Balthazar (18 page)

Redgrave said, “Teaching school. How droll. And dull, I'd think.”

“You're not going to hurt Skye.”

“Skye.” His voice caressed the word in a way that made Balthazar's gut clench. He'd been fool enough to give Redgrave her name. “I don't intend to hurt Skye. Didn't she tell you about our chat?”

“She did. And your definition of
hurt
and mine are a long way apart.”

“Have you drunk from her yet?” Redgrave's eyes grew hungry, as if he wanted to live vicariously through Balthazar. “She'd let you, of course. It's written all over her.” He took a deep breath, as if scenting the air, then sighed. “You
have
.”

“I tasted her blood to see what it is you're after.”

“And now you know what she's really worth.”

“I know that better than you ever could.” Balthazar decided to try to talk some sense into Redgrave; selfish and corrupt as he was, he was usually logical. “Those memories are tempting. Too tempting. They make the existence we have now seem—pale and meaningless. If you drink Skye's blood, if you try to make a habit of it, you'll turn yourself into an addict. Nothing more than that. You'll only keep trying to escape into the past more and more until you've lost yourself completely. Is that really what you want?”

“You never understood the power of giving in to pleasure, did you? The Puritan in you never did entirely die.” Redgrave seemed to mull it over, genuinely weighing Balthazar's words, but as if trying to decide how they could best be twisted for his amusement. “I could of course take her only out of spite.”

“What reason could you have to spite a girl who's never done anything to you?”

“Not her, Balthazar. To spite you. To take her from you the same way I took Charity, and your precious—ah, what was her name? Yes. Jane.” Hearing that monster speak her name sickened Balthazar, and he wished again for a blade. Redgrave continued, “Someday you'll understand: There's nothing and no one you can love that I can't destroy.”

“I don't love Skye,” Balthazar said.

Redgrave laughed, and then he disappeared—melting into the shadows almost instantly, leaving Balthazar standing there alone.

His words seemed to hang in the air:
I don't love Skye
.

He wanted them to be a lie, for her protection even more than for his.

I don't. I couldn't
.

And yet no matter how many times he said it, no matter how many ways he put it, it never sounded entirely true.

New York City

July 14, 1863

A BOTTLE SHATTERED AGAINST THE WALL JUST beyond the window, sending shards of glass spraying against the frame. Some of the people inside groaned, but Balthazar and Richard shushed them. It was vitally important that they not be heard.

Outside this warehouse, a violent riot was taking place—the worst New York City had ever seen, or would ever see. Anger over the severe Union losses in the Civil War had boiled over into bloodshed unleashed upon African-Americans, whether former slaves or free men of color. Some anti-war elements had seized upon the idea that the war was being fought for blacks … and that blacks should somehow be made to pay for all the thousands of young men dying even now on the fields of battle. The great victory at Gettysburg had done nothing to encourage support for the war; all the rioters knew were that more men had been drafted, and so would be sent to die. They preferred to do their killing here, for no purpose, Balthazar supposed. For his part, he would rather have been a soldier with honor, but he no longer claimed to understand humanity.

Richard's dark face shone in the light of the one lantern he held. “They're powerful close.”

“They're all around us. It doesn't mean anything.” Balthazar hoped he was speaking the truth. If the rioters found this place—and the dozens of black families huddled inside—the repercussions would be deadly. And he would feel obligated to defend those hiding here, by any means necessary … no matter how unholy his means might be.

“Thought the rain last night might've cooled them off.”

“No such luck.” Already the summer heat beat down on the city, punishing and heavy with humidity, enough to drive the sanity out of more stable men than those gone savage outside.

This was Richard's mission, Richard's rescue; he was the one who had mobilized late last night after the first day's ugliness and had gathered the others together. That was the hard part. Balthazar knew he played only a very small role in this by offering a warehouse he owned as a hiding place. But if the rioters realized who hid here and broke through the door, his role would expand into violence. Only his full vampiric strength would allow him to fight off so many attackers. The people huddled in this warehouse would then realize that Balthazar was something other than human. The semblance of a normal life he had painstakingly carved out for himself here in Manhattan would shatter in an instant.

If that were to be the price of keeping these people alive, then Balthazar would pay it. But he would not pay it gladly. Whatever shadow of a life he had, he hoped to keep.

Richard whispered, “I don't like the sound of it out there.”

“Me either.” Balthazar didn't say what he'd
seen
, rather than heard: the two bodies hanging from a makeshift gallows, dying slowly, the ropes too short to allow for broken necks and merciful swift deaths. The sight of a suffocating man's feet kicking—that wasn't for sharing. “When it's quieter, I'll go out. See what's happening.”

“Appreciated,” Richard said. Their eyes met, sharing a glance of the darkest humor. To the fools outside, who looked no deeper than a person's skin, Richard was somehow suspect, and Balthazar—the murderer, the monster—would be trusted.

The warehouse had fortunately been all but empty of cargo; only a few barrels sat stacked in the corner. This left more room for the dozens of people—African-Americans, some escaped slaves but mostly free people whose ancestors had lived here for generations—to hide from the marauding hordes in the streets. They huddled together, some of them families with small children, desperately silent in contrast to the ugly yelling from outside. In the past day, more than one hundred people had died—far more, Balthazar suspected. Some of the slain had been the friends, neighbors, or family members of those who hid here now.

Balthazar took a deep breath as he realized, yet again, the fragility of human society. When you thought it was set, it shifted; when you thought it was safe, it changed. He'd spent most of the past century on his own, more or less—wandering for a couple of decades before realizing that the hustle and bustle of New York City was the best place to disguise his own unearthly nature. For the past thirty years, he'd made his home in lower Manhattan, shunting from neighborhood to neighborhood as needed to make sure that nobody noticed he didn't age. A handful of individuals had even gotten to know him; they'd all observed and commented on his peculiar habits, even Richard, who swore that Balthazar must live on air and sunshine like a flower, since nobody ever saw him eat. But in New York, it took more than that to count as “weird,” and so he was accepted. Some of these people Balthazar would even dare to call friends, the first friends he'd had since his death.

He loved it here … or he had, before this violence beneath the surface had finally boiled over. Now Balthazar saw the ugliness beneath the chaos that had hidden him so well.

Richard whispered, “They're coming closer.”

“Only a few.” Balthazar's sharp vampire senses told him that the people walking closer to the door were no more than six or seven in number. He could take that many humans easily, as long as they were not Black Cross. And what would Black Cross be doing here now?

And yet when he lifted his face to sniff the air, he could scent nothing. The people approaching were oddly without smell, as if they were scrubbed without soap, or as if they were…

His eyes opened wide.

“Balthazar?” Richard whispered. “What's going on?”

“The people coming here—”
They're not people
. Balthazar wanted to say this but couldn't. “They're dangerous.”

“Like I couldn't have guessed that for myself,” Richard said. His dry humor normally amused Balthazar, but not today.

In the far distance came a roaring sound, as if some great firework had been set off, or something had exploded. God only knew what the rioters were doing to this city. But the rioters had already become second on Balthazar's list of concerns.

First were the people approaching this place, closer and closer. Something within him stirred, signaling to him: Other vampires were near.

Balthazar rolled up the sleeves of his loose cambric shirt and took the gas lamp in his hand. Resolutely he climbed the steps to the door, set his hand upon the iron lock, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Outside was chaos. The street was all but deserted, but along the ground lay evidence of the day's mayhem: scattered debris, crumpled leaflets, an abandoned shoe, various bottles and trinkets and trash tossed aside by the fleeing. The twilight dark had begun to cast shadows, but not so deep as to obscure the group of people standing at the far end of the square. Balthazar had known, even before leaving the warehouse, that he would find vampires here.

But he had not expected to find Redgrave … or Charity.

They stood together, side by side. Behind them was Constantia, as beautiful and deadly as ever. Her dress was silk, deep red, the color of blood. Her dark eyes narrowed as she recognized him, and he could sense both anger and unwilling desire as they glimpsed each other—or was that only what he felt himself? Lorenzo, too, remained with the tribe; he was clothed in the latest fashions for men, plaid trousers and stovepipe hat, and he would have looked ridiculous but for the crazed, feral gleam in his eyes.

Worst was seeing Charity—even more broken—still by Redgrave's side. She wore one of the hoop-skirted dresses that were all the rage, lavender and ivory, all frills and lace except for the ragged, dirty hem and sleeves. His little sister's wide, dark eyes took him in, and he could see no joy, no relief. Even anger would have been something for him to cling to. Instead there was only mute, numb unknowing.

“The prodigal,” Redgrave said, his smile white amid the dusky gloom. Not a speck of ash or dust marred the black sheen of his suit. “How we've missed you, dear boy.”

“I haven't missed you,” Balthazar replied, hating the false bravado in his voice but not knowing how else to answer. “Move along. Nobody wants you here.”

“Nobody wants us anywhere.” It was Constantia who answered him, her voice commanding in a way that sent chills coursing through him—some good, some bad. “That's why we go where
we
want.”

Redgrave cocked his head. His profile might have been carved of ivory, perfect and cold. “Shouldn't you be on the battlefields?”

“Shouldn't you?” Balthazar shot back.

“We have been, of course. This is a fine war for wounded. Minié balls shatter the bones so brutally, and yet leave the soldiers gasping there for hours. Delicious. Don't pretend you haven't sampled. We saw your tracks at Second Manassas, you know.”

“Bull Run,” Balthazar corrected, but bickering between Union and Confederate names for battles was a puny attempt at distraction. Yes, he'd drunk his fill of human blood during this war. It was a mercy, he told himself—and that was true, because the shattered, dying men he killed welcomed a swifter, less painful death. But he did not do it as an act of mercy. He drank because he wanted blood. When he had left the war to return to New York City last year, he had done so primarily because he was afraid of what he was becoming.

“Balthazar?” Charity whispered. “Is it really you?”

How the childlike sound of her voice broke him. Balthazar could hardly bear the sight of his little sister standing among her captors as soiled and ineffectual as a broken doll. “Yes. It's me. Come here, Charity.”

“Go nowhere, Charity.” Redgrave put his hand out to stop Charity, his palm resting against her abdomen in a gesture of indecent ownership. Charity stopped in place, her eyes meeting Redgrave's as if they knew nowhere else to turn. “Balthazar. Who is it you're hiding in there? Should we investigate?”

The chill that swept through Balthazar's bones nearly paralyzed him. His own fate—what did it matter, damned as he surely was? But the people inside this warehouse still owned their own lives and their own souls. They had to be protected … no matter the cost.

Balthazar swallowed hard. “Do you want me to come with you?” Every syllable was bitter in his mouth. “I will.”

Charity's childlike face lit up. For a moment, he saw his wretched future—as Constantia's plaything, as Charity's companion and brother only in silence—and Balthazar forced himself to accept it. If that were the price of innocent lives, it would be paid.

“How good it would be to have you with us again.” Redgrave stepped closer. The nearby gaslights made his aristocratic silhouette sharp despite the increasing darkness. His golden eyes glittered as he brought his black-gloved hand to Balthazar's chin and grasped it, turning his head from side to side as though he were inspecting a horse he hoped to buy. The leather was cool and soft against his skin. “But you turned on us once. What guarantee would we have that you wouldn't do so again?”