Some of the students had started to smile, but in a good way, as if they were actually sort of interested against their will. Balthazar decided to go with it. He shut the idiotic book and just went to the board. If the best way to handle this class was to talk about what he already knew, fine.
“The Puritans called themselves the Godly,” he said, jotting it on the board. All around him, students started taking notes. Skye looked down last, though. Their eyes locked for an instant, long enough for Balthazar to realize how good it felt to know at least one person understood that he was telling his own truth.
By the study hall at the end of the day, Balthazar was feeling pretty good about the whole teacher thing—at least until Skye walked into the library, and how could that skirt possibly have become shorter since homeroom? It had to have. There was no way she could’ve walked around like that for hours without being spoken to. Or possibly arrested.
Balthazar realized that was partly the old-fashioned side of him talking—her skirt was short but not indecent. The obscenity of it wasn’t the length of the hemline; it was the thoughts that hemline inspired in him.
Skye texted him first: I’m going straight home after school. Madison asked me over, but I told her I still feel weird. You didn’t tell me you were living over there!
Haven’t had much chance. Listen, are you okay?
Yeah. The vision in Ms. Loos’s class today was intense, but since I fainted yesterday at the game, she was actually nice about it for a change. I think everybody thinks I’m epileptic or something. I should be transferred out of there by the end of the week, though.
Balthazar raised an eyebrow at the realization that Tonia had been giving Skye a difficult time, but that was hardly the most important subject for them to discuss. I just need to say—I’m sorry. About last night.
For what?
For going further than I should’ve gone.
I was hoping you were going to say, for leaving too soon.
The idea of lingering longer in Skye’s bedroom flickered in his mind, invitingly, but Balthazar pushed it away. I think you’re amazing. You know that. But I meant what I said. Getting involved with humans—it’s a line I don’t cross.
There’s a first time for everything.
He glanced up from his phone to look at her the precise moment she did the same. As their eyes met across the library, Skye recrossed her legs, giving him another glimpse of just how long and slim and toned they were.
A bold move—but her eyes told the true story. There he could see her uncertainty, her vulnerability. Whatever it was, that mixture of flirtation and fragility struck deep within him.
Balthazar’s response was as much a reminder to himself as to Skye: We can’t be anything more than friends.
I hear you, Skye sent back, which seemed surprisingly reasonable—until the next line arrived. But nobody said I had to make it easy for you.
He should have been exasperated. Concerned. Something like that.
Instead, it was all he could do to keep from smiling.
Madison walked as far as Skye’s house with her, so Balthazar followed them at a distance. It was easier watching Skye when she was wearing a long puffer coat that hid those legs. Yet as they wound their way through to her house, Balthazar began to sense it—that faint energy in the air, thick and ominous, like the coming of a storm.
A vampire was near.
Balthazar moved a little faster; better to be seen following Skye than to leave her exposed. Yet the vampire didn’t close in, didn’t give chase. The presence lingered until a few moments after Skye and Madison had gone inside.
That was when he heard Redgrave’s voice: “It doesn’t bother you?”
“A lot of things are bothering me right now.” Balthazar resolved to get a meat cleaver or something to keep on hand. Anything that would equip him for an impromptu beheading. “Which one are you referring to? The fact that you’re stalking one of my friends?”
“‘Friend.’ How courtly of you.” Redgrave appeared from the underbrush, his elegant clothes still perfect. That camel-colored coat probably cost thousands of dollars; the crocodile leather shoes shone as if the slush and ice couldn’t touch them. His maddening ability to remain polished, no matter what, was just one of the things Balthazar loathed about him. “I mean, the fact that the young lady has a haunted house. The wraiths are no greater friends to you than they are to us. How have you conquered your fear? Or tell me, Balthazar—have you conquered the wraiths?”
That was uncertainty in Redgrave’s voice—the only uncertainty Balthazar had ever heard from him. The ancient terror of the wraiths among vampires was especially strong in Redgrave’s, for reasons Balthazar had never been allowed to know; perhaps, two thousand years ago when Redgrave had still been new, still calling himself by the name his mother had given him, violence between the twin forms of the undead had been more common. At any rate, his fear of the supposed haunting within Skye’s house was very real … which meant Skye remained safe when at home.
Small as this victory was, Balthazar had learned to cherish any win against his oldest and worst enemy. “Let’s just say I have friends in the strangest places.”
They faced each other then, without weapons, without other vampires. Balthazar tried to remember what it had been like before Redgrave. For the centuries since his death, Redgrave’s shadow had stretched across Balthazar’s years, drawing away the light.
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.
The Time Between: Interlude Two
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.
“The Puritans called themselves the Godly,” he said, jotting it on the board. All around him, students started taking notes. Skye looked down last, though. Their eyes locked for an instant, long enough for Balthazar to realize how good it felt to know at least one person understood that he was telling his own truth.
By the study hall at the end of the day, Balthazar was feeling pretty good about the whole teacher thing—at least until Skye walked into the library, and how could that skirt possibly have become shorter since homeroom? It had to have. There was no way she could’ve walked around like that for hours without being spoken to. Or possibly arrested.
Balthazar realized that was partly the old-fashioned side of him talking—her skirt was short but not indecent. The obscenity of it wasn’t the length of the hemline; it was the thoughts that hemline inspired in him.
Skye texted him first: I’m going straight home after school. Madison asked me over, but I told her I still feel weird. You didn’t tell me you were living over there!
Haven’t had much chance. Listen, are you okay?
Yeah. The vision in Ms. Loos’s class today was intense, but since I fainted yesterday at the game, she was actually nice about it for a change. I think everybody thinks I’m epileptic or something. I should be transferred out of there by the end of the week, though.
Balthazar raised an eyebrow at the realization that Tonia had been giving Skye a difficult time, but that was hardly the most important subject for them to discuss. I just need to say—I’m sorry. About last night.
For what?
For going further than I should’ve gone.
I was hoping you were going to say, for leaving too soon.
The idea of lingering longer in Skye’s bedroom flickered in his mind, invitingly, but Balthazar pushed it away. I think you’re amazing. You know that. But I meant what I said. Getting involved with humans—it’s a line I don’t cross.
There’s a first time for everything.
He glanced up from his phone to look at her the precise moment she did the same. As their eyes met across the library, Skye recrossed her legs, giving him another glimpse of just how long and slim and toned they were.
A bold move—but her eyes told the true story. There he could see her uncertainty, her vulnerability. Whatever it was, that mixture of flirtation and fragility struck deep within him.
Balthazar’s response was as much a reminder to himself as to Skye: We can’t be anything more than friends.
I hear you, Skye sent back, which seemed surprisingly reasonable—until the next line arrived. But nobody said I had to make it easy for you.
He should have been exasperated. Concerned. Something like that.
Instead, it was all he could do to keep from smiling.
Madison walked as far as Skye’s house with her, so Balthazar followed them at a distance. It was easier watching Skye when she was wearing a long puffer coat that hid those legs. Yet as they wound their way through to her house, Balthazar began to sense it—that faint energy in the air, thick and ominous, like the coming of a storm.
A vampire was near.
Balthazar moved a little faster; better to be seen following Skye than to leave her exposed. Yet the vampire didn’t close in, didn’t give chase. The presence lingered until a few moments after Skye and Madison had gone inside.
That was when he heard Redgrave’s voice: “It doesn’t bother you?”
“A lot of things are bothering me right now.” Balthazar resolved to get a meat cleaver or something to keep on hand. Anything that would equip him for an impromptu beheading. “Which one are you referring to? The fact that you’re stalking one of my friends?”
“‘Friend.’ How courtly of you.” Redgrave appeared from the underbrush, his elegant clothes still perfect. That camel-colored coat probably cost thousands of dollars; the crocodile leather shoes shone as if the slush and ice couldn’t touch them. His maddening ability to remain polished, no matter what, was just one of the things Balthazar loathed about him. “I mean, the fact that the young lady has a haunted house. The wraiths are no greater friends to you than they are to us. How have you conquered your fear? Or tell me, Balthazar—have you conquered the wraiths?”
That was uncertainty in Redgrave’s voice—the only uncertainty Balthazar had ever heard from him. The ancient terror of the wraiths among vampires was especially strong in Redgrave’s, for reasons Balthazar had never been allowed to know; perhaps, two thousand years ago when Redgrave had still been new, still calling himself by the name his mother had given him, violence between the twin forms of the undead had been more common. At any rate, his fear of the supposed haunting within Skye’s house was very real … which meant Skye remained safe when at home.
Small as this victory was, Balthazar had learned to cherish any win against his oldest and worst enemy. “Let’s just say I have friends in the strangest places.”
They faced each other then, without weapons, without other vampires. Balthazar tried to remember what it had been like before Redgrave. For the centuries since his death, Redgrave’s shadow had stretched across Balthazar’s years, drawing away the light.
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.
The Time Between: Interlude Two
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.
