Read an extract of Alma Vampires, the brand-new paranormal romance series from Sunday Times bestselling author Elena Armas.

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1
VAL

Providence Estate, New York
New Year’s Eve

The tires of the limo crunch over the ice-​coated pavement and I think of how death spares some more than others.

Why is that?

Are certain people born with the necessary luck to avoid it for decades? To never have to live through grief, or to lose someone and with them, a small piece of yourself you’re never getting back. To be the ones that leave, rather than the ones left behind.

Or is death an oftentimes random by‑product of our circumstances? Worst place at the worst time, but taken to an extreme. A wheel of fate you can only watch spin and spin until it comes to a stop on you. Or those near you.

Some days I wish I had the answer—even an inkling would surely feel more reassuring than the unknown. And other days, I’m resigned to accept I’m not lucky enough to be spared the pain and there’s no point in wondering why.

Tonight is one of the latter days. How could it not be, when I’m sitting in my dead mother’s limousine, with my dead mother’s driver at the wheel, and headed to my dead mother’s house for a party all of my dead mother’s acquaintances are going to attend?

Not that I find the timing insensitive, considering it’s New Year’s Eve—and not even death can stop the old year from bleeding into the new—but it is a little odd to be sitting in this borrowed vehicle under these circumstances. It’s odd to be in borrowed clothes I couldn’t have afforded two weeks ago. And it’s odd to be grieving that woman as though she were ever mine at all.

Until two weeks ago, I didn’t even know she existed beyond any abstract concept one might have of a mother who gives you away before you even form any memories. I never knew how it felt to call her Mom, or be cradled by her. I didn’t know her name, or whether she was even alive. I sure as hell didn’t know she sat at the top of an empire whose worth has so many zeroes you’d lose count if you tried to recite. And I could have never imagined that she’d arrange for any of that to be mine after her death.

Mine.

She left me everything.

Apparently.

That’s what the lawyer that showed up at my dorm door in Icarus on the last day before winter break said after I asked him, Ane Aguirre? I don’t know who that is.

Your mother, he said. Apparently.

My first impulse was to tell him he must have been mistaken. He had the wrong girl and the wrong door. Icarus is an Ivy League university and the campus dorms are brimming with students who could wake up one day and find themselves in the situation I apparently was in. Wealthy dead relative and consequent large inheritance.

Certainly not me. The only family I’ve ever known was my foster parents, Manni and Linda Cepeda, a working-​class elderly couple who took me in at the age of twelve. By the time I was eighteen and going off to college, a heart attack had already taken Manni. And by the end of freshman year, Linda’s frail health had taken a turn and she left us too. Left me.

So clearly, the lawyer with the crisp hair and crisper suit couldn’t be searching for me. I’d already lost the closest thing to a mother I’d ever known. I’d arranged her funeral and sat on that church pew with my chest filled with a heaviness that made it hard to breathe. But then the lawyer pulled a black-​and-​whitepicture out of the binder he’d been holding, showed it to me with an impatient sigh, and said, Do you want the money or not?

It was my picture.

And I don’t remember asking him how he came into possession of it, or answering yes or no to his question. But the next thing I knew he was sitting down on one of the two chairs in my dorm, opening the binder again, and extracting the large stack of documents that brought me here, to the plush and shiny leather seat I keep shifting in.

So yup. Apparently, I know my biological mother’s name now.

It’s one attached to a public name, brand, and fortune. And itoverall proves the point I was trying to make.

Even in luck, death refuses to spare those around me.

My thumb swipes one last time across the screen of my phone, reaching the bottom of the umpteenth article I’ve read about Ane Aguirre. It’s filled with empty recycled words that don’t say anything new, but they’re all I have, so I continue to pore over them like they hide a key for something.

Eccentric and Reclusive Fashion Tycoon Dies in Boating Accident after Financial Scandal Is Tied to Her Name.

CEO and Founder of ALMA Killed in Boat Mishap, the Luxury Brand Faces Rocky Era Under Unknown Heir.

The Solitary Life of Ane Aguirre Culminates in Fatal Boat Incident, Surprise Successor Named.

Or a personal favorite, The Recluse, the Scandal, and the Secret Daughter Who Inherited the Poisoned Luxury House.

Secret daughter.

As if I’d ever been something to her.

I lock the device with a sigh, slip my hand back inside my silkglove, and tuck the phone inside the clutch on my lap. The borrowed, luxurious clutch that costs so much that it makes my head spin when I think of holding it the wrong way. Just like the gown, cape, and gloves, which all showed up to my hotel room this morning with anunsigned note that read:

New Year’s Eve Soiree at Providence.
Wear this.
Be ready at 10 p.m. Charlie will drive you.

A curt and impersonal note that went hand in hand with how my life has gone the last few days. Go here. Sign here. Sleep here. Look this way. Keep your head down. Don’t talk to the press. Don’t leave the hotel. So when I unwrapped what had to undoubtedly be the kind of gown someone might wear to a party described as a soiree, I didn’t question it.

If there’s a lesson I’ve already learned from Ane’s world, it is not to question anything too much, otherwise I’d probably be tucking tail, going back to Icarus, and asking all these crispy lawyers to forget I ever existed.

To add insult to injury, the gown I had gently extricated from the ALMA-​branded tissue paper was as distracting as it was beautiful—and the finest, most unique garment I had ever held in my hands. Or worn, considering most of my closet is composed of thrifted items. The fabric—a rich burgundy silk—catches the light like freaking embers in the night. Lining the bodice, a subtle metallic thread weaves through the silk in geometric shapes that make me think of fairy tales and old ironwork. And what truly made my jaw drop: an open-cutback traced by a line of interlocking iron clasps that connect the neckline and low cut of a skirt that falls in long panels of regal fabric.

It’s infuriatingly stunning, and a study in what makes every ALMA piece so coveted among those who can afford it. The irreverent mix of materials that warm up when they touch your skin, and the empowering sense of couture that feels like you’re slipping into a modern-​day armor. A brand that established itself by sheer force, run by an immigrant who broke onto the scene and made it hers.

Until— according to those articles—a scandal engulfed it decades later. Or, well, two, if you’re also counting me.

“Everything okay, Miss Aguirre?” Charlie asks from his post at the wheel.

His voice startles me out of my head, and I realize I was shifting uncomfortably. Again. So I still myself and find his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Yes, thank you. All good back here.”

I don’t bother correcting him or asking him not to call me Miss or Aguirre. I’ve already asked him to just call me Val several times and it’s yet to yield any results, so I go with it. Charlie nods as his only response and returns his gaze to the road. After two weeks of him shadowing me everywhere, I’ve learned that the man is big on nods and looks. He doesn’t smile or frown or flush. On occasion, the right corner of his mouth displays the ghost of an expression, pulling down the salt-​and-​pepper mustache crowning his top lip. I’m almost sure that it’s his version of a grimace.

His mouth did that the day I asked him how well he knew Ane.

Well enough, was his answer. Just that, even though he worked for her for the last three decades, according to his two-​line introduction.

I haven’t had the courage to pry for more information. The exchange got tense really fast and I know grief well enough to know the man was suffering through the handful of words he managed.

“I could drive past the gate,” he says suddenly, bringing my attention back to the mirror. He keeps his eyes up front. “Anyone would miss it in this weather. We would only need to make a U‑turnat the next intersection, which is not far. Ten to fifteen minutes. Thirty if I were especially distracted.”

Silence falls inside the vehicle. I must be looking as rough as I feel for this man to use so many words. “That’s . . . very kind, Charlie,” I tell him, after clearing my throat. “But I don’t know how I feel about being late.”

Charlie nods, back to wordless.

“Do I look that rattled, though?”

The corner of his mouth pulls down.

“You can be honest,” I push, ignoring the possibly‑a‑grimace.“I’d prefer to know the impression I’m going to make when I walk in. So you can give me the truth.”

It takes the man a beat to respond, but he eventually breaks with a quiet sigh. “You do seem a little anxious, miss.”

“Well,” I say, with a huffed-​out chuckle. “I’ll take a little, considering I don’t know the house or any of the guests. I am hoping the dress will steal most of the attention away from my face. Or not. Maybe this is a pretty common choice tonight. I don’t know that either.”'

“I’m afraid there’s nothing common about your gown, miss.”

The relief his remark brings me is. . . more short-​lived than I hoped. “Thanks,” I murmur, even though I have no ownership over the dress or the decision to wear it. “Any other tips? You must know the house well. Is there anything I should know? A secret hiding spot I can crawl into perhaps?”

Charlie’s shoulders go up a fraction of an inch, my joke missing its target. “Providence was your mother’s home. She loved it dearly.”

“Okay,” I respond, suddenly unable to speak beyond that.

And that’s my life now. Forever swinging between curiosity and shut-down.

It stings to hear how much Ane loved something. Even though I know Charlie’s words are just a simple comment about the property I’m asking him about. He’s the one person I’ve met from Ane’s circle that hasn’t looked down at me like I’m an inconvenience, and I want to hold on to that so I let the conversation die there.

I take my eyes off the man’s profile and look out the window, justin time to watch how the vehicle takes a turn to the left and slows down at the mouth of a narrow road.

There’s no sign to indicate that we’re entering a private property except for the change in scenery and the two armed guards that emerge from the shadows, all but popping out of thin air.

One of them approaches the driver’s side and gives Charlie a stern go‑ahead.The other one stands on my side, gaze on where I suppose he knows I’m sitting—despite the tinted glass.

We resume moving quickly, eating away mile after mile lined with fir trees, with only the vehicle’s headlights opening the way for us, until we come to a soft stop at the end of the unpaved way.

My heart hammers against the walls of my chest, and when Charlie kills the engine, all I can hear for a few moments is its erratic beat.

“Welcome to Providence, Miss Aguirre,” Charlie says, voice barely making it past the loud sound.