Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “Seems a little cruel to me,” I counter calmly. “Asking an eight-year-old to relocate alone inside enemy territory to play hostage.”

            “ ‘Hostage’ is such a crude, simplistic word.”

            “You hold a Human child as a deterrent for ten years, with the mutual understanding that if the Humans violate the terms of our alliance, the Vampyres will instantly murder the child. That seems crude and simplistic, too.”

            Father’s eyes narrow. “It’s not unilateral.” His voice grows harder. “The Humans hold a Vampyre child for the same reason—”

            “I know, Father.” I lean forward. “I was the previous Vampyre Collateral, in case you have forgotten.”

            I wouldn’t put it past him—but no. He might not recall the way I tried to hold his hand as the armored sedan drove us north, or me trying to hide behind Vania’s thigh when I first got a glimpse of the Humans’ oddly colored eyes. He might not know how it felt, growing up with the knowledge that if the ceasefire between us and the Humans broke down, the same caregivers who’d taught me how to ride a bike would come into my room and drive a knife through my heart. He might not dwell on the fact that he sent his daughter to be the eleventh Collateral, ten years a prisoner among people who hated her kind.

            But he does remember. Because the first rule of the Collateral, of course, is that they have to be closely tied to those in power. Those who make decisions concerning peace and war. And if Maddie Garcia doesn’t want to throw a member of her family under the bus in the name of public safety, that only makes me respect her more. The boy who took over when I turned eighteen is the grandson of Councilwoman Ewing. And when I served as the Vampyre Collateral, my Human counterpart was the grandson of Governor Davenport. I used to wonder if he felt like I did—sometimes angry, sometimes resigned. Mostly expendable. I’d sure love to know if, now that years have passed, he gets along with his family better than I do with mine.

            “Alexandra Boden. Do you remember her?” Father’s tone is back to conversational. “You were born the same year.”

            I sit back in my chair, unsurprised by the abrupt change of topic. “Red hair?”

            He nods. “A little more than a week ago, her little brother, Abel, turned fifteen. That night, he and three friends were out partying, and found themselves near the river. Emboldened by their youth and feeble-mindedness, they challenged each other to swim across it, touch the riverbank that belongs to Were territory, and then swim back. A show of bravery, if you will.”

            I’m not invested in the fate of Alexandra Boden’s bratty brother, but my body goes icy cold nonetheless. All Vampyre children are taught about the danger of the southern border. We all learn where our territory ends and the Weres’ begins before we can speak. And we all know not to mess with anything Were.

            Except for these four idiots, clearly.

            “They’re dead,” I murmur.

            Father’s lips curl up in something that looks very little like compassion, and a lot like annoyance. “It’s what they deserved, in my frank opinion. Of course, when the boys couldn’t be found, the worst was assumed. Ansel Boden, the boy’s father, has strong ties to several council families, and petitioned for a retaliatory act. He argued that their disappearance would justify it. He was reminded that the good of our people as a whole comes before the good of the one—the basic principle Vampyre society relies on. Birth rates are at our lowest, and we are facing extinction. This is not the time to stoke conflict. And yet, in an unbecoming display of weakness, he continued to beg.”

            “Disgusting. How dare he grieve for his son.”

            Father gives me a scathing look. “Because of his relationship to the council, he came close to having his way. Just last week, while you were busy pretending to be Human, we were closer to an interspecies war than we’ve been in a century. And then, two days after their dull-witted stunt . . .” Father stands. He walks around the desk and then leans back against its edge, the picture of relaxation. “The boys reappeared. Intact.”

            I blink, a habit I picked up while pretending to be Human. “Their corpses?”

            “They are alive. Shaken, of course. They were interrogated by Were guards—treated as spies, at first, and then as unruly nuisances. But they were eventually returned home, whole and healthy.”

            “How?” I can think of half a dozen incidents in the past twenty years in which borders were breached and whatever was left of the offenders got sent back in pieces. It mostly happens outside city limits, in the demilitarized woodlands. Regardless, Weres have been merciless to our people, and we have been merciless toward Weres. Which means that . . . “What changed?”