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“A word to the wise,” he said. “The enemy of your enemy isn’t necessarily your friend.”
I took stock of my surroundings. Charity’s apartment looked as though it had been very nice only a short time ago, but nobody had cleaned it in several days. The white shag rug was covered with footprints and cigarette butts and, on one corner, rusty smears of blood. A large TV hung on the wall but slightly askew, as if it had been knocked partly loose. A sickly-sweet smell hung in the air, and I realized that a human had died here not long ago. Charity had taken this apartment by force.
She wasn’t in much better shape than the apartment. Her pale golden curls didn’t seem to have been washed recently. Charity wore only a silky lavender slip with beige lace that might have been pretty when it was new and clean; now it was stained and threadbare, making it painfully obvious how youthful her body was. She had only been fourteen when she died.
Trying very hard to keep my voice steady, I said, “Balthazar’s okay. I can promise you that.”
“Are you sure? Very sure?” Charity leaped up from the sofa, her childlike face alight with hope. Even now that I knew how insane and vengeful she could be, something in me wanted to protect her—this wide-eyed, seemingly delicate girl who could look so afraid and alone.
But it was for Balthazar’s sake, not hers, that I spoke. “Yes. He was injured, but he’s healing. He’s in a safe place now. I saw him just two days ago, and I think he’ll be fine.”
“Two days ago.” Charity breathed out a sigh of purest relief, then held her face shockingly close to mine. At first I thought she was going to kiss me, which was weird enough, but then she inhaled so deeply that her whole body tensed. “Yes. You did. I can smell him on you still.”
“Okay.” Black Cross only gave us three minutes in the shower. I’d thought that was enough time to get clean, but now I felt self-conscious.
Charity’s hands closed over mine—not to threaten but to soothe. “Where is he?”
I shook my head. “If Balthazar wanted you to know where he was, he’d find you. Right now, when he’s weak—you need to leave him alone, Charity.”
From his place on the white sofa, the dreadlocked vampire snorted with disgust. Charity tilted her head, and one oily ringlet tumbled loose across her cheek. “You won’t tell me where he is?”
“Last winter you wanted him to leave you alone. Why not now?”
“I never realized how far gone he was,” she said, which coming from a loony like Charity was almost unbelievably ironic.
“Or what a hypocrite he’s become. He used to admit he was a killer at heart. He used to remember that he killed me. So tell me where he is, Bianca. I want to remind him.”
Could I run away before she caught me? I didn’t think so. At least Raquel was outside; when I didn’t show up after a while, she’d call for help. The best thing to do right now was stall. “I’m sorry, Charity. I won’t.”
“You’re a vampire hunter now?” She pointed at my belt, where I wore a stake; my hand had come to rest near it, evidence of my subconscious desire to defend myself. “Black Cross, like your darling Lucas? Balthazar’s not the only one who’s lost.”
Charity took another step forward as I shuffled back. One of her long, rail-thin arms pushed the apartment door shut, and I heard an automatic lock click. Because of her sweet, youthful face and her seemingly fragile form, it always surprised me to realize how tall she was—only a couple inches shorter than her brother. Her size was not the source of her power, but it served as a compelling reminder.
I need to distract her, I thought. That will buy time. “Mrs. Bethany’s very angry.”
“I just bet.” She giggled girlishly. “You know how her nose gets so pinched when she gets mad? It always makes me laugh.” Charity contorted her face into such a dead-on impression of Mrs. Bethany in a fury that I almost smiled despite my fear. But I didn’t forget that this was how Charity worked—endearing herself to you to get you off your guard.
“Mrs. Bethany’s got a lot of vampires behind her. Dozens, maybe hundreds.”
That had a more powerful effect than I’d anticipated. “That must not happen,” she whispered, the humor leaving her dark eyes. “The tribes must not unite behind Mrs. Bethany. It’s important.”
“Are you going to tell me why?”
“Yes,” Charity said, surprising me. Then she smiled, too sweetly. “After you tell me where my brother is. And you will tell me.”
Shepherd sprang toward me with blinding speed. I was able to dodge out of the way, but only barely, and I stumbled against the wall. As he came back toward me, I remembered sparring with Lucas in Black Cross training, and the moves came to me—dodge left, grab his arm, spin him around, and push. Shepherd hit the door so hard it vibrated.
I felt like a major badass—at least, for the second it took Charity to grab me from behind.
“Let me go!” I cried. “There are others coming!”
“Not in time to save you.” Charity dragged me backward hard enough that I lost my footing, then she threw me onto the shag rug.
Panic seized me, threatening to rob me of the power to think or even move—until the window shattered with a crash. Glass flew everywhere, and I cried out just as Shepherd screamed in pain. He fell forward, half on top of me. Desperately I pushed him aside and glimpsed the stake protruding from his back.
A crossbow! Somebody fired through the window!
Charity swore, lunged forward, and pulled the stake out of Shepherd. I was frantically wriggling out from under him, but she seemed to have other priorities. “We’ll get back to this,” she said, pulling a sputtering, woozy Shepherd to his feet. “Move.”
