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“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?”
“You have a hostage,” Balthazar said, his voice as low as a growl. “As you well know.”
“But I’ll never hurt little Charity. Not in any way she doesn’t enjoy being hurt. She remains my favorite toy. So that doesn’t work, you see?” Redgrave’s hand dropped, and Balthazar sensed the increasing danger. “We can’t trust you again, I fear. I know you won’t hunt us, for baby sister’s sake, but beyond that—no one could say what you might be capable of. Least of all yourself.” That bloodless smile leered too close to Balthazar’s face. “If you ever awoke to your full potential, you might be a creature to reckon with. But you’re too busy grieving for what you lost. Too busy pitying the weak and wishing to be human.”
In the distance, another great crashing sound echoed through the streets, as well as a fresh wave of screaming. Faraway firelight glowed orange behind the outlines of buildings. This heat, this riot, this horrible moment—they seemed as if they could never end.
Balthazar tried to catch Charity’s eyes, hoping she might take this moment to turn against Redgrave—they weren’t strong enough to beat him, not even together, but they might be able to get away if they worked in tandem. Instead she was playing with a strip of lace that had come loose from the sleeve of her dress, as thoughtless and unconcerned as a child.
Could he leave her here? Abandon her once again to Redgrave? Balthazar knew he had to, but it was no easier the second time.
Lorenzo strode forward, past Balthazar. “I say it’s time we find out what’s behind this door, don’t you think, Redgrave?”
“No!” Balthazar shouted, but too late; Lorenzo had ripped the warehouse door from its hinges. The other vampires swarmed after him, and Balthazar ran inside, too—to see that the building was empty, the back door still ajar.
Richard took his chance, Balthazar thought with a rush of relief. He’d spoken of hiding them in the nearby post office basement—too obvious, Balthazar had said. While he’d been arguing with Redgrave, Richard had silently herded the group into their new place. The uproar outside had muffled the sounds.
Redgrave breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring. “Many. Afraid—ah, deliciously afraid. Gone … but not far. Shall we follow?”
Balthazar was the first to reply, by slamming his fist into Redgrave’s face.
It was only the second time he’d dared to attack his sire, and even with more than two hundred years’ strength and experience, Balthazar knew he was still no match for Redgrave. But he could hold his own now. He could cause the bastard pain.
They fell to the plank floor, a loose nail head cutting into Balthazar’s back even as he grabbed Redgrave by the ear and jaw and slammed him down alongside him. Redgrave shoved him so hard that Balthazar went skidding across the floor; splinters jabbed into the skin of his side, arm, and face as he slid. He hit the wall so hard that a couple of his ribs broke—they’d heal quickly, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.
As Balthazar groaned, he heard Constantia call out gleefully, “This way! Come on!”
Redgrave grinned down at him, clearly understanding that murdering the people Balthazar had been helping to protect would be more hurtful to him than any further physical punishment. He was gone in an instant, the vampires leaping through the back door faster than Balthazar could get to his feet.
But he pushed himself upright and ran after them, ignoring the blood trickling down his face and the stabbing pain in his side. They reached the door only a few seconds before he did, but long enough for them to pull it from its hinges—a great tearing sound of metal, a shriek that rang out over the bedlam surrounding them—and leap inside. Balthazar shouted out, a wordless cry of anger and helplessness, and hurtled inside after them…
… to face the cold.
“What the—” Balthazar’s voice choked off as he realized the basement stairs on which they stood were far colder than could be explained by being inside or underground. It was more than the absence of the sweltering July heat; it was as cold as January, as though they had stepped inside an icebox.
And though no torches burned, and no lanterns were held aloft, the room glowed with an eerie blue incandescence.
Richard, like those he had brought with him, stared up in mingled worry, anger, and confusion. His eyes clearly asked the question, What’s happening? Balthazar could not answer.
Then he glimpsed something he had always longed to see on Redgrave’s face—pure fear. But it gave Balthazar no comfort, because he heard Constantia whisper, “Wraiths.”
