The Iron Fey series The Iron King The Iron Daughter The Iron Queen The Iron Knight The Lost Prince The Iron Traitor The Iron Warrior

      To Nick,

      who will always slay vampires with me.

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      Funny story, back at the beginning of my writing career, I remember telling myself that I wouldn’t write a vampire book. That there were already so many books about our favourite bloodsuckers, I didn’t have anything new to add to the masses. Obviously, that plan went by the wayside, and I am so thankful it did. I’ve loved every moment of writing this book, and I have many people to thank for that. My wonderful agent, Laurie McLean, who convinced me to give this whole “write a vampire book” a go. My editor Natashya Wilson for all her encouragement, hard work and little smiley faces next to the passages that she really likes. I live for those smiley faces. The fabulous people at HQ for awesome covers, awesome support and all-around awesomeness.

      As always, my gratitude goes to my family, and especially to my husband, Nick, who continues to point out obvious logic-holes in the plot when I’m being stubborn and want it to work out “because I say so.”

      CHAPTER 1

      They hung the Unregistereds in the old warehouse district; it was a public execution, so everyone went to see.

      I stood at the back, a nameless face in the crowd, too close to the gallows for comfort but unable to look away. There were three of them this time, two boys and a girl. The oldest was about my age, seventeen and skinny, with huge frightened eyes and greasy dark hair that hung to his shoulders. The other two were even younger, fourteen and fifteen if I had to guess, and siblings, since they both had the same stringy yellow hair. I didn’t know them; they weren’t part of my crowd. Still, they had the same look of all Unregistereds; thin and ragged, their eyes darting about like trapped animals. I crossed my arms tightly, feeling their desperation. It was over. The trap had closed; the hunters had caught them, and there was no place for them to run.

      The pet stood on the edge of the platform, puffed up and swaggering, as if he had caught the kids himself. He was walking back and forth, pointing to the condemned and rattling off a list of crimes, his pale eyes gleaming with triumph.

      “… assaulting a citizen of the Inner City, robbery, trespassing and resisting arrest. These criminals attempted to steal Class One foodstuffs from the private warehouse of the Inner City. This is a crime against you, and more important, a crime against our benevolent Masters.”

      I snorted. Fancy words and legal mumbo jumbo didn’t erase the fact that these “criminals” were just doing what all Unregistereds did to survive. For whatever reasons, fate, pride or stubbornness, we nonregistered humans didn’t have the mark of our vampire masters etched into our skin, the brands that told you who you were, where you lived and who you belonged to. Of course, the vampires said it was to keep us safe, to keep track of everyone within the city, to know how much food they had to allow for. It was for our own good. Yeah, right. Call it what you wanted, it was just another way to keep their human cattle enslaved. You might as well be wearing a collar around your neck.

      There were several good things about being Unregistered. You didn’t exist. You were off their records, a ghost in the system. Because your name wasn’t on the lists, you didn’t have to show up for the monthly bloodletting, where human pets in crisp white coats stuck a tube in your vein and siphoned your blood into clear bags that were placed into coolers and taken to the Masters. Miss a couple lettings and the guards came for you, forcing you to pony up the late blood, even if it left you empty as a limp sack. The vamps got their blood, one way or another.

      Being Unregistered let you slip through the cracks. There was no leash for the bloodsuckers to yank on. And since it wasn’t exactly a crime, you’d think everyone would do it. Unfortunately, being free came with a hefty price. Registered humans got meal tickets. Unregistereds didn’t. And since the vamps controlled all the food in the city, this made getting enough to eat a real problem.

      So we did what anyone in our situation would do. We begged. We stole. We scraped up food wherever we could, did anything to survive. In the Fringe, the outermost circle of the vampire city, food was scarce even if you weren’t Unregistered. The ration trucks came twice a month and were heavily guarded. I’d seen Registered citizens beaten just for getting out of line. So while it wasn’t exactly a crime to be Unregistered, if you got caught stealing from the bloodsuckers and you didn’t have the Prince’s cursed brand gracing your skin, you could expect no mercy whatsoever.

      It was a lesson I’d learned well. Too bad these three never did.

      “… eight ounces of soy, two potatoes, and a quarter loaf of bread.” The pet was still going on, and his audience had their eyes glued to the gallows now, morbidly fascinated. I slipped into the crowd, moving away from the platform. The smug voice rang out behind me, and I clenched my hands, wishing I could drive a fist through his smiling teeth. Damn pets. In some ways, they were even worse than the bloodsuckers. They’d chosen to serve the vamps, selling out their fellow humans for the safety and luxury it brought. Everyone hated them, but at the same time everyone was jealous of them, as well.

      “The rules regarding Unregistered citizens are clear.” The pet was wrapping up, stretching out his words for the greatest effect. “According to clause twenty-two, line forty-six of New Covington law, any human found stealing within city limits, who does not have the mark of protection from the Prince, shall be hanged by the neck until they are dead. Do the accused have any last words?”

      I heard muffled voices, the oldest thief swearing at the pet, telling him to do something anatomically impossible. I shook my head. Brave words wouldn’t help him. Nothing would now. It was fine and good to be defiant to the end, but it was better not to get caught in the first place. That was his first mistake and, ultimately, his last. Always leave yourself an out; that was the first rule of the Unregistereds. Do whatever you want—hate the vamps, curse the pets—but never get caught. I picked up my pace, hurrying past the edge of the crowd, and broke into a jog.

      The clunk of the trapdoors releasing echoed very loudly in my ears, even over the gasp of the watching crowd. The silence that followed was almost a living thing, urging me to turn, to glance over my shoulder. Ignoring the knot in my stomach, I slipped around a corner, putting the wall between myself and the gallows so I wouldn’t be tempted to look back.

      LIFE IN THE FRINGE is a simple thing, like the people who live here. They don’t have to work, though there are a couple “trading posts” set up around the Fringe, where people