Balthazar (9 page)

How he hated her, but he couldn't resist her. The first woman—the only woman—he'd ever lain with, with no love or tenderness between them. Her kisses tasted like poison, and he kissed her more deeply for that, hoping that one day the poison might finally finish this life that wasn't life and let him truly die. Every time she took him to bed, he felt another shard of his human soul crumble into dust.

Balthazar only wanted it to be over.

A few hours later, as Constantia slept by his side, Balthazar lay awake, tormented by thoughts of the barmaid.

Let it go. It's no different from the other times. You aren't the one killing her. So that means it's not your concern
.

I know it's going to happen. If I know and I don't stop it, that's as bad as if I drank her blood myself
.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Balthazar slipped from beneath the bedcovers. He set each foot on the floorboards carefully, wary of awakening Constantia—but she was a sound sleeper, and tonight was no exception. For a moment he stared down at her, with her lustrous hair splayed across the pillow and her exquisite body outlined by the sheets that had covered them both, and wondered how a form so beautiful could hide a person so monstrous.

Enough. He had work to do.

Balthazar slipped into his trousers, shirt, and boots; the rest of his clothes were unnecessary. In the hallway of the inn, far from the modest fires in the rooms, the air was almost colder than it would have been out of doors. No candles lit his way, but one of the few undeniable advantages of being a vampire was the ability to see in the dark. Sure and swift, he found his way down the stairs. His sharp hearing caught the sounds immediately—he'd come just in time.

“Sir—you should return to your room, sir.”

“But I wish to be here.”

He navigated the passageways of the old inn as well as he could, making his way to the very back. There, just in front of a doorway that must have led to the alley, was the barmaid's room. She stood there, wrapper around her as she shivered, while Lorenzo held a candle too close to her face.

“I have written my poem,” Lorenzo whispered to the trembling girl. “Do you not wish to hear it?”

“Nobody wants to hear your poems,” Balthazar said, stepping into the dim hemisphere of light the candle allowed. “They're abysmal. Go to bed and leave Martha alone.”

Martha brightened; Lorenzo scowled as he said, “This is none of your concern.”

“And none of yours, either. Leave her. I won't go until you do.” Balthazar folded his arms in front of his chest.

Lorenzo remained still a moment, as if unable to believe that anyone so depressed and passive as Balthazar would take a stand—much less here and now, for the sake of a young woman none of them had seen before a few hours ago. Balthazar could feel the anger within Lorenzo, the frustration of a denied kill, and the certainty that he would pay for this defiance later.

But not now. Now they needed shelter in the middle of town, and fighting in the middle of the night would awaken too many humans. Drinking from the girl would no longer be a clandestine, unknown act. It had become too dangerous to risk.

With a scowl, Lorenzo swept past Balthazar. He stomped his entire way up the stairs, like a spoiled, thwarted child. Martha slumped against her doorjamb in relief. “Thank you, sir. He was most insistent, sir.”

“I know they tell you to be kind to the guests,” Balthazar said. “But you don't have to put up with that. You shouldn't. It's not safe. You must take care of yourself. If anyone ever makes you … frightened, or unsure—then be wary. Take whatever precautions you must. Do you hear me?”

Martha nodded. A curl of her dark hair fell across her rosy cheek, and for a moment Balthazar remembered what it had been like to feel desire—real desire, human need, not this shadow of lust that Constantia demanded of him time and again. Not that he would ever endanger another human through showing affection for her. Not after Jane.

The girl was more innocent than he was, of course, suspecting nothing of him but noble motives. “Why do you travel with such people? They're not—they're not gentlefolk. Unlike you, sir.”

“I have nowhere else to go.”

“Anywhere else would be better, I should think.” As if afraid she'd overstepped her bounds, Martha flushed, stepped backward, and gave him a quick nod before shutting her door soundly.

Anywhere else would be better.

More than that—Martha had called him a gentleman. He had saved her from Lorenzo, and even if there would be consequences for his action, this girl would not be the one to bear them.

Was it possible there was a place for him in this world? People who might accept him as something other than a monster?

It seemed impossible—yet less impossible than it had always been before.

Then he went back upstairs, returning to Constantia's bed and the wreckage of his existence. He lay beside his lover, blankets pulled up around his shoulders, and shut his eyes tightly.

But he did not sleep.

By dawn, Balthazar knew what he had to do.

He rose and dressed fully, stockings and breeches and coat and hat. Constantia still did not stir. For a moment he looked down at her beautiful face and tried to think how to bid her farewell—if he could ever divide himself from her entirely, which at that moment seemed impossible. She was poison, but poison that flowed within his veins. She would be a part of his vampire self forever.

And yet it was easier than he would have thought to walk out of that room, hopefully never to see her again.

Charity was awake. Balthazar had known she would be; even in life, she rose before anyone else, before the sun itself. She sat in the great room of the inn, huddled in her bedraggled clothing before the lingering embers of the fire. The glowing coals and the dim light of dawn from the one window provided the only light. Her eyes lifted to his, but she did not rise to greet him, nor speak.

She'd had very little to say to him since the day she died.

“Charity,” Balthazar whispered. “Is Redgrave asleep?”

“Yes.” Her place in Redgrave's bed was as assumed, and as unnatural, as Balthazar's place beside Constantia.

“Very well. That gives us a chance to go.”

“Go?” It was as if that were not a word in English, so flat was her incomprehension.

After a century and a half of captivity, who could blame her? Balthazar reminded himself to speak slowly and clearly. Sometimes Charity failed to understand, but this—this she had to understand. “We're leaving them. The vampires. We're going this morning. Setting out on our own. You and me.”

Charity's brows knitted together in consternation. “Leave Redgrave?”

“Yes. Charity, this is our chance. We can leave them behind. Let them follow the war. We'll make our own way. Maybe—maybe on the outskirts of a city, where we can hunt animals in the woods and nobody will bother us.” Balthazar knew she would resist this—Charity liked human blood far too much—but surely it would be worth it to her, if it meant escaping the murderer and rapist who had held her captive so long. “Just us. As it should have been. You understand me, don't you?”

Slowly, Charity nodded.

Balthazar smiled. Thank God. Why had it taken him so long to see just how simply, how quickly, their long nightmare could end? He had no idea where creatures like he and his sister could find peace in the world—they were unholy, damned, no part of God's creation—but they could look, couldn't they? They could try. Together, they might find a way to exist without Redgrave, without Constantia, without the bloodshed. It was just possible that he and his sister might have the chance to be … happy.

Then Charity said, “You want to take me away from Redgrave.”

“Yes.”

“Away from him. Away from all the blood. Away from everything.” Charity's body trembled now, shaking almost as strongly as a convulsion.

“Charity, listen to me.” Balthazar took her shoulders in his hands. “This isn't how we should be living. You know that, don't you? Don't you feel it, deep down?”

A tear trickled from the corner of Charity's eye as she nodded. The glowing embers pinked her pale cheek. “I do. I know how it should be. And I know who took it from me.”

The shove hit him as hard as a blow, sending Balthazar sprawling across the room until he landed flat on his back on the stone floor. Charity stalked toward him, her fragile hands balled into fists.

“Come with
you
? Trust
you
?” Charity shook her head. “Not you. Never you!”

“Charity—”

She reached into the fire, pulling out a superheated pair of tongs that glowed red in the early morning light. Metal near melting cast pinkish-red light onto her face, onto her unearthly smile. “Get out. Go away. Or I'll behead you myself.”

“Come with me,” Balthazar pleaded. “Charity, please. This is our best chance.”

“You didn't choose me!” she screamed, so loudly that he knew at least one of the vampires would wake.

So Balthazar pushed himself up from the floor, drew his coat more tightly around him, and ran out into the snow. As it sloughed into his boots, chilled him head to toe, he continued hurrying away from the inn—from Redgrave, and Constantia, and the only life he'd known since his death.

He still had no idea what kind of existence a monster like himself could expect.

He knew only that he had to find it—and face it, alone.

BALTHAZAR REACHED INTO THE INNER POCKET of his long coat, taking hold of the bone handle of the wide-bladed knife he'd put there. This would do for a beheading if he got the chance.

Not that it was likely. Redgrave wouldn't invade Skye's home with anything less than full force. Lorenzo, Constantia, and the rest of the crew he'd acquired since they'd last met—they would all be with him. That meant Balthazar had to stick to the plan and put off his ultimate revenge until later. Even though there was nothing he wanted more than to make Redgrave pay for what he'd done to him, what he'd done to Charity—

—his eyes sought Skye, her form visible in the darkness, young and frightened but trying so hard to be strong—

—because of what Redgrave was doing to Skye, too. Because of every foul, selfish thing Redgrave had done these past four centuries. It was more than enough reason to take off a guy's head.

Not tonight
, Balthazar reminded himself, though he followed it with an inner promise:
Soon
.

The footsteps reached the stairs, heavy against wooden floorboards. Skye jumped slightly, and Balthazar could see that she was trembling. He laid one hand on the small of her back, and she steadied herself immediately. It was humbling to think that she would rely on him so completely, given how he'd failed with Redgrave in the past.

Starting, of course, with the day of his death.

The tribe was in the hall now, mere steps from the door. Skye's breathing had become as fast and shallow as a deer's at the moment of slaughter. Balthazar pressed his hand more firmly against her back, just for an instant, before he took it away to step in front of her, between her and the danger.

So faintly that Balthazar could barely make it out, Redgrave laughed.

He thinks it's funny. Funny that Skye's scared to death, funny that I'm up here waiting for him
.

We'll see how funny he thinks it is in a minute
.

The door swung open. Redgrave stood there, framed by darkness, as though he were alone. Skye gasped, but Balthazar forced himself not to turn back to her. Redgrave would see that as weakness.

“Well, well,” Redgrave said. “I always knew we'd meet again, but I hardly thought it would be in a girl's bedroom.”

“Get out.” Balthazar didn't expect Redgrave to do this, but it was all he had to say to him.

Redgrave just grinned. “You were making a pet of her, weren't you? Can't say I blame you, Balthazar. She's quite lovely. You never did indulge enough. But I hope you've already had your fill.”

“You're seriously disgusting,” Skye said, but Redgrave didn't even glance at her. To him, she wasn't a person, merely a vessel for the blood he craved.

“I said, get out. Turn around and walk out of here,” Balthazar said.

“You don't really expect me to do that, do you?” Behind Redgrave, at the edges of the doorframe, a couple of the other vampires appeared, as if to prove to Balthazar just what he was up against. They might have been any other set of young people—college aged, perhaps, one of them still wearing her hipster horn-rimmed glasses—but Balthazar could sense the ferocity behind their bland faces.

“No, I don't expect you to go,” Balthazar said. “But I thought I should give you fair warning.”

Redgrave grinned, his smile refined, even beautiful, despite the evil heat in his eyes as he looked past Balthazar to Skye. “Do you even know what you've got there?”