1
I lean back in the uncomfortably shallow leather seat of the limousine and study my competitors, just as they study me.
The mix of women is different to most of the previous seasons.
I’m the only European in this car; the other five are from Ethiopia, Nepal, Azerbaijan, Kenya, and India.
More exotic is probably the politically correct way of considering the assortment of women, not that I care two figs for what people think about how I speak.
I wonder, briefly, if the vampire had requested darker-skinned women.
My Italian complexion, caramel-toned, would fit with such a request. It crosses my mind that it could just be that the selection panel had chosen women more for personality and skills than nationality.
Although this can’t have been the only criterion, every one of the contestants before me is drop-dead gorgeous.
Still, I’m keen to see what other countries are represented when we get to the bachelor mansion.
None of us were permitted to meet any of the other contestants before The Games.
‘This many disparate nationalities is certainly a surprise. God, I hate surprises!’
Turning, I stare out the window and watch the landscape flash by. We’re high in the mountains now, the limo hugging the tight corners. The show’s being filmed for the first week in the country of last season’s winner.
Immediately below us is a steep ravine, and beyond, stretching as far as the eye can see, is the nearby city of Denver, its lights twinkling like stars.
At any other time I’d be admiring the view and craning my neck to see more, but tonight I’m looking inward as I consider my strategy going into the mansion, and my imminent introduction to the bachelor.
Unlike some of the pretty belles who’ve competed in the past, I’m not going to be blinded by affection or unrealistic expectations. I’m not here specifically for Viscount Jaguar Speardon of Versailles Provence. I’m here for a royal vampire husband who will protect me from those who mean me harm.
This one will do.
That said, I certainly won’t be settling for second best. According to the promotion for this series, this particular vampire is considered one of the ‘most eligible bachelors in centuries,’ and his season is anticipated to be one of the most watched since his best friend Lord Falcon Dragonspur’s infamous two seasons more than thirty years ago.
Now that’s a season I’m glad I wasn’t alive to be selected in.
‘Actually, I’m glad I wasn’t selected last season either. That Bavarian vampire was a weird little bastard. Maybe being picked this time round was meant to be.’
I switch from staring at the landscape to silently contemplating my reflection in the window as I listen to the conversations around me.
I’ve watched all the series as far back as they go.
My aim is to be the best of the best and to learn from the mistakes others have made in the past. I’ve studied all the trials, the living arrangements; hell, I’ve even studied the camera crew and caterers.
Just because I don’t know the specifics of who I’m up against doesn’t mean I haven’t done my due diligence in every other aspect.
I’ve also calculated the most popular nationalities generally chosen to compete, and those who commonly win.
I’d hoped to use some of their more stereotypical traits to my advantage.
This is going to be more difficult given the switch-up of those competing.
I don’t know enough about the countries these women come from, or any national peculiarities or strengths they might display during the competition.
And this season, given that the rules have been tightened and changed to ensure The Games are deadlier than ever, that is truly a disadvantage.
The show’s propaganda is in full swing now that The Games have officially commenced, and I shake my head as I recall the last advertisement I’d seen before I snuck out of Italy to participate.
‘More heartache, more intrigue, more blood!’
Consequently, I stay silent on the ride, sharing nothing with the others that could be used against me now or in the future, and instead listening carefully.
Some of the girls titter and discuss their plans.
One will sing a traditional song, another expects to wow him with her garish, red face-paint to teach him something straight away about her country so that he remembers her.
One carries a small gift from her homeland that she hopes he will keep in his breast pocket, “close to his heart.”
I imagine all these women will be dead within a fortnight. I can’t see any promise in any of them, apart from perhaps the Indian; she has a kind of military bearing that’s unmistakable, even dressed in an evening gown and high heels.
She’s one I’ll watch out for.
‘And maybe the Ethiopian. Her eyes betray her intelligence, no matter that she sounds ditzy. Probably an act.’
As I consider her there’s a loud bang, and our heads are all whiplashed forwards. The other contestants cry out as drinks are spilled and those not wearing seatbelts for fear of wrinkling their gowns are bounced off seats and into one another.
Spinning in my seat, I see a dark car advancing fast behind us, ready to ram us again.
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!’
If the occupants of the car behind us work for who I think they work for, they won’t stop until they have me.
‘How? How did they find me? They weren’t supposed to figure out what I’d done until the show’s first episodes were released, by which stage I’d have been beyond their reach.’
“Speed up!” I scream to the driver as the car hits us again.
Squeaks and startled gasps from the other women fill the cabin and I notice blood on the dress of one of the contestants, the Kenyan, where the force of the first collision had caused her to cut her chin on her champagne glass.
But we have no time to deal with this or anything else as the car behind accelerates and slides in beside us, heading directly towards the oncoming traffic and pushing us towards the side of the road and the ravine.
My eyes widen as the passenger window of the attacker’s vehicle rolls down, and a hand extends holding a machine gun.
“Get down!” I shout as bullets pepper the limo.
They’re clearly aiming for the driver, who’s calmly issuing instructions to some unseen person through the vehicle’s communication system.
I realise why he’s so unruffled as the bullets ricochet off the vehicle.
We’re bulletproof. Not only that, apparently we also have protection.
I can’t help but grin as two black SUV’s that must have been flanking us some distance behind and in front suddenly loom into view.
As they appear, the driver of our limo shouts at us to ‘hold on,’ and slams on his brakes as he pulls hard to the left.
Half our vehicle slams into the guardrail and hangs dangerously over the edge of the mountainside.
As one, we all lurch to the other side of the car to balance it out, dresses be-damned.
I strain to watch, squished as I am underneath the Indian and the girl with the red face paint, as the two guard vehicles slide up and sandwich the attackers.
I have to assume the drivers of the SUVs are vampires, because they definitely aren’t concerned for their own safety as they squeeze the car between them and steer it over the ravine.
A loud explosion hits us a few seconds later, followed by a second and then a third.
“Everyone OK?” The driver asks, turning to look over his shoulder at us.
I catch his eye and nod.
The Kenyan begins to scream.