ALSO BY AMELIA ATWATER-RHODES
DEN OF SHADOWS
In the Forests of the Night
Demon in My View
Shattered Mirror
Midnight Predator
Persistence of Memory
Token of Darkness
All Just Glass
Poison Tree
Promises to Keep
DTHE KIESHA’RA
Hawksong
Snakecharm
Falcondance
Wolfcry
Wyvernhail
DTHE MAEVE’RA TRILOGY
Bloodwitch
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2015 by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes
Jacket art copyright © 2015 by Sammy Yuen
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
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Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Atwater-Rhodes, Amelia.
Bloodkin / Amelia Atwater Rhodes. — First edition.
pages cm. — (The Maeve’ra; volume 2)
Summary: When a shapeshifter/vampire nation is charged with a crime against Midnight that sixteen-year-old Kadee and her friend Vance played a hand in, Kadee feels compelled to return to the Shantel forest where she must confront her past and the decisions she has made in the pursuit of freedom.
ISBN 978-0-385-74305-1 (hc) — ISBN 978-0-375-99092-2 (glb)
— ISBN 978-0-307-98075-5 (ebook)
[1. Fantasy. 2. Shapeshifting—Fiction. 3. Vampires—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.A8925Bi 2015
[Fic] —dc23
2014020694
Jacket design and interior design by Jinna Shin
Random House Children’s Books supports the
First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1_r1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Prologue
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
About the Autor
Bloodkin is dedicated to my father, William Rhodes.
Writing the Maeve’ra trilogy has involved some of the most intense historical research I have ever done. Balancing historical accuracy and detail with suspension of disbelief in a fantasy setting is always tough, and I’m never able to include all the fun tidbits of information I would love to share. Thankfully, my father is also a fan of history. Since I have been working on the Maeve’ra, we have had many fascinating conversations about everything from the role of women in the Revolutionary War to overseas trade in the beginning of the nineteenth century. I finally followed your advice, Dad—here’s a story about the Revolutionary War for you. Kind of.
No acknowledgements page of mine would be complete without my giving thanks to my fellow writers and beta readers, who stuck with me as I went through draft after draft, adding and removing entire plotlines and multiple characters as I tried to get the story just right.
Finally, thanks to everyone at Random House, and to my wonderful editor, Jodi, for being so patient with me as I navigated life’s ups and downs—and watched more than one deadline sail by in the meantime!
Welcome back to the Maeve’ra, everyone. Enjoy!
“WE HOLD THESE truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.… That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it.…”
My father taught me those words when I was just a child, too young to read them for myself. That was before I was taken away at age seven, and learned that I was something called serpiente, and that I had a people and a civilization.
And a king.
The serpiente claim to be the freest culture in the world, but that is an egotistical delusion. They worship freedom the way corrupt men worship God: from afar, with faith that it must exist, but little loyalty and no personal experience. They bow to their king, who they call Diente, and even he bows to another, crueler power: Midnight, an empire ruled by blood-drinking immortals.
The vampires’ empire maintains its grasp on those it rules through cruelty, slavery, and terror. The shapeshifter nations are too afraid to rise up, so they play Midnight’s games. Kings exploit their own people in order to preserve their precious illusion of freedom.
My father taught me that an American does not accept an abusive government, that it is not just our right but our duty to stand up to a leader who mistreats us. Farrell, the man who took me in when I fled the serpiente palace three years ago, taught me a similar lesson: a child of Obsidian bows to no king, no queen. No Diente Julian. No Mistress of Midnight, the pale vampiress Jeshickah, who claims to rule the world. I accepted the name Obsidian proudly. It is true that we live as outlaws, but that is because the alternative is to live as slaves.
When I joined the Obsidian guild, they told me about a prophecy, which had been given years before by our kinsman Malachi when he and his mother had still been slaves in Midnight: someday, his then-unborn sister would take the serpiente throne and bring about the fall of the vampires’ empire. Farrell rescued Malachi and his pregnant mother from Midnight and brought them back to the Obsidian guild to live freely.
I was told of the prophecy by Malachi and Misha’s younger brother, Shkei, but the Obsidian guild doesn’t actively concern itself with kings or queens, fate and the future. What will be, will be. A child of Obsidian is the master of his or her own life, not an arbiter of destiny.
We had hope for the days ahead, and that was enough—until last summer, when Misha, who was supposed to destroy Midnight, was instead sold to it as a slave. With her went Shkei, my dearest friend, a boy whose sixteen years of life were snuffed out to satisfy a bitter king.
I do not know how much one individual can accomplish alone, but I know what a group of people who have chosen complacency will accomplish together: nothing. I am not content to wash my hands of a world where these things happen, but sometimes it seems there are few other choices, and each one is worse than the last.
Kadee Obsidian
May 7, 1804
PERFECT WEATHER FOR a shopping trip, I thought as I passed through the gates to the serpiente open-air market.
A fine, chilly drizzle was falling from the overcast May sky. Like everyone else in the market, I kept my head down so the hood of my cloak could keep the rain out of my eyes. Unlike everyone else, I had good reason to hide my face regardless of the weather: like most members of
the Obsidian guild, I was wanted for treason. I did have the distinction of being guilty based on my own actions instead of just by association, which was the charge on most of Obsidian’s members. I had been convicted at a trial I had declined to attend three years ago—wisely, since the sentence would have been death despite my age.
I was fifteen now, and grateful for the rain.
Under the cloak, I felt half naked in the clothes of a casual serpiente trader: a loose blouse under a half bodice, and trousers that hugged my hips and thighs, then laced even more tightly at my calves. The bodice was low-cut, and dyed a brilliant shade of emerald, leaving the majority of my chest exposed.
A good way to catch your death by lung fever, I thought, then shook my head. The concern was a remnant of another time, another life. Serpent shapeshifters like me were immune to human diseases like that.
Maybe that was why they were so comfortable wearing so little clothing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spied the black and crimson uniform of a member of the palace guards. His gaze drifted over me as he scanned the crowd in the marketplace, but he paid me no attention. Why would he? I was just another shopper.
Unfortunately, “shopping” was made difficult by the fact that I had no trade goods or currency that I dared use. That meant I had to get creative.
Once, I would have balked at stealing, but these days, my hands were swift. As I moved casually through the marketplace, I took advantage of absentminded shopkeepers—those who were busy flirting, or whose eyes had caught on the brightly dressed dancers who flitted through the crowd. A salt horn, a bag of dried peas, a sack of cornmeal, and a log of goat cheese all disappeared into the haversack that hung at my hip.
I didn’t take much from any individual merchant. I couldn’t quite resist a warm lamb pie, which smelled of rich spices, but I slipped a blood coin onto the merchant’s table where he would find it later.
Midnight called the currency it minted trade coins. However, since Midnight was just as quick to trade in slaves as in these pieces of metal, the more evocative name was far more popular. The vampires’ empire protected the coins’ value, so they were valid even here in the serpiente market, but there was no reason the local trader I was pretending to be would have them. I couldn’t afford to draw attention to myself by using them openly, but I didn’t like to outright steal something I didn’t really need.
I was aware that this was a narrow distinction, but I made it anyway.
Food was a necessary resource, but that wasn’t the only reason I risked coming to the serpiente market, which was open to the air and sky above but surrounded by high walls on all sides. The only way in or out was through the public areas of the palace, where being caught meant death, but ignorance was even more dangerous. While “shopping,” I kept an ear out for gossip. Information was more valuable than gold.
This spring had resulted in a larger than normal number of healthy lambs born, which was good news. Wool was one of the serpiente’s key trade goods. Last year, a winter fever had ravaged the flocks, leaving the serpiente king unable to pay bills owed to masters with neither the patience nor the kindness to offer lenience.
The king had blamed the Obsidian guild. We were already guilty of treason, so why not add a charge of sheep poisoning? It gave him an excuse to send guards into the woods. It gave him an excuse to pay his bills with our flesh and blood: Shkei and Misha.
I had to stop there in the spitting rain and take a deep breath. Serpiente were very sensitive to the emotions of those around them, and nearby merchants and shoppers had started glancing at me with concern. I couldn’t afford the attention. I was here because I was normally better than most of our guild at blending in and hiding any anxiety I might feel.
The memory, still raw less than a year later, had taken me by surprise. That was all.
I pretended to examine the trinkets at the nearest merchant’s stall as I brought my emotions under control.
A group of dancers, two women and a man, came up beside me. Their bodies were wrapped in brilliantly colored scarves and little else, the cloth just enough to accentuate bare skin that had been painted with henna designs and in some places decorated with tiny rhinestones.
“I’m sorry,” the merchant said. “I know I said I would try to get more of those bone combs for you, but I haven’t managed yet.”
Bone combs? I wondered. I had seen a few dancers wearing fancy carved combs in their hair but hadn’t given much thought to the silly things until now. The Shantel were famous for their bone and leather goods, but the Obsidian guild had a few talented carvers as well, and bone was a material easily acquired through hunting. If this was a popular item that had suddenly become rare, it might be a way to earn a few coins the next time we went to Midnight’s market.
I chanced a glance up, and sure enough, one of the women was wearing one of the apparently coveted combs. It had been carved to resemble—what else?—a serpent, with an emerald-green body and a white diamond pattern down its back. The bone had been dyed and polished to such a shine that it glittered like a gem, brilliant against the dancer’s dark hair.
As I watched, the snake moved, shifting its coils and blinking its eyes.
Magic, I thought with disappointment. There were people in my guild capable of making and selling a clever carved comb decorated with fancy dyes and varnish, but we couldn’t compete with the Shantel magically.
Oh, well.
It was time to move on.
The distraction had helped me compose myself, anyway. I was walking away when I overheard the words Obsidian guild. They hadn’t recognized me, or there would have been more shouting, and I knew better than to give myself away by visibly reacting. I discreetly kept my attention on the merchant who had spoken, even as I pretended to stop at another booth.
“I don’t know all the details,” the merchant said. “All I know is they were involved. They set fire to the Shantel trade stall in Midnight’s market. They must have been working with Midnight in some way, or else they would have been picked up by the guards right then for disrupting trade. The Shantel stormed off before I got any more of the story—well, I suppose they had no reason to stay, what with all their goods going up in smoke. Long story short, hopefully they’ll have more of those combs next time I go north to market. They might cost a little more,” the merchant warned, “since the Shantel lost profitable wares in that fire.”
My blood ran cold, in a way that had nothing to do with the rain.
Others had drifted closer, drawn by the gossip, and I let myself join that crowd.
The Obsidian guild was the serpiente boogeyman. While it was certainly true that we lived outside serpiente law—my bag was proof of that—it would have been physically impossible for us to be responsible for every crime the serpiente laid at our door. We were blamed for everything from sick sheep to missing children. Every disaster that befell the serpiente people was put before us, added to a constantly growing tally of unforgivable crimes.
We had been actively hunted ever since the serpiente queen, Elise, had died in a fire. Her three-year-old daughter, Hara, had cried arson, and on the basis of that child’s hysterical testimony, every member of the Obsidian guild was suddenly guilty of treason.
This time, though …
I had helped set fire to the Shantel market stall. I had done so with their blessing, to make a pyre for the dozen blackened, rotting bodies of human slaves, who had been collateral damage in a Shantel plot to murder the masters of Midnight. The corpses had been piled on the Shantel stall as evidence of their failed treason.
I was one of a very few who knew how close the Shantel had come to succeeding, and what part our guild had actually played in the plot. Malachi, Vance, and I had breathed in the acrid stench of charred blood after magic slew the Shantel witch responsible—the witch we had encouraged to take the attack one step further so he could destroy Jeshickah herself. I had feigned ignorance, of course; we all had. Miraculously, Jeshickah had believed us.
Her continued belief in that lie was essential to our survival.
I listened long enough to confirm that the current rumor, while unflattering, was no more dangerous than the dozens of crimes of which we had already been convicted. According to the serpiente, we were bloodtraitors in fact if not by law; we had betrayed our own kind, and were working for the vampires. Rumor said that the Shantel had attempted to fight Midnight, but we had turned them in.
I turned away with my stomach rolling. The merchant, who spoke with the exaggerated drama for which serpiente were famous, made his living trading with Midnight. Yet he called us traitors? He probably hadn’t complained when the serpiente king sold two of us into slavery less than a year ago.
I returned to the palace gates with my mind heavy but no hesitation visible in my step. I swallowed thickly as I passed the guards, but they saw nothing.
Time to go home.
Hunted, hated … being in the Obsidian guild wasn’t an easy life, but it was a good life. I returned to the main camp directly, occasionally pausing to make sure I hadn’t been followed, until I passed between two tall fir trees and breathed in the scent of our campfire a little past dusk.
An outsider could have walked through the center of the Obsidian main camp without realizing it was anything but more forest. Even the longhouse, which was large enough for our fifteen members to all sleep there at once—as long as no one wanted privacy or personal space—seemed to blend into the dense evergreen trees and thick, brambly underbrush.
Most of my kin were probably inside now. The sky had darkened to a dusky purple, and rain was falling heavily enough to make a proper fire impossible outside, so they would have gathered around the longhouse’s central hearth to share warmth, as well as the suffocating closeness that serpents always seemed to crave.
I pushed back the oiled skins that served as the longhouse door and was greeted by the heady smell of simmering stew.
“Any problems?” Torquil asked as he extracted himself from the pile of people sprawled in front of the hearth and stood to take the heavy sack of food supplies from me.