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“I knew you’d see sense!” Constantia leaned closer. “Or is it just that you’re past ready to slice off Redgrave’s head and throw it in the nearest river?”
“That would be a side benefit.”
She laughed—a rich laugh, husky and sensual. “They’re taking her to Redgrave’s hideout. You’ll never guess where—I’m sure you looked—well, it’s the old church on Holland Avenue.”
“A church?” Churches repelled vampires; Balthazar couldn’t have searched the churches in town even if it had ever occurred to him. “How is that possible?”
“Desanctified.” Constantia’s grin widened. The unsteady light from the television above the bar painted her face and blond hair in different shades, second to second. “Something ghastly happened there—I’ll spare you the details, since you were always the squeamish type. Anyway, it’s about as holy as a McDonald’s. Let’s go there. You explain to Skye how we’re going to handle this. Sweet-talk her. You know how. And we take Redgrave out forever, claim Skye for ourselves.”
Balthazar tilted his face toward her—not suggestively close, but not far short of it. “Just one thing, Constantia. Which part of this do I need you for?”
“If you could take Redgrave out on your own, you’d have done it by now. So would I. Together, we have the chance neither of us had alone. After that? You’ll stand by the bargain, because that’s the kind of sap you are.”
Drifting still closer to her as his fingers closed around the scotch bottle as if to pour again, he said, “You might be right.” Then he smashed the bottle into the side of her head.
Constantia collapsed, unconscious. “Hey!” the bartender yelled. This place didn’t have high standards, but apparently knocking women out during happy hour was beyond the pale. “Hey, what are you trying to do?”
Balthazar went for the door, pointing at the bill Constantia had left on the bar. “Keep the change.”
As soon as he was out, he took off—pushing himself into a run, faster again, then faster, as hard as he’d ever driven himself, praying against hope that he’d reach Skye in time.
Chapter Twenty-six
SKYE WALKED OUT OF HER HOUSE WITHOUT THE vampires laying a hand on her.
Redgrave had her, utterly, completely. In whatever spell he could weave that controlled her actions, he pulled her forward. With one hand on the banister, she carefully descended the stairs, the vampires behind her mocking her powerlessness. She struggled with all of her strength—and yet she remained trapped within the meek, pliant shell Redgrave had sealed her in.
As she walked, she could hear her phone chiming—she had a text from someone, probably Balthazar—but she was as unable to answer it as she was to do anything else of her own free will.
The effect wore off once she was in the van, but by then it was too late. Vampires sat on either side of her, their clawlike hands clamped around her arms, and the one behind the wheel was taking them toward the highway.
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“My dear, does that matter?” Redgrave rode shotgun. He carelessly yanked the copper key from around his neck and tossed it into the tray between the two front seats. “Soon it will make very little difference to you where you are. Or who you are. It’s enough to say that we’re going to a stronghold of mine only a few hours away. Once we’re there—you’ll see.”
Skye imagined a cage—a literal cage of steel bars—and fought back the sudden, throat-clenching urge to vomit. I’ll fight, she thought. I need to surprise them. That’s the only chance I’ve got. What I need is the right opportunity and the courage to go for it.
She looked out the windows, trying to get her bearings. Though the fear racing through her and the van’s speed threw her off for a moment, finding their location wasn’t that difficult for her in the town where she’d lived her whole life. They were taking the longer but better-known route to the highway, which meant they were going to lead her right by…
Could that work? No telling until she tried it.
The vampire closest to her was Charity, whose beauty and height made it clear that she was Balthazar’s sister, even if nothing else about them was the same. As Charity yanked off the copper chain she wore, breaking the links with no thought of using it again, she said, “Why can’t we start now?”
“Charity.” Redgrave’s voice held a note of warning, despite his undeniable fondness. “You know the rules.”
Charity stomped her foot on the floorboard of the van. “I hate rules.”
Redgrave chuckled. “You’ve been a good girl lately, haven’t you? Coming back when you were called, telling us how to battle the wraiths: all very useful. I suppose we do need someone else to spread the news of what Skye can really do, now that Lorenzo is gone.”
“May I? Please? May I?” Charity’s eagerness had taken on a gleeful edge that made Skye’s skin crawl.
“Just one sip,” Redgrave said, and Skye’s gut tensed so hard that she thought she might vomit.
Charity turned to look at Skye with eerie eyes that seemed to penetrate her. They were not unlike Balthazar’s eyes, but—unfocused, somehow. Even as Skye tried to push herself away, in vain, Charity lifted Skye’s arm and bit in just below the elbow.
Skye cried out more in revulsion than in pain, though that was bad enough. Just the sight of Charity, lips curled back, fangs sunk deep in her flesh as red blood welled—it was utterly repulsive.
“Charity! That’s enough!” Redgrave’s polite mask had again fallen; he reached behind to grab Charity by the neckline of her dress and forcibly pull her away from Skye. The pulling away hurt even worse than the bite, and Skye folded her arm against her chest with a cry. Charity didn’t even seem to notice. Her eyes had a glazed, uncertain look.
