The Bloodletters Read online

  Contents

  The Bloodletters

  Copyright

  Teaser

  The Bloodletters

  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

  Epilogue

  Free Book

  Author's Note

  THE

  BLOODLETTERS

  Samantha Bell

  Copyright © 2019 Samantha Bell

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781697445848

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Paper and Sage Design

  “I began this morning an heir. Now, I am nothing but a slave.”

  Generations ago, our country was saved by the Royals. These god-like beings feed on the blood of the commoners to survive; In exchange for our blood, the Royals provide safety and stability for our people.

  As the daughter of a Minister, Violet should have been the last person to end up enslaved to the insatiable thirst of the Royals. She must surrender her blood day and night to the elite until her nineteenth birthday, or die at the hands of the monsters who roam the streets after dark.

  When Violet is chosen to serve as Crown Prince’s personal Bloodletter, she soon finds herself in the arms of his brother. As their love grows, so does the risk. Will Violet remain in her gilded prison forever, or will the Prince free her from the bounds of mortality? Can she too become a Royal?

  - - - -

  Fans of Everless by Sara Holland and Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard will love this new twist on the dystopian vampire tale. The Bloodletters is an upper YA dark romantic fantasy that contains violence and suggestive themes. First book of a planned trilogy.

  THE

  BLOODLETTERS

  Samantha Bell

  ONE

  THE DAY AFTER MY MOTHER’S FUNERAL, THEY CAME FOR ME.

  I was sitting in my private room by the window that looked over the gardens. It was springtime; the flowers were blooming in a riot of colors. I watched birds flit around from tree to tree and the breeze ruffle the leaves slowly.

  I heard footsteps outside my door. I quickly snapped my eyes back to the history book that I should be studying. As a Minister’s daughter, it was expected of me to know the history of our kingdom in fine detail.

  “When the war was over and Inwaed was founded, the top warriors emerged as kings, blessed by the Gods with longevity, beauty, and strength in exchange for the blood they must consume,” I whispered, knowing this passage by heart. I ran my fingers over the wrinkled paper.

  The footsteps paused by my door and then continued down the hall. I waited until the echo of heels vanished before exhaling and closing the heavy tome on my lap. I stretched my arms and glanced back out the window.

  My younger brothers, Charles, and Samuel were walking towards the stables. They must have finished their lessons early. I frowned, watching their blond hair glint in the sunlight. They dressed in matching breeches with their helmets dangling carelessly in their hands. Charles was swinging a riding crop while Samuel, the younger of the pair, laughed.

  I shook my head and left my window seat. I set the history book on my desk and paused at my mirror. Every time I looked at myself, I saw my mother. I had her same tall and slender build, same blue eyes, and same freckled skin. My hair was lighter than hers, the color of the amber ring she always wore.

  I glanced at the photo slipped into the frame of the mirror. My mother, Lady Sophia Ackerman, dressed in finery, the night of my father’s election. That was twelve years ago. I had just turned five. My only memories of that night were how boring the ceremony was and how lovely my mother looked in green silk.

  I clenched my fists and turned away. Hot tears stung my eyes, and I wiped them away furiously. I swore to myself I was done crying since her funeral yesterday. I hated mourning, but what I hated most was that I seemed to be the only one stricken by her sudden illness and passing.

  My father, Lord Henry Ackerman, had a face like a stone wall. As the Minister of the province, he was too busy to be with my mother in her time of need. He was always too busy for everything, immersing himself in politics. Avoiding his family. Avoiding me more than all of them put together.

  I was his eldest child; my mother had named me Violet. The doctors said it was a miracle the day I was born. It had been a complicated pregnancy, and I was purple and still when I came into this world. My mother’s song had brought the first cry from my lips; she had resurrected me from the dead.

  I ran my fingers through my loose curly hair and tied it back into a bun at the base of my neck. Though it was my imagination, I could have sworn I heard my tutor’s voice in my head, reminding me of my studies. I rolled my eyes, glaring at the pile of books about politics and history. I loved to read, but the dry contents of these texts made me want to burn every single last one of them.

  I was the heir to the Ackerman family. As my father’s eldest child, I would one day take the title of Minister from him, unless a non-confidence election was called or if the Royals intervened. My father was young, only thirty-three when he won the election twelve years ago. The Ackerman’s had always been an influential family. It was no surprise that when my father ran for office of Wythtir that he won by a landslide. The Ministry system was straight-forward: once the people elected a minster, his family would rule until they were determined to be unfit. The minister who ruled before my father’s election had died without an heir, so the Royals called an election. It was the first in several generations. Some provinces had a high turnover; others had been in the same family since the time of the wars.

  Sometimes I wondered what life would have been like if he hadn’t won the election, if we had just continued our simple but luxurious lives with the rest of the upper class. Maybe I would have had friends or a fiancé. Now I was being simultaneously groomed by tutors and councilors while being looked down upon by my father.

  I smoothed the wrinkles out of my blouse and summoned the strength to return to my studies. After lunch, maybe I would go riding and forget about the world for a while.

  There was a knock at the door. A quick rap that I recognized as Mrs. Barber, one of our housekeepers.

  “Come in,” I called.

  “Miss Violet, dear, lunch will be ready momentarily.” Mrs. Barber was a short, portly woman. She had been our housekeeper before my father’s election. My mother insisted that she come with us since she was a widow and her late husband’s meager pension would have forced her on the streets.

  I checked the clock on the wall. The gilded hands pointed up; it was nearly noon. Where had the morning gone? Wasted away in reading dusty books and memorizing facts that my father himself probably didn’t know.

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Barber,” I said with a smile. As soon as lunch was over, I would be free to
enjoy the afternoon.

  “Lord Ackerman is taking lunch on the terrace,” Mrs. Barber continued. “He has requested that you join him.”

  I didn’t hide the groan from the housekeeper. I hadn’t seen my father since the funeral, and there I only posed for photos and avoided looking at him while I spoke my part of the eulogy.

  Mrs. Barber gave me a patient look. “Now dear, you must know that your mother’s passing has been difficult on all of us. Perhaps Lord Ackerman most of all. You know he loved your mother.”

  My grandmothers had both passed when I was young, and I considered Mrs. Barber to be part of our family. I looked away from her, trying not to notice that her eyes had gone misty. My father had never been open with his emotions; my mother always said it was because of his position. He couldn’t how weakness and risk raising the suspicions of the people—or worse, the Royals.

  I forced a smile and sighed. “I supposed you’re right,” I conceded. The clock on the wall chimed, marking the noon hour.

  Mrs. Barber gave me a nod and left without another word.

  I checked myself in the mirror once more and then made my way to the third-floor terrace. The Minister’s Manor was large, more than twice the size of the townhome which I had spent my first five years. It was three stories high, with countless bedrooms, bathrooms, offices and a small ballroom for entertaining guests. We employed about a dozen servants, including Mrs. Barber, who kept the house, the grounds and our family in impeccable condition.

  I walked past our small library, remembering the party last month where I had stolen away with Councilor Wentworth’s son. He had told me it was his intention to court me formally if our fathers would approve it. I grimaced at being betrothed to such a clumsy lover. Thankfully, his champagne-driven promises were never formalized.

  The terrace was near my father’s office and smaller than the one on the ground floor where we would host receptions and parties. The doors were open, letting in a gentle breeze. I could hear the clinking of plates and silverware as a servant set the table.

  My father sat at the table, reading the daily newspaper. The crest of the province of Wythtir, the province he was Minister of, was embroidered on the lapel of his black jacket. He wore black from head to toe. It was custom for a widower to mourn for seventy days following the death of his wife. Today was day number ten; I knew because I had counted them.

  My father looked up, hearing my footsteps on the stone. “Ah, Violet, there you are.” He folded his newspaper on his lap. His eyes rimmed red as if he had also been crying recently.

  I held my head high and sat across from him. “Father,” I said curtly.

  The servant set down a shallow bowl of leek soup in front of me. There was a plate of thin cheese sandwiches between us. He filled my glass with white wine and then tended to my father. I didn’t take a bite, waiting for my father to speak. He had a look in his eyes; he was thinking about something. It was a look that his political adversaries never seemed to notice, but I caught it easily.

  Lord Ackerman didn’t meet my gaze. Instead, he busied himself with his soup.

  “Will Charles and Samuel be joining us today?” I said. I knew full well that they were in the stables but forced conversation was better than his infuriating slurping.

  My father looked up. “Ah, no, my dear. I hoped that we could spend some time together today.”

  “I see,” I replied. I took a sip of wine before continuing. “And why would that be, Father?”

  The Minister looked flustered at my question. “What do you mean? Surely a father can enjoy a meal with his daughter. With his heir.” He added.

  I narrowed my eyes but quickly masked my suspicion. My father had never taken an interest in me. He coached me through tutors, avoided me at family gatherings, and made it no secret that he favored his sons over me.

  I knew why, of course, but he had no idea. My mother and I were always close; I was her only daughter, after all. Shortly after her diagnosis, she admitted to me that she had an affair around the time I was conceived. Father had always believed that I was a bastard, not a child of his blood. With me looking exactly like my mother, there wasn’t proof aside from my mother’s word.

  “You must be the perfect heir.” Mother said to me that night. “Prove to him that you can be a great ruler, a smart politician, and he will come to love you.”

  I knew now that I didn’t want his love and I would have gladly traded his life for hers.

  “I know that your mother’s passing has been hard,” my father continued. “But we must carry on, for her sake.” He paused, looking me in the eye for the first time since I sat down. “You look just like her, you know.”

  I knew. I heard it all the time, but I had never heard it from him. “Yes,” I agreed, busying myself with a sandwich.

  The breeze ruffled the tablecloth and pulled tendrils of my amber colored hair out of the bun. When the servant came to refill my drink, I gladly let him and then let the silence settle upon us. I glanced back at my father, who was staring out towards the gardens.

  I pushed the soup away and folded my napkin. “Well, thank you for lunch, Father,” I said briskly. “I think I shall be going now.” I stood.

  “Are you going to go out for a ride?” Lord Ackerman asked, not commenting that I had barely eaten a bite.

  “Yes, I think I shall,” I replied and quickly left the terrace.

  I wondered why he had taken such a sudden interest in me. I shook my head. My father had always hated me, even if he had never said it outright. I rolled my shoulders and pushed away the anxious thoughts. He was in mourning; people always did strange things when they were upset. But I forced myself to go forward. I loved my mother dearly; she was the only one in our family that I could connect with – but she was gone. No amount of tears would bring her back. If I would be a Minister one day, I couldn’t let anything hold me down.

  I dressed in black riding breeches and a matching jacket. While it was socially appropriate for me to wear color after the funeral, I couldn’t bring myself to wear my favorite red riding clothes. I pulled on my leather boots and made my way down to the stables without incident.

  The musky smell of leather and hay met me when I pushed opened the heavy doors. Mr. Finnegan, the stable hand was tending to a mare and her young foal. He nodded towards me and smiled.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Finnegan.”

  “Afternoon, Miss Violet,” he replied. “Are you going for a ride? Can I help you with anything?”

  I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’m sure Lily needs you more needs you more than me.”

  The stable hand grinned and patted the gray mare’s neck. “Alright, Miss, but call if you need something, alright?”

  I nodded and walked down the aisle to where my mare was in her stall. She arched her neck over the boards and snorted. I rubbed her velvety nose before pushing open the door and taking her by her halter. She was a patient horse that my father had bought me when I was twelve. In the five years I had ridden her we knew each other so well it took no time for her headgear and saddle.

  I met my brothers as I left the stable. Their horses were sweaty and frothing at the mouth. The boys greeted me with sneers.

  “All done studying, Violet?” Samuel said.

  Charles dismounted and threw the reins into Mr. Finnegan’s waiting hands.

  Samuel did the same and pulled off his helmet, shaking his blond hair.

  While I looked like my mother, both of my brothers took after my father. Their eyes were the same dark green, the same square jaws and broad builds.

  “What about your studies?” I turned their question back on them, absentmindedly twisting my mare’s mane through my fingers.

  Charles snorted. “Finished. Going to eat.”

  Samuel nodded.

  Mr. Finnegan took their horses without a word.

  “You know, you could wash your own horses,” I said.

  “Yeah, right! That’s what servants are for,” Charles said.


  I clenched my teeth. Both of my brothers were so young when my father won the election, they couldn’t remember a time where they weren’t waited on hand and foot. “Well, when I left, I was sure that I smelled apple tarts being baked in the kitchen.”

  My brothers looked at each other and dashed off in the manor's direction.

  I rolled my eyes. That always worked on them and Mrs. Barber would wrangle them into doing some chores before getting their prize. As spoiled as they were, no one ever said no to that woman – except maybe my father.

  I shook the thoughts of my family away and mounted my mare. I named her Firefly when I was a girl, a name that seemed silly next to Charles and Samuel’s Maximus and Titan, respectively. I patted Firefly’s neck and clicked my tongue. “Come on, girl, let’s ride.”

  I guided her towards the large riding arena. We picked up speed, and she cleared the metal gate with ease. I lost myself and my worries for hours.

  I rode until teatime. Then, after washing Firefly and saying a quick goodbye to Mr. Finnegan, I returned to my room to change.

  My black blouse and skirt from the morning were already whisked away to be washed. I threw my sweaty riding gear into the hamper, washed my face, and changed into a simple black dress. I brushed my hair and tied it into a bun. These days, we were always having visitors and well-wishers coming to comfort us and I had to be presentable.

  There was a knock at my door. It wasn’t the familiar rhythm of Mrs. Barber or any other hand that I could recognize.

  “Yes?” I called out cautiously.

  “Violet, dear, it’s me.” My father’s voice drifted under the door.

  I hesitated. Seeing him twice in one day? The man tried to pretend I didn’t exist. That was even stranger than the lunch invitation.

  “I’ll be down in a minute, Father,” I said and pushed my feet into my favorite black shoes.

  “Well, actually, there’s something I need to talk to you about. Privately.”