Pulling the doors to the ballroom open, I threw myself inside. The room turned at my entrance the camera zooming in on me. I held my hand up to hide my face as I pushed my way through the crowd.

I could hear Marsha calling out my name but I ignored him. The only thing on my mind was getting as far away from Patrick Blordril and the rest of these monsters.

Getting up the stairs in my long dress proved to be harder than when I had entered. I hadn’t been in a rush to get away then though. I kept tripping over my skirt and knew I’d torn it in some places from my careless steps. I grabbed the full part of the skirt and held it to me as I ran up the stairs.

The doors didn’t open for me this time. I had to tug the large door open myself but once it shut behind me relief didn’t come. My feet kept moving me further and further away from the music, the laughter, the prying eyes.

Eyes. Red eyes. The feral look on Patrick’s face came back to my mind and my feet moved even quicker.

I didn’t know where I was going, only that I needed to get away. I couldn’t go back to my room; if Patrick came looking for me that would be the first place he’d look. I thought briefly to search for Asher but then he was Patrick’s cousin, he must know what they are and he’d kept it from me.

I found a large set of double-doubles—the sign above it said library. It was a good a place as any to hide. I had said in my interview I didn’t read so maybe they wouldn’t look for me here.

Once inside, I found myself alone. I found a chair and collapsed in it. I didn’t cry or scream. No theatrics from this girl. But I did take in large gulps of air as I tried to come to terms with what happened. My mind reeled with confusion and horror.

What were they? I’d never seen anyone look like that. Were they sick? I’d never heard of anything like them. Then a thought came to me. It might not be all of them, it could just be Patrick. If it was, then the Fold has been hiding a big secret from the rest of us. But if it turned out to be all of them then they needed to be outed. The people deserved to know who was ruling them.

But would anyone believe me without proof? I didn’t have anything but my word against theirs and they could say I was out of my mind. Seeing things. Then I’d be put away where I couldn’t tell anyone or worse yet have my memory wiped.

No, I couldn’t go public until I knew what I was up against and could prove it. Then I remembered I was in a library. Getting to my feet, I rushed to the shelves. Surely, there had to be something here about them. Something to help me prove my case.

At first, I didn’t find anything. The majority of the books were stories or books about numbers and history. I knew some of our history. There used to be lots of cars and large buildings, more people than we had now. So many that the world became overpopulated. Then an epidemic had hit and barely anyone survived. Alban rose up from the ashes of what was left, in some place they had called Alabama. I was sure it was why we called our little country that, to honor where we came from.

The history that had been passed down to us was a watered-down version we all just accepted because we didn’t know any better. Too worried about surviving to care about how we got there. But I’d been wrong. I should have been worried, asked questions. Because if our leaders were monsters then there was a reason they were at the top and we at the bottom, barely scraping by.

After what seemed like hours of searching I finally found something. A book with a leather cover, a bit beaten up but still the title legible.

“A Guide for the Newly Converted,” I read aloud. Moving over to a chair, I opened the book carefully, afraid it would fall to pieces in my hands. I stared at the words searching for something that could help me. Anything.

The first few chapters were about the election. How the person should be tested before electing them for conversion. Then there were warnings about picking someone based solely on looks, or one of too strong a mind.

“They’d screwed up there,” I scoffed to no one.

I continued to read until I came to a part about marking the elected. “On the night of the election, one must draw the blood of the one they wish to convert to make the claim official,” I read aloud. “This will mark them as yours and keep any other potential members of the nest at bay.”

Nest? What the hell are they talking about? We weren’t birds. The marking worried me. No one, not Asher or Daphne had mentioned anything about being marked.

My finger touched my lip where it had already begun to scab over. I didn’t doubt that it had been Patrick’s way of claiming me. Though, I had been the one to jerk away if I hadn’t done it, would he have found another way? I didn’t like to think so.

I turned my attention back to the book. It went on to explain the ritual of changing over a convert. Some fancy words would be spoken, I’d have to promise to be part of their nest, and then the last part made my stomach coil into a tight knot. The marking was not the last time I’d have to have my blood drawn. It would be part of the ceremony as well.

“The blood of the convert must be drained until the heart slows,” I said my heart beating harder, panic setting in with each word I read. “It is important to get the moment right or else the convert will be lost. Then, when the time is right, the convert must drink from the master.”

Master. Patrick.

The thought of drinking anyone’s blood made me sick to my stomach. I decided then and there that I wouldn’t be drinking anyone’s blood. They’d have to kill me first.

I came to the end of the chapter as it described what would happen to the convert after the exchange. Three words stood out for me. Hunger. Immortal. Vampire.

As I tried to process these words, the door to the library swung open. I dropped the book to the floor as I stood to my feet. Marsha stumbled in, holding his neck with his hand. He had a small smile on his face, as if he’d drunk too much wine.

“There you are,” he giggled. I rushed to his side as he tripped over his feet and almost fell to the ground.

“Marsha,” I held onto him though his weight pulled me down, “What happened?” I tried to move his hand to see but he pushed me away.

“I think someone spiked my drink,” he laughed and turned about the room. “I was talking to one of the members—Tris, I think is her name.”

“Marsha,” I tried again, grabbing at his shoulders. “You should sit down before you hurt yourself.”

“Oh,” he chuckled, “I already did that.” He finally sat down for me to see his neck. “Like, I said, I was talking to Tris and we were having a great time. Someone yelled out to me and then I must have tripped or something because I was on the floor and my neck was bleeding.”

I saw now what he talked about. A small cut, not much bigger than the one on my lip lay across his neck. It still bled slightly if prodded at but it wasn’t too deep. Relief fell over me as I realized he’d be okay but then just as fast, realization settled in.

Tris, a short plump woman with dark multi-toned hair and bright green eyes, had been the other one who would pick a convert. The wound on Marsha’s neck wasn’t just from an accident. No, it would be too much of a coincidence. She must have done it to him as her way of marking him.

“Marsha,” I said, a seriousness in my tone. “We have to get out of here.”

“What?” Marsha looked up at me his eyes dopey. “Why? Aren’t you having fun?”

“No, I’m not.” I shook my head. “And neither are you. We’re in danger.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about.” Marsha shook his head and then smiled. “I know what we can do. Let’s go on that date we talked about. Right now.” He stood to his feet, a bit wobbly but he stayed upright. “We can go raid the kitchen and then eat while we watch the stars. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“Yes,” I answered, trying to keep him with me. “But wouldn’t that be more fun back home? In the Inner Circle?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him what I’d found out, but it was too bizarre even for me. There was no such thing as vampires. They were just something people made up to scare little kids. Besides, the ones I’d heard about couldn’t stand the daylight and I’d seen Patrick in the sun.

Hadn’t I?

I suddenly couldn’t remember a time I’d seen him outside when it wasn’t dark. We’d done the initial interviews and such inside and the curtains had been drawn then. The parties themselves were at night, with no chance of being hit by the sun.

The more I tried to rationalize it the more it started to make sense. The man I’d been talking to—the one whose attention I’d been vying for—wasn’t human at all. Not really. If the stories were true, he was little more than the walking dead, and he wanted to make me one of them.

Over my dead body. Which sadly might actually be the case.