Exhibit A, me and my seven obnoxious older brothers.

But I’m the only girl.

In about nine hundred years.

And the closer I get to my sixteenth birthday, the more I attract the others to me.

It’s all very Snow White, except I don’t call bluebirds and deer out of the woods—only bloodthirsty vampires who want to kidnap me or kill me. Vampire politics are messy at best, and all Drakes have been exiled from the royal court since the very hour I was born. I’m considered a threat to the current ruler, Lady Natasha, because my genealogy is so impressive and because there’s some stupid prophecy from centuries ago that says the vampire tribes will be properly united under the rule of a daughter born to an ancient family.

And Lady Natasha, unlike me, wasn’t born into an ancient family— even if she considers herself to be the reigning vampire queen.

As if that’s my fault.

Luckily, my family much prefers living in quiet exile in the woods. I’d heard enough rumors about our ruler to be glad we’d never actually met. She feeds off humans and is barely circumspect about it; in fact, she loves the attention and the vampire groupies. She apparently doesn’t like pretty young girls; they never seem to survive her mood swings.

Technically, she shouldn’t be feeding off humans, and certainly not so nonchalantly. It was becoming an issue, even among her own people. There are royalists who follow her just because she’s so powerful, not because they particularly respect her. Fear, as always, is a great motivator.

And lately she’s been turning more and more humans into vampires, in order to gather more followers. The council makes her nervous, and I make her nervous, but most of all Leander Montmartre makes her nervous.

He has that affect on all of us.

He’s been turning humans for nearly three hundred years now, and he’s so violent and careless about it, he’s basically created a new breed of vampire. He leaves them half- turned and usually buried under the ground, to conquer the blood change on their own without any help at all. The thirst is so strong that it twists them and gives them a double set of fangs instead of just our one retractable pair. The ones that stay loyal to Montmartre are called the Host. The ones who defect call themselves the Cwn Mamau, the Hounds of the Mothers. They were either strong enough to survive alone, or were rescued and trained by other Hounds. Everyone knew they wanted to kill Montmartre, but they were so reclusive they wouldn’t accept outside help. They are fiercely independent, live in caves, serve a shamanka (female shaman), and wear bone beads in their hair. They’re kind of scary, but nowhere near as scary as the most dangerous of Montmartre’s creations called the Hel-Blar, who have blue-tinted skin, and teeth that are all fangs, sharpened like needles and unretractable.

Hel-Blar means “blue death” in some ancient Viking language. Their bite, known as a

“kiss,” can infect without any blood exchange, and it’s rumored they can turn both vampires and humans into Hel-Blar. Even Montmartre avoids them as much as possible. He’s not big on cleaning up his own mess. And they want him dead even more than the Hounds do—when they’re lucid enough to want anything more than blood. The Host and the Hounds managed to stay sane, unlike the Hel-Blar. No one can control them, not even Montmartre.

We live peacefully with other humans, and our family is one of the few ancient clans of the Raktapa Council. The council was formed ages ago when the families realized that we weren’t like other vampires: our change is genetic. We transform without being bitten, but we need vampire blood to survive that transformation.

Afterward, we’re nearly immortal, like the others, vulnerable only to a stake through the heart, too much sunlight, or decapitation.

“Do Mom and Dad know about what happened after the party?” I asked, finally getting out of the car and facing the house. The original building had burned down during the Salem witch trials, even though we were nowhere near Salem. The locals had been superstitious and scared of every little thing. The house was rebuilt farther into the sheltering forest. It was simple and a little shabby from the outside, but the pioneer-style log cabin hid a luxurious heart full of velvet couches and stone fireplaces. The rosebushes under the leaded- glass windows were a little scraggly, the oak trees old and stately. I loved every single treated inch of it. Even my mother’s pinched and disapproving face behind the glass.

“Busted,” Logan murmured.

Moths flung themselves at the lamps. The screen door creaked when I pushed it open.

“Solange Rosamund Drake.”

I winced. Behind me, both my brothers did the same. My mother, Helena, was intimidating at the best of times with her long black hair and her pale eyes, and the fact that she can take down someone twice her size with a sword, a stake, or her petite bare hands.

“Ouch—middle name.” Logan shot me a sympathetic smile before easing into the living room and out of the crossfire.

“Snitch.” I pinched Nicholas. He only raised an eyebrow.

“Nicholas didn’t tell us anything.” My mom pinned him with a pointed glare. He squirmed a little. I’d known grown men to back away physically from that look. “One of your aunts was patrolling the perimeter and saw your escape.”

“Escape.” I rolled my eyes. “It was barely anything. They didn’t even come out of the cornfields. They were just sniffing me.”

“You have to be more careful,” my father, Liam, said calmly from his favorite chair.