Page 43 of Hupotasso
“Thank you.”
“Now stay away from here!”
“I appreciate the keys,” I say slowly, “but there is one more thing that brings me back.”
“What is it?” She snaps. “My patience with you grows thin. I begin to understand whyhewants to kill you.”
I ignore her spiteful words.
“I want to know what a template is.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
“Then you will stay away from my level?”
I nod, but underneath, I don’t really think I’m going to do that. In fact, I know I’ll continue to sneak down for the cats and the confectionary, if nothing else.
“And you’re sure you wouldn’t prefer ignorance? Most humans do, you know.”
“I’m not most humans.”
“Very well, although what I tell you must be kept in confidence. Very few vampires, let alone humans, know the truth of the first-born daughter.”
“I promise,” I nod enthusiastically, “I mean, I have nobody to speak to anyway.”
She studies me for a long minute before making up her mind.
“What do you know about The Families?”
“I know they’re a bunch of royals who rule every country, and their queen kills kids for kicks.”
She nods slowly.
“Yes. But did you know they’re the same royals that have ruled since the dawn of time?”
“The same family?”
“The same individuals.”
“What? How is that possible?”
“Because when they get old, really old, they transcend into a new body. And that new body has to be of royal descent to ensure the pure bloodlines are continued.”
“Transcend?” I shake my head. “Are you saying…”
“I’m saying that when a king of any given country hands over his throne to his son, he jumps into his son’s body, and the queen jumps into the daughter-in-law’s body. They are the same two people all the time. These wives, of course, have to come from royal bloodlines to keep the blood pure. The Families don’t marry humans. They don’t need to; they can procreate with one another. That’s why The Families’ royals marry vampires, and not humans. The lesser royals like the Dragonspurs, although interbred with people, have a high percentage of the ancient bloodline. The royal wives must all come from the lesser royals to be inhabited by the old queens. Until that day, they’re just templates.”
I stare at her, eyes wide, mouth dry.
“So, you’re saying any first-born daughter of a lesser royal is taken? Surely, they can’t need that many?”
“Need? No. Want? Yes. It’s tradition. And also, accidents happen. Just in case something untoward should occur they need a back-up line of bodies. The daughters are raised, groomed from the age of three to be what they must be, and kept their whole lives in seclusion, awaiting their selection.”
“Why three?”
“You have to breastfeed until then, of course — it’s tradition.”
“Of course, tradition,” I whisper, my heart racing and blood running cold at the very idea that she could be telling me the truth.
