After waking in a shallow grave and clawing her way to freedom, Penelope Francis hunts for the rogue who stole her life and transformed her into a vampire. Despite being corrupted into a feared preternatural, she clings to her humanity and refuses to prey on innocents, instead slaking her thirst on other miscreant vampires.
In exchange for a chance at revenge, she joins forces with the charismatic master of the Lowrance brood, a choice that may spell the salvation—or destruction—of humanity as she knows it.
Blood Bound is book one of the Lowrance Vampires series.
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From Chapter One…
Another night, another vampire, another double-dead end. If I didn’t get lucky soon, I’d run out of miscreants to drain, stake, decapitate, and decorate with holy wafers. In reality, I only needed to stake the toothy bastards, but I figured if I was going to kill every damned unclaimed vampire in New York City, I’d do so with style and get a free meal out of the deal at the same time.
In life, I’d done well for myself; I’d become my father’s perfect daughter, dedicating every waking moment to my budding career as a corporate lawyer on a mission to protect his business interests. In death, or undeath as it was, I’d become a big nothing. I couldn’t even claim I’d become a big fat nothing, as I kept losing weight instead of gaining it, no matter how many of my kind I tagged, bagged, drained, and tossed out with the trash.
Penelope Francis was dead and gone to everyone who mattered, even me.
My stomach reminded me of my neglect with a displeased gurgle. Grunting my dismay over having completely drained another vampire without slaking my hunger, I checked his pockets for cash and found nothing but lint, not even a wallet, ID, or pocket change.
If he’d had food hidden in his pockets, I might’ve been tempted to try my luck. If I ever ditched the relentless hunger, I’d never take food for granted again. I resented my maker’s decision to abandon me in a shallow grave, forcing me to fend for myself. The bastard could’ve left a damned note with a few clues, especially in the feeding department. A manual about life as a vampire would’ve been appreciated. I still wasn’t sure what I could eat. Shortly after I’d risen, I’d tried a slice of pizza once and only once. It hadn’t ended well. I dodged food, afraid I’d throw it up along with my literal guts.
Just to be sure, I rechecked my victim’s body to confirm his lack of cash, ID, or a little something to eat.
Nothing. Color me not surprised.
I hated killing those as destitute as I, but I refused to harbor guilt over ridding the world of a vampire who hunted homeless teens struggling to survive New York’s harshest streets. While I hoped the kids would survive, I had my doubts.
Miscreants—unclaimed, rogues, or whatever society called the illegal vampires lurking on the streets—couldn’t afford to let their prey live to tell the tale. When found, humans and preternatural alike hunted us to ensure we never bothered anyone again.
Living on borrowed time sucked, as did homelessness. When I found the vampire who’d turned me, I’d take my time draining him. I’d enjoy every swallow. I’d turn his last moments into a masterpiece of brutality.
All I knew was that my maker had been a man, and he’d left some dark mark on me, something that tainted my soul. I could still feel his corrupting influence deep within, a pressure on my heart.
Until I breathed my last for the second time, I’d spend every night seeking him out so I could end his miserable existence. I still wasn’t sure why I’d been targeted or how I’d survived the transition from human to vampire without help. My desire for revenge confirmed one unassailable truth: I was no better than the filth I hunted.
We both lurked in the night, which was only slightly better than sulking at night, my only hobby.
We both broke the rules with our very existence, although I still wasn’t entirely clear on what the rules were.
We both preyed upon the helpless, except I hunted other vampires instead of humans.
I needed to give myself a little more credit. I wasn’t on the right side of the line, but I did better than my miscreant brethren. I scowled at the cold, bloodless body at my feet. Could a vampire of any age be helpless? From the night I’d risen, I’d been stronger, harder to kill, and thirsty enough to drain the world dry. No, vampires weren’t helpless.
While I’d emerged the victor, I’d fought fair enough. He’d hunted well before I’d found him, and his strength bolstered my own. It’d be days before I’d have to hunt again, maybe even as long as a week.
I’d remain hungry, but thirst wouldn’t ride me as it had when I’d first risen.
If I could go a week without killing one of my kind, I’d be happy. Most nights, I blamed myself for my undead state, wishing the miscreants I hunted would get their acts in order and kill me before I killed them. Maybe if I’d been a better, more tolerant person in life, I wouldn’t have been bitten and perverted into the walking dead. I’d had no love for vampires then, and nothing had changed; I’d bordered on hatred for them before I’d risen. Had the choice been mine, I would’ve stayed dead.
But thirst had hit me hard, and I’d crawled from the grave my maker had created for me, aware someone had stripped me of my life and transformed me into a blood-craving monster.
I kicked the lifeless corpse, cursed him for being an even worse monster than I was, and began the second half of my nightly ritual. Unless I wanted to fry to a crisp, I needed to find a new attic to haunt during the day. Exposure to sunlight wasn’t the instant death portrayed in films. If I didn’t mind a nasty burn and facing the fiery pains of hell, I could walk outside during the day for a brief period of time.
When cursed with eternal life, there was no easy way out. I’d tried the usual tricks. A slit wrist healed fast, as did a slit throat. I hadn’t resorted to trying a bullet to the brain yet, but I lacked the strength to stake myself—not that I could even if I wanted to. The instant the wooden tip pierced my skin, paralysis kicked in. Without fail, I lost my hold on the stake, which ultimately fell out, restoring mobility and all bodily functions.
Falling on a stake hadn’t worked well either; it took a lot of force to make a stake penetrate flesh and bone. I’d given up on that tactic after my first agony-filled attempt.
Muttering curses my father would’ve beaten me over, I headed for the one place guaranteed to have abandoned, dusty attics: Harlem. Despite its close proximity to Central Park and the heart of Manhattan, the neighborhood was slowly dying. Within a year or two, it would finish collapsing in on itself, ripe for razing, a carefully choreographed demise at the hands of my father through people like me, lawyers capable of exploiting every loophole in laws prejudiced against all but the wealthy.
My father would enjoy bulldozing and replacing every decrepit building with something new, sleek, and modern. The wealthy, legalized vampires yearned to own homes meant only for them. No matter how much he hated the preternatural, my father meant to profit from them. Harlem would become the first neighborhood designed specifically with vampires in mind with every window darkened for residents and every walkway covered with awnings meant to keep the sun’s searing light from reaching those walking its streets. I’d seen the designs. I’d helped decipher city zoning codes. I’d even meddled with the layouts of sprawling mansions, so they’d be perfect for those willing to pay for them.
I wished I’d paid a little more attention to how the vampires wanted to live; I might’ve learned something important.
But until Harlem crumbled, I’d make the most of everything I’d learned working with my father. I knew his plans. I knew which buildings he wanted most of all. I avoided those, sticking to the worst of the slums even he doubted could be converted without wasting hundreds of millions. Ultimately, he’d have to, but until the properties around Morningside Park fell, I had time.
I ventured north along Amsterdam Avenue towards Manhattanville. The Mink Building was my target. It’d been the first historic building officially abandoned and slated for demolition, but the residents held out, protesting its destruction, making it ideal for my needs.
Someone had gotten the bright idea to trash the streets surrounding the place, making it difficult and annoying to reach without preternatural strength. The busted sewers kept most away with their infernal stench and tendency to flood the trench surrounding the historic landmark.
My luck, such as it was, held. The warm summer weather had dried the protester’s moat some. With one good jump, I could clear the dark, rank fluid and reach the other side without getting my feet wet. I slid down the bank, scrambling so I wouldn’t tumble into the sewage still seeping from the broken pipes. I crouched before leaping to the other side and digging at the jagged concrete to keep my balance.
The streets remained dark and quiet. I scrambled up the incline and headed for the nearest broken window.
In Harlem, all windows were broken, but some were easier to enter through than others without being cut to ribbons on remnants of glass. I cracked away a few pieces before entering, landed on a knee, and tilted my head to listen.
When I’d been a child, I’d heard stories of Harlem and the incessant riffraff and violence plaguing it. The expected gunfire never came, nor did the howl of old cars needing new mufflers. My grave had never been still or quiet, but I expected the Mink Building did a mausoleum some justice.
I rose and explored, heading for the nearest stairwell. The protesters had gone floor by floor, breaking the steps to keep people from using their beloved building. I thought it foolish.
What was the point of destroying the building they wanted to salvage? Did they expect someone to come in and restore it? I found that misguided thought to be likely. People liked clinging to the strangest beliefs.
As I had every morning since I’d climbed out of my own grave, I felt the sun rising deep in my bones, a wearying reminder of who I’d been and what I’d become. It took several tries to jump high enough to reach the broken steps to the second floor, and I left streaks of blood on the rusted metal.
Vampires couldn’t contract tetanus as far as I could tell from my unfortunately frequent exposure to rusted metal, but the cuts still hurt.
The sun had crested the horizon by the time I reached the top floor and it streamed through the broken windows. As I had every night since being turned, I found the darkest corner I could and slept on the floor, hoping I wouldn’t wake up burned as well as hungry.