Cover

Title Page

Dedication

To Dad, the original storyteller. Thank you for the walks in the woods.

And to Mom, who still takes care of me. May I be half the mother you are.

One

Blood & Picket Fences

It was a place of nightmares surrounded by a white picket fence.

“Home sweet home,” Reg muttered beside me. His lips tightened over his fangs, and I could almost smell his disdain.

“More like a prison,” I said.

We stood side by side on the edge of the property, unwilling to step forward but not daring to run away—not with Elders present. This place, with its hideously cheery fence glowing in the moonlight, was where we would serve our sentence. Our life sentence.

I felt a claw of panic scraping its way up my throat and spit it at Reg.

“This is your fault, you know,” I said.

His face, always an elegant mask of cool detachment, cracked ever so slightly. “My fault?”

“If you hadn’t confessed—”

“To a crime you committed.”

“Because you tried so hard to stop me?”

“Enough!” Reg spun to me with a speed no human eye could follow and flashed his fangs, nearly as white as the fence.

“Ew. Put those away.” I flicked a pale hand toward the offending teeth.

Rude.

He tucked his fangs back, and when he spoke again, it was with his usual lazy lilt. “It could be worse. It could be the stake.”

There was a shift in the air behind us as the two Elders, who had been conversing in low tones to the side, now stood at our backs. Elder Adante cleared his throat—a totally unnecessary action for our kind, the drama queen.

“Charlotte and Reginald Drake, House of Drake, Clan of Bone, you are hereby sentenced to life.”

Humans got sentenced to things like life in prison or life on parole.

Vampires? Just life. That was punishment enough.

“A stake would be better,” I said, the panic scratching at my throat again. I forced it down. “At least then we could avoid the wrinkles.”

“You never know,” Reg said. “You may not grow old at all. You may get lucky and get hit by a bus.”

“Do you fear death, Charlotte?” Elder Adante asked.

I refused to turn and face the Elders, to let them search my expression for any hint of fear.

“Please.” I scoffed. “The only thing I’m afraid of is being bored to death. And don’t call me Charlotte. It’s Charlie.”

Reg took my hand and squeezed it with all the strength he would soon lose—enough to grind granite into dust.

“My sister fears nothing,” he said.

It was a lie, and he knew it. He couldn’t read my mind, of course—mind manipulation took a hefty dose of vampire venom—but after a century, we didn’t need to hear each other’s thoughts to know them.