Hunted (The Five Blood Thrones #1)

Prologue

SIX YEARS AGO

I’ve been reassured all my life that our home is a safe place.

Tonight proves it is not.

Rain presses against the tall windows of my father’s study, steady and patient, a sharp contrast to what’s happening inside the Hannigan household.

From the landing above, I lean forward, careful not to rest on the bannister that creaks.

My father’s voice comes through the half-open door below, low and desperate, edged with a tremor I’ve never heard before.

‘Please, Don Moretti. I can give you anything else. My ships, the stocks, the Cape townhouse—’

‘You have already given those,’ a man interrupts. Deep-voiced, colder than the rain and thrumming with raw power. ‘After you failed to keep them profitable. You came to me because your desperation has finally overcome your fear. But apparently neither of those can hold a light to your addiction.’

My father makes a choking sound. ‘I only need time.’

‘You’ve had time.’ A pause, unhurried. ‘You’re out of currency, Mr Hannigan.’

I crouch lower to see who he’s talking to.

The man in the study is a stranger, but I know the name.

Valentin Moretti.

The terrifying vampire who owns this city.

I’ve seen him only once, but I remember him vividly. The tailored suit. The silver eyes that gleamed too brightly. The kind of intensity that made mortals cower before he even entered their space.

My father’s voice cracks. ‘There must be something I can offer.’

‘There is nothing left to sell,’ Moretti says.

Silence follows.

Then my father speaks again.

‘There’s… my daughter.’

My stomach flips, mangling my heart along the way.

Moretti gives a short, skin-tingling laugh. ‘You would offer your own blood to pay for your greed?’

‘She’s eighteen. Pure blood. Educated. You could—’

‘—breed her?’ The word lands with surgical precision. ‘Is that what you imagine I wish?’

My father stammers. ‘I only meant—’

‘I do not barter for toys.’ His tone sharpens. ‘Keep your daughter. I am not interested in pity gifts.’

Relief pulses through me… until Moretti’s head lifts.

He stiffens and inhales, slow and deliberate.

The air in the hallway changes as he turns towards the door.

Through the gap, I catch a glimpse of black hair, pale skin, silver eyes rimmed with faint red.

He doesn’t move for a long breath.

Then he says softly, ‘You have an eavesdropper, Mr Hannigan.’

My father looks towards the doorway. ‘Lyra, go to your room.’

I don’t move. I can’t.

The vampire steps closer, his attention fixed on the dark space where I kneel.

‘So this is the collateral,’ he says.

‘She’s not—’ my father begins.

‘Quiet.’

Although it shouldn’t be possible for him to see me in the dark, Moretti looks straight at me.

His expression doesn’t change, but the air does. Rain and old wood scents deepen around me, carrying a metallic trace that makes me dizzy.

He smiles without warmth. ‘I will take your offer after all,’ he says. ‘Not tonight. But soon.’

He turns away, broad shoulders bristling with lethal purpose.

‘Three years. I will come for her within that time.’

My father sags with relief.

I grip the railing until my fingers hurt.

The night he returns is ordinary.

No rain or thunder, only the faint ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs and a stillness sharp enough to disturb me.

Perhaps it’s the too-stillness that rouses me.

Pale moonlight spills through the curtains, but I don’t need light to sense the presence in the room as my heart leaps into my throat.

The figure by my bed is a shadow until he speaks. ‘You shouldn’t leave your window unlocked.’

My pulse slams once against my throat. Through the heavy curtain of my hair I see the shadow shift.

‘Who—?’

He steps forward. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t remember.’

Valentin Moretti stands beside my bed, the light drawing a silver edge along his collar and cuffs. His ferocity fills every corner of the room, more real than memory, more dangerous than nightmare.

‘I told you I would come,’ he says.

I push myself against the headboard and draw the covers to my chin. ‘Why? What do you want?’

He tilts his head. ‘To decide if your father’s debt was worth collecting.’

‘You said you’d come for me in… in three years. It’s been three m-months.’

‘I did.’ His gaze drops briefly to my shoulder bared by the shifting nightie, then to the tiny patch of throat not hidden by the covers. ‘I’m not sure if I meant it then. But I am sure now. You will be mine, Lyra Hannigan.’

The words are quiet, almost kind.

That makes them worse.

I swallow. ‘Are you going to hurt me?’

He smiles slightly. ‘Maybe. But it’s the kind of pain you’ll welcome.’

My breath catches. Everyone knows about vampire bites. Rumoured to make you docile, pliant, eager to please, sexually and otherwise.

I shake my head. ‘I won’t let you.’

He moves before I see him cross the space. One moment he’s by the window, the next he stands over me, fingers lifting a strand of hair from my face. The scent of him is clean metal and winter air.

‘Hellfire,’ he murmurs, almost to himself, ‘your scent is intoxicating. Let me see your face, pet.’

I pull the cover higher. ‘No.’

His pupils widen, red surfacing at the edges, making him look both human and not. For an instant, I fear he’ll force my compliance.

Instead, he draws another slow breath.

‘Please,’ I say.

He stops. The word reaches him in a way nothing else has. His jaw tightens. The red fades from his eyes.

‘You’re afraid.’ His tone has lost its chill. ‘That’s good. Fear means you understand what I am. But I don’t take what isn’t ready to be taken.’

He stares down at me, as if debating with himself. Then he straightens, restoring the distance between us. ‘You need time, Lyra Hannigan. I will give it to you.’

‘How much time? When will you…?’

I can’t finish.

‘When you stop trembling at my name. And trembling for a different reason.’

He prowls to the window with the grace of the Lord of the Night he is, then pauses on the sill, looking back once.

‘I’ll be back. Don’t make me chase you.’

Then he’s gone.

The curtains move in the night air.

I sit motionless, the sheet clenched in my hands, while the clock downstairs begins its slow count towards dawn.

When the first trace of light reaches the floorboards, I rise, go to my closet, and begin to pack.

I don’t know where I’ll go or how far I’ll get.

I only know I can’t be here when Valentin Moretti returns.