in Canada and the Americas had gone on to become socialites and film stars.

But they were never safe, no matter where they were. Humans accounted for ninety-two per cent of aristocratic and halvie deaths. Haemophilia, suicide and accidents made up for the remaining eight.

There were no recorded goblin deaths at human hands–not even during the Insurrection.

I approached the battle-scarred goblin with caution. The flickering torches made it hard to tell, but I think recognition flashed in his one yellow eye. He sniffed the air as I approached. I curtsied, playing to his vanity.

“A Vardan get,” he said, in a voice that was surprisingly low and articulate for a goblin. “Here on the official?”

Half-bloods took the title of their sire as their surname. The Duke of Vardan was my father. “Nothing official, my lord. I’m here because the goblin prince knows everything that happens in London.”

“True,” he replied with a slow nod. Despite my flattery he was still looking at me like he expected me to do or say something. “But there is a price. What do you offer your prince, pretty get?”

The only prince I claimed was Albert, God rest his soul, and perhaps Bertie, the Prince of Wales. This mangy monster was not
my
prince. Was I stupid enough to tell him that? Hell, no.

I reached into the leather satchel I’d brought with me, pulled out the clear plastic bag with a lump of blood-soaked butcher’s paper inside and offered it to the goblin. He snatched it from me with eager hands that were just a titch too long and dexterous to be paws, tossed the plastic on the floor and tore open the paper. A whine of delight slipped from his throat when he saw what I’d brought. Around us other goblins raised their muzzles and made similar noises, but no one dared approach.

I looked away as the prince brought the gory mass to his muzzle and took an enthusiastic bite. I made my mind blank, refusing to think of what the meat was, what it had been. My only solace was that it had already been dead when I bought it. The blood might smell good, but I couldn’t imagine eating anything that… awful… terrible…
raw
.

The goblin gave a little shudder of delight as he chewed and rewrapped his treat for later. A long pink tongue slipped out to lick his muzzle clean. “Proper tribute. Honours her prince. I will tell the lady what I know. Ask, pretty, ask.”

The rest of the goblins drifted away from us, save for one little gob who came and sat at the prince’s furry feet and stared at me with open curiosity. I was very much aware that every goblin who wasn’t preoccupied with human playthings watched me closely. I was relatively safe now, having paid my tribute to their prince. So long as I behaved myself and didn’t offend anyone, I’d make it out of here alive. Probably.

“I want to know the whereabouts of Drusilla Vardan,” I said quietly, even though I knew most of the goblins had keen
enough hearing to eavesdrop without trying. Their sensitivity to sound, as well as light, kept them deep underside.

The prince raised his canine gaze to mine. It was unnerving looking into that one bright eye, seeing intelligence there while he had yet to clean all the blood from his muzzle. “The youngest?”

I nodded. My father had gone through something of a mid-immortality crisis about two and a half decades ago and done his damnedest to impregnate every breeding courtesan he could find. The first attempt had resulted in my brother Val, the second in me and the third and fourth in Avery and Dede. Four live births out of nine pregnancies over a five-year period–pretty potent for a vampire.

“She’s missing.” He didn’t need to know the particulars–like how she had last been seen at her favourite pub. “I want to know what happened to her.”

“Nay, you do not,” the prince replied cheerfully. “Pretty wants to know where her sibling is. The prince knows.” He petted the little goblin on the head as he bared his teeth at me–a smile.

Sweet baby Jesus
. Even my spleen trembled at that awful sight.

Trying to hide my fear was futile, as he could surely smell it. Still, I had to give it a go. “Would you be so kind as to share my sister’s whereabouts, my lord? Please? I am concerned about her.”

If there was one thing goblins understood it was blood–both as sustenance and connection. Offspring happened rarely because of their degree of mutation, and were treasured. No decent goblin–and I use “decent” as loosely as it can possibly be construed–would turn down a request that involved family.

“New Bethlehem,” he replied in a grave growl.

I pressed a hand against the boned front of my corset, and closed my fingers into a fist. I would not show weakness here, no matter how much the prince might sympathise with my plight–he was still a goddam goblin. “Bedlam?” I rasped.

The prince nodded. “She was taken in two nights ago, in shackles.”

Albert’s fangs
. I blasphemed the Queen’s late consort to myself alone. My mind could scarcely grasp the reality of it. “You’re wrong,” I whispered. “You have to be wrong.” But goblins were never wrong. If he hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have said. That was their way–so I’d been taught. “Honourable monsters”, Church had called them.

“Alexandra.”

I jerked. I shouldn’t be surprised that he knew my name. Of course he knew it. It was the posh way he said it–his voice sounded almost like my father’s.

He stood before me–I was right, he was my height. The little one remained glued to his side. I had the sudden and inexplicable urge to reach out and pat her on the head, just as I had wanted to do to a tiger cub I once saw in a travelling exhibit. The comparison kept my hand fisted, and at my side. I wanted to keep it.

“Your prince regrets telling the pretty lady this news.”

I turned my attention back to him. The pity in his eye almost brought me to tears. Why should a monster pity me?

“There was an incident at Ainsley’s. The Vardan get tried to stab the earl, she did.”

That
I believed, and therefore I had to believe my sister really could be in Bedlam–where all the special barking mad went to die. Dede and Ainsley had history–a painful one.

The goblin held out his furry hand, and etiquette demanded I take it. The prince was offering me friendship, and my getting
out of there alive just might depend on my taking it, treaty or no.

I nodded, my throat tight as his “fingers” closed around mine. He was warm. For a moment–and only one terribly mad one–I could have hugged him. “Thank you.”

He shook his head. “No thanks, lady. Never thank for bad news.”

I nodded again and he released my hand. The goblins watched me as I turned to leave, but no one spoke. They didn’t even try to tempt me to stay; they simply let me go. I think I despised them most at that moment, especially that little one who waved goodbye.

My sister was essentially in hell and goblins felt sorry for me. As far as I was concerned, things couldn’t get much worse.

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © 2015 by Amanda Carlson

Excerpt from
Soulless
copyright © 2009 by Tofa Borregaard

Excerpt from
God Save the Queen
copyright © 2012 by Kathryn Smith

Cover design by Lauren Panepinto

Cover photo by Shirley Green

Cover photo-illustration by Rob Shields

Cover © 2015 Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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ISBN 978-0-316-40437-2

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