Free Blood Moon by Alyxandra Harvey

don’t,” Dad said thoughtfully. “Are you sure they were Helios-Ra?”
    “Who else would they be?”
    “Huntsmen.”
    “What’s the difference?”
    “Huntsmen are vampire hunters, just not League. They haven’t come to Violet Hill since before any of you were even born. No point with all the Helios-Ra about.”
    “Do they wear fang trophy necklaces?”
    He nodded grimly.
    “And commit suicide if they think they’ve been infected?” Solange asked quietly.
    Dad nodded again. “Did one of them … ?”
    “Yes.”
    Dad winced. “In front of you?”
    London started to whimper. She wasn’t conscious but she was thrashing on the sofa. I helped Dad hold her down. Her skin was hot, feverish. Vampires didn’t run hot. We just didn’t.
    Uncle Geoffrey finally arrived, toting his medical case. He went straight to London, the pleasant, slightly befuddled scientist replaced with clinical precision. He went tight-lipped when he saw the wound.
    “Stake soaked in holy water,” Dad said. “Huntsman’s weapon.”
    Uncle Geoffrey looked even grimmer. “Who knows what othertricks they have,” he said. He hooked London up to a blood bag to give her a transfusion since she didn’t appear to be swallowing. Vampires needed blood to heal. Lots of blood. And sleep.
    “She’ll be okay, right?” Solange asked. “I mean, Aunt Hyacinth survived holy water.” Scarred, but survived. And vampires didn’t scar easily.
    “Hyacinth had Madame Veronique’s blood,” Geoffrey said, rummaging through his case. “That’s what saved her. And I have none.”
    Vampires didn’t drink other vampire blood as a rule. It served no nutritional purpose. Unless it was the blood of an ancient from your own lineage—then it could heal you. Madame Veronique was the oldest living Drake, according to all the family stories. Her twins, born in 1162, were our first direct ancestors and the reason our particular branch of the family tree turned into vampires on our sixteenth birthdays.
    “Well, where is she?” Logan asked. “Can we bring her here?”
    “Would she even help?” I asked. “She’s not exactly puppies and rainbows. And you know how she feels about London’s side of the family.” London had served Lady Natasha, not believing that she’d wanted Solange dead. She’d nearly handed us all over into a trap.
    “I have her blood,” Solange announced softly. We turned to stare at her. “Well, don’t I?” she asked Uncle Geoffrey. “I drank that tiny bit to heal me through my bloodchange. Is it still inside me?”
    Uncle Geoffrey blinked. “I honestly wouldn’t know. But it’s worth a try.”
    Solange approached the sofa. There was enough blood beingpumped into London’s veins that she was lucid, her eyes half-open. But her lips were already dry and cracked, as if she’d been ill for weeks and was severely dehydrated. Before Uncle Geoffrey could pass Solange a lancet, she’d already sliced her wrist open with her triple fangs. A trickle of blood moved down her arm and she hurried to press the cut over London’s mouth. London swallowed thickly, painfully; once, twice, three times. Bats whispered at the tent ceiling, their shadows huge and distorted by the torchlight.
    At Uncle Geoffrey’s nod, Solange pulled back, pressing the edges of her cut together to help it heal faster. London’s gaping wound didn’t magically heal but it did look slightly less angry. Geoffrey fussed over her for a few moments then nodded, satisfied. “Well done, Sol,” he said proudly. “I think she’ll be fine, eventually.” He pulled empty test tubes out of his case. “Fascinating. If I could get more blood from you … I never thought to test—”
    “No.” Solange backed away. “No more tests, Uncle Geoffrey.” She fled the tent before anyone could stop her.

Chapter 7

Lucy
    Sunday night
    I snuck off campus using the route Hunter showed me earlier. Between her and Quinn, they kept it free of school surveillance, and it was the