Balthazar (23 page)

By the time she walked back into her bedroom, towel-dried hair hanging around her face and soft cotton next to her skin, she knew what she had to do.

Skye pulled back the covers of her bed and slid in next to Balthazar. He turned toward her, still dazed, but instinctively seeking her. Slowly she wrapped her arms around him. He responded to the heat of their embrace, and one of his heavy hands curled around her slender rib cage, then found the small of her back. Despite the shower, his body felt cooler than her own, and she began to shake—partly from cold, partly from something else that was difficult to name.

As they curled closer to each other, Skye wound one of her legs around his. He rolled nearer, nestling his head against her chest. She wriggled so that his face nuzzled the curve of her neck.

With him lying half on top of her, responding to nothing more than instinct, Skye whispered, “Drink.”

Balthazar didn't bite her. But he didn't say no. He continued caressing her, moving in slow motion, as if he hardly understood what he was doing but knew he wanted to touch her. She hoped like hell there was an instinct to stop drinking that was just as powerful as the instinct to bite.

Skye arched herself against him, and Balthazar's hand tightened around her shoulder. He made a low growl deep in his throat, a purely animal sound that made her shiver. His lips brushed against her neck … not a kiss. A test.

“Drink from me,” she said. How could he not feel her heart beating? It was about to pound out of her chest. Surely her pulse beat against his lips—surely he could hear it, because she could. “Bite down.”

Balthazar clutched her close, fingers digging into her skin so hard it hurt, but Skye didn't cry out until his fangs sank into her throat.

AT FIRST IT ALL SEEMED TO BE HAPPENING AT once.

Balthazar was underwater, an experience as horrifying as death. The currents flowed around him, freezing him, confusing him, turning the entire world inside out and upside down
.

Balthazar was in Skye's arms, her lithe body pressed against his, and he could sense nothing but the warmth of her flesh and the scent of blood just beneath the surface
.

Balthazar was in the barn, Redgrave's trance holding him fast, listening to the screams from his house as his parents died
.

“Drink,” someone said. The need for blood filled him, the only need that his numb, blind body understood. His prey lay within his arms. Balthazar's fangs slid from his jaw, slicing open his tongue. The taste of his own blood did nothing. But human blood—living blood—that was different. Necessary.

Balthazar tried to reach the surface of the river, but he was too stunned to move. The water seemed like a cyclone around him, winding about his body and binding him like a shroud
.

Balthazar tried to pull free of the ropes, but they bound his wrists too tightly, and the vampires laughed as they pulled it taut against the rafter and tugged his arms over his head so that his feet barely touched the ground. Only hours ago he'd had no idea that such creatures existed. Then the vampires were on him, their teeth tearing his flesh, and the world paled and chilled until he was surrounded by a whiteness darker than any black
.

Balthazar tried to hold back, but Skye was so close, so beautiful, and the longing he'd rarely acknowledged was now his whole world
.

The whisper came again. “Drink.”

He stopped fighting it. Stopped remembering why he even wanted to fight. He rolled Skye over and bit down, feeling the hot rush of blood in his mouth. Then there was nothing but the pure animal pleasure of feeding.

Then there was nothing at all.

Massachusetts, 1640

IT WASN'T LIKE WAKING UP.

First all Balthazar felt was pain. His flesh had been torn open all along his neck, arms, torso, legs—everywhere. The ropes had long since cut through his wrists, and the weight of his body hanging from them had gone from agony to numbness and, now, back to agony again. There was an odd silence—a stillness within him, rather than without—that he didn't understand.

He didn't remember what had happened to him. He didn't
not
remember. Instead he was in a place beyond memory or thought. Balthazar was nothing but pain—pain and something else—

—hunger.

“There he is.” Redgrave's voice was smooth and soft again. “We thought you'd never join us. Constantia here was wondering if we'd have to dig you a grave.”

Smooth, feminine arms wrapped around his waist. Balthazar managed to open his eyes and take in the scene. His familiar old barn was now smeared with gore. The tattered remnants of his shirt and jacket lay on the floor with the straw. Constantia clung to him the way Charity liked to carry around her dolls. “Isn't that better?” she said, smiling at him. “You'll see.”

An image welled within his mind: his mother and father, drained of all blood, lying broken and dead upon the floor. He thought he remembered screaming when he saw that, but none of it seemed to matter any longer.

Balthazar tried to speak, but his throat was dry. “I'm—I'm hungry.” Why wasn't he getting angry or fighting back or demanding to know where his sister was? Down deep, he knew all those things were more important, but he'd never been hungry like this. It was as if he'd never eaten, never in his life, and if he didn't have something right now, he'd die.

Only then did he realize what the stillness within him was: the lack of a heartbeat.

Redgrave seemed to know what he was thinking. He gave Balthazar a silky smile. “I apologize for the unpleasantness last evening. But your father's accusation made things rather difficult for me and for your sister, and it was obvious that you wouldn't be willing to assist us. And Constantia here was so fond of you.”

Your father's accusation
. Memories exploded inside Balthazar's head like gunpowder in a keg. Charity had kept slipping away, more and more often, and they had all thought it more of her silliness until two days before. Mama had found Charity and Redgrave on the riverbank, and though it seemed he'd done no more than steal a kiss, it was obvious that he meant more by it. Redgrave was not a man to content himself with a young girl's kiss.

Charity had sworn he used some black magic on her, made her submit to him though she didn't wish to, but even those who believed in black magic didn't believe her.

Papa had denounced Redgrave to the elders—there was talk of making him and Constantia leave town, rumors even that Constantia was not his sister, though they lived together—

—and then last night.

I want to explain myself and beg your pardon
, Redgrave had said at the threshold of their house. Papa had slammed the door in his face.

Then they had burst through the door.

“They're dead,” Balthazar said. He pulled at the ropes, pulled harder, desperate to be free, to kill Redgrave, and to eat. More than anything, he needed to eat.

“Your parents are indeed with us no more.” Redgrave leaned against the wall of the barn, his arms folded in front of him. “Your sister is still breathing, though she's less pleased with her liberation than I would have expected. And she's all too reluctant to take the next step.”

Balthazar pulled harder on the ropes, and they shredded. For the first time in what felt like months, he had his weight back on his feet where it belonged. Dust and splinters rained down on him as he lowered his aching arms. Constantia stepped back—not in dismay, though. Her expression was more amused than anything else.

Redgrave confided, “I really dislike forcing the issue. We did with you; it's made Constantia so happy. The things I do to please her. But Charity—her I meant to persuade. She's not easy to persuade.”

Charity was alive. That was good. Balthazar took some encouragement from that, but it was hard to focus. He needed something to eat—or drink. Needed it desperately. He looked in the horse's troughs—he was hungry enough to eat oats, or straw—but no, that wasn't right. What did he need?

“So, we're going to play a little game,” Redgrave said. Constantia hurried outside, like someone about to bring in a surprise. “Glutted as we were last night, both Constantia and I fed this morning. I tried to show Charity how easy it could all be, but it seemed to—traumatize her. Constantia paid her attentions to a visitor to your home, someone who was concerned because you hadn't been seen this morning. I should warn you: Constantia's the jealous type.”

The barn door opened again, and Constantia pushed two girls into the barn so hard that they tumbled to the ground. Their hands were bound, and both of them were disheveled, crying, and streaked with blood—

Blood
.

The thought of it filled Balthazar's mind, a tide that turned his whole world red.

But—Charity. His little sister had never looked more like what the townspeople called her: a madwoman. Though tears streaked her face, her expression was vacant; she lifted her tied wrists so that she could tug at the ends of her curls, hard enough to hurt, though she never flinched. Her whole body shook.

Jane was steadier. Terror was in her eyes, but she righted herself into a sitting position and was obviously working hard to stay calm. On her cheek was a smear of blood. Balthazar imagined licking it off.

Then he could hear everything. The stamping and snuffling of the horse and the cow—the wind through the high grasses outside—and the beating of Charity's and Jane's hearts. The rushing of blood in their veins.

Blood. That was what he needed.

His jaw began to ache. Fangs slid through the flesh.

“You need something to eat,” Constantia said. “So you can have one of them.”

“Have?” Balthazar didn't understand.

Then he did.

He launched himself at Redgrave, shoving the man back against the wall and tearing at his face—only to be thrown back with such force that he slammed against one of the stable stalls and splintered it almost in half. Before Balthazar could even get to his feet again, Redgrave had grabbed him by the hair and punched him in the face, again, three times, until only his own blood (not enough blood) clogged his nose, ears, and eyes.

Seemingly at a great distance, Jane and Charity screamed and screamed. It made no difference.

Only when Balthazar was too weak to stand did Redgrave stop. “That was unpleasant, wasn't it?” He sounded unconcerned. “You're only one day old, boy. I've got centuries on you. If you fight me, you'll get more of the same. Except next time, I'll make you watch me beat them first.”

“Balthazar, what's happening?” Jane said. Her eyes were red, her voice hoarse. “Who are these people? Are they demons?”

Charity rocked back and forth in her little crumpled heap on the floor. Before she had seemed shattered; now she seemed utterly disengaged. “Ring a round the rosy, a pocket full of posies—”

Redgrave stepped forward. “One of these girls will become a vampire—and you will be the one to do it. They've already been bitten; oh, trust me, I drank deep. That means they're prepared. All you have to do is drink her blood until she's dead.”

“I won't—” The words froze in Balthazar's mouth. He could only think of the phrase
drink her blood
.

“Do you think your refusal will save their lives? It won't. But I want you to do it, Balthazar. I want to see the pleasure on your face as you make your first kill. And I relish the chance to make you choose which one to murder—your sister or your love?”

Jane tried to rise, but Constantia shoved her down again. Charity's voice was even softer as she sang, very slowly, “Ashes, ashes—”

She's mad
, Balthazar thought as he looked at his sister.
She always was, a little, but now she's broken. She'll never be right again
.

“Which one will we bring to you, Balthazar?” Constantia said. “Choose quickly, or we'll have to start making them beg you to choose. You don't want to see us do that.”

Jane shook her head, increasingly desperate. “Don't let them do it—hold on, someone will come—”

Balthazar had never been so enraged, and yet the ever-increasing hunger within him was even stronger than his anger. He couldn't think, couldn't speak. This was what it meant to cease being human; this was what it meant to be a monster. Even the sound of heartbeats was driving him mad.

The part of his mind that remained his own rationalized:
Charity's broken. She'll never be right again, never be sane again. Jane is the stronger one; she can endure this. It's already too late for Charity
.

His eyes fell on his little sister. For one moment he remembered her as a small child, playing in the meadow. She used to pick wildflowers by the armful and drop them in his lap.

Then he closed his swollen eyes, and all he could hear was the rushing of blood in her veins for one final, fatal moment.

Charity whisper-sang, “We all—fall—down!”

Balthazar snapped. He leaped at the sound of her voice, heard her start screaming (
“No! No! Don't, not you, don't, please don't!”
), and bit into her throat. Charity's scream rose in pitch, and she beat at him desperately with her other hand, but there was no stopping now. He didn't want to stop. This feeling—fangs in human flesh, human blood filling his mouth, his body growing stronger with every swallow—was the most glorious, satisfying sensation he had ever known.