The Blood Scion: The Scion Legacy, #1

Table of Contents

Title Page

The Blood Scion (The Scion Legacy, #1)

Vampire House Hierarchy:

Part 1. Armstad House

Chapter 1. The Reporter

Chapter 2. A Lunch Date

Chapter 3. The Blood Prince

Chapter 4. The Escape

Chapter 5. The News

Chapter 6. The Fortress House

Chapter 7. The Sunset.

Chapter 8. The Drive

Chapter 9. The Patriarch

Chapter 10. The Truth

Part 2. Raven House

Chapter 11. The Plan

Chapter 12. The Outcast Prince

Chapter 13. The Vow

Chapter 14. The Fallout

Chapter 15. The Attack

Chapter 16. The Raven Scion

Chapter 17. The Order

Part 3. The Lesser House

Chapter 18. The Editor

Chapter 19. The Past

Chapter 20: The Roommate

Chapter 21. The Lesser House

Chapter 22. The New Understanding

Chapter 23. The Sycophant

Chapter 24. The Free City

Part 4. Cannes House

Chapter 25. The Blade’s Vow

Chapter 26. The Raven Scion

Part 5. The End Game

Chapter 27. The Reporters

Chapter 28. The Blade’s Vow

Chapter 29. The Patriarch

Chapter 30. The Hard Place

Chapter 31. The Scion House

The Scion’s Blade

The Blood Scion

The Scion Legacy

By Nazarea Andrews

The Blood Scion Copyright © 2015 by Nazarea Andrews

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by A&A Literary

1. Vampires 2. Romance 3. New Adult 4. Paranormal Romance

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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For information, address Nazarea Andrews @ NazareaFYI@gmail.com

www.nazareaandrews.com

Edited by Angi Black

Cover design by Mel Stevens of the Illustrated Author

Cover art copyright©: Nazarea Andrews

Not all family is blood.

And not all friends are not.

For the family who are friends and the friends who became family.

Thanks for dealing with my crazy nonsense. <3

I owe my loyalty to my Patriarch and my House.

But I will spill blood only for my Scion.

-The Perri Blade

Vampire House Hierarchy:

A vampire House exists peacefully through a rigid hierarchy. Power begins at the top and trickles down in a pyramid.

Patriarch

Prince | Princess | Scion

Blood Knights

Progeny

Sycophants

Patriarch—one of twelve original vampires, each has founded a Great House.

Blood Prince/Princess—the vampires changed by a patriarch. They stand as equals within the house politics, and are often given tasks by the patriarch.

Progeny—the vampires changed by any vampire. A Foundation line begins with a Blood Prince/Princess creating progeny, who in turn create progeny, trickling down and farther from the origins of the House.

Scion—a human. Generally a Scion is chosen from a family that has served a House for hundreds of years—some dating back to when the Patriarch was changed. Equal in status to a Blood Prince/Princess

Sycophant—a human. Sometimes families, but more often, a single human useful to the House somehow. Works for the Scion, and often is loyal to one Prince/Princess above the others. Given no authority or protection aside from what the Scion, Prince or Princess offers.

Blood Knights—most often the direct progeny of the Prince and Princesses, they serve as the military arm of the House and are loyal to the Patriarch and Blade.

Blade—the House assassin and advisor to the Patriarch, most often a Blood Prince or Princess.

First Born—in some Houses, the first vampire created by a Patriarch, stands slightly above the other Princes/Princesses, and serves as right hand to the Patriarch.

Lesser House—A Foundation line that has broken from the original patriarch and formed under the Blood Prince/Princess who created it.

Part 1. Armstad House

House Armstad (Also called the Griffin) has had their finger on the pulse of American politics before America was a sovereign nation. Of the twelve Great Houses, they are the most invested in America as a nation—our well being serves their own power. That is not to say that Armstad will bother to protect us. As ever, with the Houses and Patriarchs, their plans and power plays are not known to us.

I believe that is or the best, for all of us.

From A History of the Houses.

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The HRO launched another attack today against the Great Houses. The civil liberty group—called terrorist by the vampires—are claiming responsibility today for the burning of a coven home in Seattle.

The Klinge Scion has not responded to the allegations at this time.

The Patriarchs and Scions of Cannes, Armstad and the European Perri have all offered their condolences on the deaths, and their assistance in the wake of the tragedy.

Sympathy for the HRO is still growing in the human sectors.

(First appeared on Shot in the Dark)

Chapter 1. The Reporter

No one wakes up and thinks, This is the day my life will change.

We wake up and think, I forgot to set the coffee. Five more minutes. I think I’m going to stop for a bagel. Did Elise give my dress back? Five more fucking minutes.

Farley!

I curse under my breath. Elise is yelling for me and that means I used up my five minutes ten minutes ago.

I’m awake, I say and she sticks her head around the screen that partitions my corner of her loft from the rest of the open space. Elise would be just as happy having me sprawled across her messy loft, but I like personal space and privacy.

Even if that space is miniscule and that privacy is pseudo, and we rent the loft from a family of four who side eyes us every time we leave.

The TV is on in the corner as I emerge from my bed, and I frown. Turn it up.

Elise makes an aggravated noise as she reaches for the remote. She’s painting her nails, the fumes making my nose wrinkle as I pour the coffee—thank God, I did set it last night.

A classically good looking man in his mid-forties is addressing a crowd of reporters, all of them hanging on his every word.

The atrocities won’t stand. We need to remember that we were dying when the Houses stepped forward with the antidote to Brakken and restored order. The fealty given to their lines and Scions are not only appropriate, it is their right.

I glance at Elise, scanning her tablet as the blood red polish dries. What happened?

HRO bombed a coven.

My blood runs cold and I swallow hard to keep from rubbing away the goosebumps running down my arm.

The human rights movements terrify me. Not because I disagree with them. I don't. I agree too much. It's terrifying because the Houses don't tolerate any dissent. Some will accept the rumblings of the movement, as long as it stays only that.

But no House will tolerate humans attacking the covens. And—Where did it happen?

Elise glances up at me, her pale eyes haunted. Seattle.

Fuck.

The west coast belongs to House Klinge. And they are savage. Blood will spill tonight, and run Seattle's streets red. I wonder how many will die to appease the fury of the House before the patriarch brings his princes to heel.

Hundreds.

Go, Elise says abruptly. You can't fix everything and the HRO knew the risks. We all do.

I nod, and grab my coffee, heading into the shower as the Kennedy scion drones on.

We all know the risk of crossing one of the Houses. But some are desperate enough that they no longer care.

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The sun is shining, something that is comforting as I step out of the brownstone and jog down the steps. The subway isn't far, but it's enough that the sunlight protects me—and that's done very carefully.

Most people think any sunlight will protect them. It's why apartments became outdated. I think they're wrong. But no one believes the memories of a terrified little girl, so I've learned to keep that particular nightmare to myself.

I keep a lot to myself. More than Elise realizes.

The office is quiet when I step in—most of the reporting staff is on assignment, and some will be scrambling to get a soundbite from the Houses.

Not that they will—some might get the idle blood chatter, but no Scion would bother themselves with our tiny e-zine. We’re not important enough for the big boys to even notice.

Which is fine. I flick my hair out of my eyes and grab my messages from my unpaid intern and close myself into my office without a word.

There’s a few messages from my brother, and one from my editor. Two without a number to respond to. I frown. Most of the time, people email me. Anyone who works with knows I loathe the phone. Even Kevin knows—he’s just too much of an ass to care.

My inbox dings and I shove the messages aside as I focus on the stories waiting for me.

Chapter 2. A Lunch Date

Farley?

I blink, and stare at my intern. She’s a tiny little thing, and it occurs to me—not for the first time—that I have no business putting her in an office like this. We aren’t doing the smart thing—we don’t toe the House line.

We’re too little for them to care, but I’m well aware that it’s not exactly safe.

What is it?

You have a lunch appointment, ma’am.

I frown. Since when?

Hendin set it up.

I breath a curse. Kevin Hendin might be the best damn editor I’ve ever met, but he’s still a fucking pain in the ass. I swallow that thought down and save the draft I’m working on, rising and shrugging into my suit coat. Where?

Silver and Ivy.

I go still. Who the hell are we meeting that can afford S&I? It’s one of the finest restaurants in the city, completely human, and expensive as fuck.

Winston took me there when I graduated from NYU. Of course, it was for a tiny glass of wine and a shared dessert—neither of us could afford more than that—but it was a sweet gesture that meant a lot, especially coming from my ridiculously practical brother.

Ma’am?

I blink out of my thoughts to focus on my intern, and snatch up my laptop and phone. Shove both, with my wallet, into my messenger bag and snag my glasses and notebook before I dart out.

It’s ridiculous to use a notebook, these days. Everyone has gone digital—what was a gathering wave before Brakken—became a way of life in the aftermath. The houses controlled everything after, and pushed tech hard. Some people believed it was out of kindness.

It wasn’t.

But I’ve never been blinded by the pretty veneer of the houses or their Scions.

Silver and Ivy is one of the last places in New York that can still maintain their human only clientele. Because they cater to the wealthy, and even in the aftermath of the plague and all the change that the Houses inflicted on us, the wealthy maintains a level of untouchability. They are protected by that comfort of security that only money can buy.

Even the wealthiest in our country can be bought by one of the Houses, but I think it amuses them to let the one percent cling to the illusion that they are still different from the rest of us.

I step into S&I and belatedly realize that I don’t know who I’m meeting. I mutter a soft curse and the eyebrow of the host twitches in response.

No, I suppose he isn’t used to young reporters with a gutter mouth spilling into his lunch hour. I grin, and run a hand through my hair. I’m about to fuck up his whole day.

I amble up to where he waits and he gives me a frosty stare.

I’m meeting someone, I say.

His gaze sweeps over me and his lips curls just a little, all annoyed disdain that pisses me off.

And you are?

Farley Hart.

His eyes go wide and he pales, so much so I take a step back. Something is very fucking wrong about all of this, and Winston always told me to listen to my gut. I take another step, and a hand clamps down on my arm, rooting me to the spot.

It’s icy and burning and so fucking unmovable. I know, even before I let my gaze crawl up.

Shiny boots, a pristine black suit that cost more than my degree, a startlingly white shirt with a skinny black tie. Wide shoulders, thin waist, and a hand that’s fucking huge, latched onto me.

A ring glints on his finger and I focus on that, on the strange sigil worked into the metal.

It’s not gold, and it sure as hell isn’t silver. It’s almost dull. Iron?

Oh fuck, I mutter.

A vampire is holding me, keeping me from bolting. And if that weren’t bad enough—it’s a fucking Blood Prince.

Chapter 3. The Blood Prince

Get your fucking hands off me, I hiss, and I’m not terribly surprised to hear the tremor in my voice.

A Blood Prince is nothing any sane person wants to fuck with.

When I’m sure you won’t bolt into the daylight, we will renegotiate your personal space. He rumbles, and I snarl. Even to my ears it sounds like a kitten batting at a lion, but he doesn’t laugh. Merely redirects his cool stare past me to the pale manager. The room?

You just lost your human only rating, I spit as