Chapter 1

Nightcrest academy went by two monikers: The School that Wakes at Sundown and The Mother of Blades.

Lily Sharlane preferred the second one, but partly because blades were her dearest possessions. She even named them. The large, curved one was Amethyst. The small, pinkie-sized blade she usually kept in her sock was Dancer. The medium one she strapped to her waste was known as Lance. There were dozens of others she kept wrapped in a collection of silken pockets—some of them used daily and some she had received as gifts, and too pretty to scratch up. Over the past four years, the academy had taught her to use her knives well, and her knives had proven to be her greatest, most loyal companions.

That was why Lily thought nothing of it when she found her locker open, the day of the hunt. In retrospect, she probably should’ve been suspicious that Zia was the only one in the locker room at the time. Zia who hated her since the moment Lily had crossed her boyfriend Freshman year and his eyes never quite looked away after that. Zia who once left red paint on Lily’s chair in morning instructions so it would look to anyone else like she’d gotten her period.

Zia had been a constant reminder that Nightcrest Academy was like any other school in the world—students gathered in cliques, and others were out-casted. Dances took place twice a year, and relationships swarmed the school as quickly as weed-flowers. But the most important reminder Zia could’ve given Lily was this: Even in a place like Nightcrest, it was best to stay on your toes.

A lesson Lily had forgotten.

Nightcrest was often split into three different years. The Newbloods, the Loyals, and the Ancients. This was essentially a much fancier way of saying First Year, Second Year, and Third Year, but what Lily had come to learn of vampires was that they never really settled for common and casual. They liked big, flashy, gaudy things, no matter how ridiculous they looked.

To a vampire, prestige was everything, and Lily had none. In fact, she was worse than that. She was a half-breed among pure-blooded elites. She wouldn’t know prestige if it hit her in the canines.

It wasn’t like half-breeds were unusual by any means. There were hundreds at Nightcrest. They were called Daywalkers—the only students who could participate in daylight classes. Like them, Lily was unaffected by the sun. Like them, she should’ve been asleep at eight-PM, not preparing for classes.

But the difference between the Daywalkers and Lily was obvious. The Daywalkers were feeble, weak vampires, who wouldn’t dare associate themselves with the Purebloods. Lily was a vengeful, chaotic girl who couldn’t take no for an answer. When she was denied entrance to the night classes, Lily responded with fiery grit, training night and day until she ranked one of the highest fighters in all of Nightcrest.

And now her efforts were finally paying off.

The Hunt was the most important event of the year. It marked the final night before graduation, when dozens of the most high-ranking students participate in a challenge to determine who was most worthy of serving the Bloodprince’s Court. Lily herself didn’t care much about any egotistical prince, but to serve the court as a Vanguard was one of the highest honors—and one of the best-paying positions in the country.

Becoming a vanguard meant she’d get to live in Silver City.

The most glamorous place on earth.

Lily had only heard tales of Silvery City, but she dreamed of the high-rise buildings and lush night-parks, and all the tall, beautiful vampires who roamed the sidewalks at Sundown while the humans slept. For human beings, admittance into Silver City meant belonging to the one-percent of the world’s wealthiest people. For vampires, it meant having ties to the Bloodprince.

Her legs shook in anticipation as the joined the other contestants of the preparation line. The sun had sunken well beyond the tree-caps of the lush forest in front of them, casting mellow hues on the twilight sky. The contestants around her were just strapping on their blades—hilts around their ankles, their waists, their arms. Lily had been prepared for some time, too restless to sleep until sundown. The moment she’d found her blades in the locker room, she stuck them to her body and they hadn’t left her since.

She looked upon the crowd around her—most of the girls feeble, slender vampires with minimal muscle. Most of the men athletic, but small. She was going to win this challenge. She felt it in the air, the sounds of crickets in the distance, her heartbeat singing in her ears.

By the end of the night, she would be a Vanguard, with a place in Silver City just like the rest of them.

Professor Benson, the close-hand combat instructor, took stance in front of all the vampires who lounged on the lawn and practiced knife-throws at target-boards.

"So, we’ll go over the instructions once again," Benson said. "As you all know, some of you may not be returning from this challenge. It is a frightening prospect, yes, but every year, there is always at least one casualty." Lily swallowed hard, but this wasn’t news to her or anyone else. Vanguards sacrificed their lives for their kings—why should the test to prove themselves be any different?

"I’m going to send you out in sections," said Professor Benson. "This is to avoid friendly fire, for better sake of the term. These lands are wrought with wolves. Bring us back the claws of one before midnight. the prince will be arriving in the next two hours and he’ll make his selection before dawn breaks."

Nerves wriggled in Lily’s belly. She was envious of all the Purebloods who didn’t require a meal for breakfast. She was sure her toast was coming back up to haunt her.

Benson gave them a few more moments to prepare, then called everyone up to the starting line. Lily’s instincts twinged as Zia sidled up beside her, looking much too smug. "Good luck, Bloodcow."

Lily flinched at the slur, but turned her attention to the forest, seeking the treetops to watch the ones that moved more consistently than the others. This, she knew, were where the wolves hid.

The moment the sun disappeared behind the trees, Benson fired off his pistol into the sky and every vampire lunged into darkness.

The trees enveloped Lily, whacking her with their branches and sticking her with their needles, but she paid them no mind. She was running through the slats between them, leaping over stone and moss and streams until she came to the location where she’d seen the trees shuffle.

The earth was dark here, and she didn’t possess the eyesight that the Purebloods had, but she didn’t need it. A true vanguard used every instinct to spot their pray—not just one.

She crept along the brush, slipping silently behind trees and watching in the distance as one of the other competitors stumbled upon a wolf. It had been crouched below a bush then they attacked. Their first wing missed and the wolf slithered off deeper into the brush. If she followed it long enough, Lily could find it—kill it and take the claws for her own. She started in its direction when—

Something hit her, slamming her to the forest floor. She tumbled and bounced back to her feet, her blade already in her hand. The man that stood before her was large, with brown hair that curled above his eyes and a chest full of muscles. She wouldn’t have known him for a wolf if it was not his smell—and the fact that he was panting and watching her with white eyes, like he’d just escaped the grasps of another vampire.

She flexed her fingers tightly around the blade and leapt to him. Stab in the stomach, not the heart, they had been taught. Werewolves had outrageously strong hearts. Never bite. Never taste their blood.

Werewolf blood was simply as toxic as oleander.

That was why Lily pressed her lips together tight as she lunged to him with her blade prepared. He blocked the knife with his forearm—the blade only striking bone-deep before it exploded into broken metal and a shattered wooden hilt.

Lily’s heart dropped. "No! Lance!" she cried out.

Before she could produce another blade, the man had her by the throat, pinning her to the bark of a tree. He had picked up the broken blade—though she hadn’t any idea when, and held it to her cheek. He could have killed her then, but instead, he sought her eyes in the darkness.

His were the color of earth—rich, deep amber, long black lashes.

It was just as she’d read in class—like staring into the eyes of a wolf. Seeing the soul inside.

His large hand was crushing in on her throat. She clawed at his wrist, tears climbing her eyes. She didn’t want to beg…but she didn’t want to die, either.

"Don’t follow me," he snarled lowly, his breath against her face.

She nodded and he let go, watching her slump to the forest floor before he turned away. Every muscle in his back moved, sliding into place as he took a stance, low to the forest floor.

Then he burst to a wolf—a beast with a coat like brown-sugar and eyes like moonlight. He turned to look at her once more, then he vanished into the forest.