Blood Trial: Supernatural Battle (Vampire Towers Book 1) Read online

  Blood Trial

  VAMPIRE TOWERS

  Kelly St. Clare

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Vampire Debt

  While You Wait

  Books By Kelly St. Clare

  Join the Book Barracks!

  Blood Trial

  by Kelly St. Clare

  Copyright © December, 2019

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, media, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover design by Covers by Christian

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment

  About the Author

  When Kelly is not reading or writing, she is lost in her latest reverie.

  Books have always been magical and mysterious to her. One day she decided to unravel this mystery and began writing.

  Her works include The Tainted Accords, Pirates of Felicity, and The Darkest Drae.

  Kelly resides in New Zealand with her ginger-haired husband, a great group of friends, and whatever animals she can add to her horde.

  Join her newsletter tribe for sneak peeks, release news, and disjointed musings at kellystclare.com/free-gifts/

  For love

  And hatred

  For rocks

  And hard places.

  1

  Groaning, I peeled my cheek off the damp ground in the alleyway. Being homeless was overrated. Most people who slept on the street probably didn’t have a choice. Kind of like me.

  Well, nearly.

  There was another option left to me, but I hadn’t wanted to explore Plan B without giving homelessness a try. For all I knew, it could have been the secret high life.

  It wasn’t.

  Not at all.

  A pain stabbed in my temple—a result of the flickering lamp post down the end of the alley. Which explained why this godforsaken, slimy sliver of space between two concrete buildings was empty of other upstanding homeless citizens.

  I held my head and sat, and a pulpy chunk of miscellaneous garbage peeled off my cheek. The soggy pulp fell onto my lap and I ignored it to better keep up the illusion it was newspaper in a past life. I’d started sitting up against the wall, jumping at every echoing scuffle, but at some point, I must’ve slid into oblivion—and the pile of garbage beside me. To say my life had taken a sudden turn would be an understatement.

  Heiress to the largest fortune in Bluff City—and the seventh largest in the world—to pauper. Overnight.

  By choice.

  Fists curling in my lap, I snapped my back into a straight line. I was a self-exiled heiress. I had my reasons for being here. Reasons that wouldn’t be shaken by a night on the cold, hard ground—or by miscellaneous pulp.

  I reached over to grab my plaid and leather Elegance backpack, throwing the skinny straps over my shoulders as I stood.

  “Time to get your shit sorted, Basi,” I said in a firm voice, dusting myself off.

  Setting off for the end of the alley, I realised the massive hole in my plan.

  Crap.

  Where did Tommy live? She was my Plan B.

  Ugliness churned in my stomach as I searched left and right down the empty shopping street. I hated when my snobbish ignorance showed. It only ever hammered in the lonely fact that I wasn’t like everyone else. How the hell did normal people get around? Scrap that. I knew they got around with buses and trains and cars. The details of how those systems ran? No fucking clue.

  My heart thumped and I swallowed down the hysteria creeping up my chest.

  Think, Basi—you rich bitch.

  I’d come here because the area was semi-familiar. Baroness Street, despite its misleading name, had only a few high-end boutique shops, but I’d visited them on occasion. There were far more run-down buildings and clothing chain stores around—so visiting here had always felt like a small rebellion. Which was also why I’d picked this place for my first night as a self-exiled heiress. Baroness Street felt somewhere between the life I’d left and the life I wanted.

  A life that wasn’t planned for me. A life where I didn’t feel like part of a well-run, predetermined game that I had no control over.

  The problem being that I didn’t actually get here by myself. I’d asked my chauffeur to drop me off a couple of blocks away.

  The ugliness churning in my gut intensified, but I had to remember that I wouldn’t always be so ignorant of how real people lived.

  I could only think of two options.

  One, walk around aimlessly until I found a bus or train stop thing. I did have a small amount of pocket change on me.

  Two, ask for help.

  Considering the sun was just peeking over the tops of the concrete shops around me, finding a person to ask seemed unlikely. I rubbed my forehead, dislodging more miscellaneous pulp.

  A tired smile graced my face.

  Homeless people.

  There had to be a few around.

  Hoisting my Elegance pack higher on my back, I set off down Baroness Street, peering into the grey depths of the narrow gaps between buildings. I ignored the alleys with flickering lamp posts at the ends. Even I knew to avoid those.

  I struck gold near the corner of Baroness and King Street. A man with a shaved head and black hoodie was there.

  “Excuse me,” I called, waving when he jumped and whirled.

  Stepping into the shadowed alley, I approached the tall man.

  He darted his eyes to my left cheek, and then to our surroundings. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. Bad sleep?

  But why did he keep licking his lips?

  I hoped sleeping on the streets was just thirsty work, but I kept ample distance between us in case he was a psychopath.

  “Hey,” I said brightly. “I don’t suppose you could help me with directions?”

  He peered over my shoulder. “You’re alone?”

  Scariness intensifying. “Sure am.” I hoisted my pack again. “I’m trying to get to my friend’s house.”

  The man had frozen midway through rolling what appeared to be a thin length of foam. He continued the task, licking his lips again.

  I eyed the cuts on his shaved head and the layer of grime on his visible skin. De
spite the warning vibes he gave me, my heart sank, and I renewed the energy behind my purpose in being here.

  The system was faulted. It rewarded a select few and punished everyone else. Why was this man homeless? Why wasn’t anyone helping him?

  He rested the mat against the cracked cement of the closest building. “Where does your friend live?”

  His question wrenched me to a halt. Shoot. Where did Tommy live? I’d been there countless times—though she tended to come to mine, with her father being the estate’s stablemaster and all.

  “Uh...” I glanced around.

  My eyes caught on the grey roof of the shop on the other side of the street. Of course. I must be more tired than I thought.

  “She lives in Orange,” I declared proudly.

  He licked his lips and cast me a doubtful look. “You’re from Orange?”

  Licky Lips judging my friend’s lack of wealth seemed a tad hypocritical.

  “Orange,” I repeated, forcing my hands, already creeping up to rest on my hips, to remain by my sides. Hands on hips and foot-stomping were snobby habits I was trying to kick. Poor people didn’t do that kind of thing.

  He straightened, illustrating just how tall he was. And his eyes. The bloodshot part made sense. He’d just woken. But the wide part was slightly disconcerting. People were meant to blink a certain amount of times per minute, right?

  And the licking lips thing…

  “Seriously, dude. Collect rainwater or something.” I joked, my grip on the bag straps tightening.

  Licky Lips frowned. “What?”

  “Uh, nothing,” I mumbled, edging away. “That’s okay if you don’t know where Orange is. Just thought I’d ask. Thanks for your help.”

  “I haven’t helped you yet.”

  Well... if he planned on doing so, there was no time like the present. I forced a smile. “I’d appreciate if you could point me in the right direction.”

  The man shoved his hands in his hoodie and hunched. He jerked his head to the right. “Walk that way.”

  I glanced at the wall. “I need to head right?”

  A nod was my answer. “Yeah, then straight. That’ll get you to Red.”

  A silent sigh escaped my lips. From Red, finding Orange would be easy enough. The suburbs of the city circled in a colour gradient, all except Grey—the central business district—which was smack bang in the middle.

  “Thank you,” I told him, allowing some of my genuine worry to seep into the words.

  He peeked up. “You’re not the first to ask for help. We get a lot of rebelling rich brats here.”

  Unnecessarily harsh. I tossed my hair. “Is that so?”

  Licky Lips stood tall again. Whether he meant the gesture as a subtle reminder of who would win in a fight between us or not, I took it that way and my muscles coiled in readiness to run.

  The man didn’t advance, and I relaxed after a few seconds.

  He’d labelled me as a rich brat with a single look, but I wasn’t like the other runaways he came across.

  Swinging my bag off, I flipped the top back and reached into a small zip pocket. Riffling through the notes, I drew out a one-hundred-dollar bill.

  “Here. Have this. For your help.” I smiled encouragingly at him.

  The money was gone from my fingers in a flash.

  Phew. Pretty quick when he wanted to be. Entering this alley wasn’t my best idea.

  He inspected the note as though I might have handed over Monopoly cash. “The last one gave me five hundred.”

  The last one!

  My jaw dropped. “The last rich brat gave you money too?”

  Licky Lips shrugged a shoulder. “They all do. Usually on an I feel trapped bender.”

  ... I feel trapped bender.

  I swung my pack on again and pressed the heels of both palms into my eyes. This guy’s manners were atrocious. Then again, they weren’t. Even if the comments he offered weren’t particularly tactful.

  I didn’t need his approval.

  And I didn’t need the approval of my wealthy friends and their parents.

  Even my grandmother’s approval came second to me living in the way I saw fit.

  “Thanks,” I said shortly, backing away before spinning on my heel.

  “Got any drugs?” the man asked.

  I quickened my step, laughing nervously. “No, not my scene. Good luck with… that.”

  The urge to look over my shoulder heightened and I shoved back the instinct. When I reached the corner and turned right, I only increased my pace and didn’t slow until several blocks away.

  Note to self: Profuse lip licking may indicate usage of drugs.

  Still, he’d given me directions, so that was a win.

  I stretched out my legs into a comfortable stride that my grandmother would have called an unladylike stomp. Though she always made the comment and half blamed, half complimented the stomp on my Amazonian legs.

  I wanted to get to Tommy’s as soon as possible.

  Asking to be dropped off close to Tommy’s house might have been a better idea. And perhaps I should have worn shoes that didn’t tear up my feet.

  By the time the bright roofs of Red appeared in the distance, my Hatch flats had caused two juicy blisters on the backs of my heels.

  “Fuck my life,” I muttered.

  Turning left, I noticed my lengthy Amazonian stride had turned into a hobbling jig that Rumpelstiltskin would’ve been proud of. When I reached the outskirts of Red, I clenched my jaw and finally stopped to remove the damn shoes. Normal people walked barefoot all the time. Right? Sure, maybe their feet weren’t bleeding. But it was all about the spirit of being poor.

  Crossing the median from Red to Orange boosted my morale enough to carry me until I recognised my whereabouts. Relief overwhelmed the pain from the raw patches on my feet, and it was only as I turned onto the street of orange-roofed houses where my best friend lived that I began to fear what I would tell Tommy.

  Bleeding, filthy, stinking.

  Tommy shared many of my views on the world—one that profited only a handful of people and turned a life for living into a life for working to make ends meet. Yet on my inheritance… hell, even on my allowance, I could have lived a full life. One where I catered to each of my whims and interests. My friend didn’t have that luxury. She busted her ass six days a week to get by. How to tell someone, even my best friend since childhood, that I didn’t want to be handed a life of riches and luxury on a silver platter?

  I wanted a real life. I didn’t want to play their rich fucking game.

  My feet slowed and, facing Tommy’s house, I traced the cracked paint of the cream cladding and the burnt orange of the house’s roof tiles. I shifted my gaze to the orange door, and to the uneven path leading around the left wall of the abode.

  Sneaking into her room via the window felt immature for my twenty-one years of age. However, Tommy was my Plan B for a reason. Her father worked for my family’s estate and had for most of his life. I didn’t know if my grandmother would have eyes on me or not. I did know that Mr Tetley would feel morally bound to inform my guardian of my safety and location if he answered the front door.

  I moved to run a hand through my coiffed blonde tresses before glimpsing the grunge streaking my palm.

  Nope. Call me a coward. Or a rich brat. I was going for the window.

  Hobbling down the uneven path like the goblin I was, I rapped gently on her dusty windows.

  “Tommy,” I hissed.

  I waited and knocked again. Please be home. She’d mentioned a hot guy named Dean when we last spoke. She usually made them jump a few hoops before any sleepovers occurred, but she’d seemed enamoured by this new specimen.

  “Tom.”

  The curtains were yanked apart. I choked on surprise and watched anger, shock, and relief flicker over my friend’s oval face in quick succession.

  So everyone knew I’d run…

  I didn’t have time to message her before storming out—and I’d s
tubbornly left all my electronics at the estate. Tommy must have heard through her father.

  Leaning forward, I breathed on the window to fog it up and wrote, H E L P.

  The corners of her brown eyes crinkled, and she propped open the window.

  “You’re okay?” she asked immediately. Her soft voice was a balm to my soul.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Uh-huh.” Tommy scanned me from head to toe. “You’re fine in the same way the loser of a boxing match is fine.”

  I glanced down at my feet and winced. “Yeah… didn’t pick great shoes.”

  “Oh, they’re great shoes,” she said, whistling low. “Just not practical shoes.”

  My shoulders sagged. “Can I come in?”

  “Like you need to ask. Come to the front door.”

  I hesitated. “I don’t want your dad to see me and tell my grandmother.”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, Basil.” She cocked a brow. “The only people who come to my window are drunk you, lonely you, angry you, and idea you.”

  “Have all four versions of me ever shown up at the same time?” I asked, a grin spreading across my face.

  “One time, I swear there were five. It was a real party.” She surveyed me again and shook her head. “Front door, Basil. Now. You need a shower. Stat. Maybe three. Then I want to know what the hell is going on.”

  2

  “Basilia Le Spyre, wake yo’ ass up! There’s work to do.”

  I jolted to life, bolting upright in a disorientated mess. “Where me?”