He’d had his reasons, at first. Exposing Redgrave meant exposing himself, and Charity, which was worse. Charity murdered indiscriminately, as if she had no idea left of what was right or wrong—Redgrave’s countless brutalities had wrenched the very concept of evil from her mind. Balthazar had rationalized that he had to keep his silence lest he destroy Charity even more completely than he already had.

But for the last several decades, he’d found it harder and harder to care.

“Come with me,” Constantia whispered, her hand tracing down the length of his chest. “The hour is late.”

When she took his hand, Balthazar didn’t resist. He let her lead him upstairs to their room, to their bed.

How he hated her, but he couldn’t resist her. The first woman—the only woman—he’d ever lain with, with no love or tenderness between them. Her kisses tasted like poison, and he kissed her more deeply for that, hoping that one day the poison might finally finish this life that wasn’t life and let him truly die. Every time she took him to bed, he felt another shard of his human soul crumble into dust.

Balthazar only wanted it to be over.

A few hours later, as Constantia slept by his side, Balthazar lay awake, tormented by thoughts of the barmaid.

Let it go. It’s no different from the other times. You aren’t the one killing her. So that means it’s not your concern.

I know it’s going to happen. If I know and I don’t stop it, that’s as bad as if I drank her blood myself.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Balthazar slipped from beneath the bedcovers. He set each foot on the floorboards carefully, wary of awakening Constantia—but she was a sound sleeper, and tonight was no exception. For a moment he stared down at her, with her lustrous hair splayed across the pillow and her exquisite body outlined by the sheets that had covered them both, and wondered how a form so beautiful could hide a person so monstrous.

Enough. He had work to do.

Balthazar slipped into his trousers, shirt, and boots; the rest of his clothes were unnecessary. In the hallway of the inn, far from the modest fires in the rooms, the air was almost colder than it would have been out of doors. No candles lit his way, but one of the few undeniable advantages of being a vampire was the ability to see in the dark. Sure and swift, he found his way down the stairs. His sharp hearing caught the sounds immediately—he’d come just in time.

“Sir—you should return to your room, sir.”

“But I wish to be here.”

He navigated the passageways of the old inn as well as he could, making his way to the very back. There, just in front of a doorway that must have led to the alley, was the barmaid’s room. She stood there, wrapper around her as she shivered, while Lorenzo held a candle too close to her face.

“I have written my poem,” Lorenzo whispered to the trembling girl. “Do you not wish to hear it?”

“Nobody wants to hear your poems,” Balthazar said, stepping into the dim hemisphere of light the candle allowed. “They’re abysmal. Go to bed and leave Martha alone.”

Martha brightened; Lorenzo scowled as he said, “This is none of your concern.”

“And none of yours, either. Leave her. I won’t go until you do.” Balthazar folded his arms in front of his chest.

Lorenzo remained still a moment, as if unable to believe that anyone so depressed and passive as Balthazar would take a stand—much less here and now, for the sake of a young woman none of them had seen before a few hours ago. Balthazar could feel the anger within Lorenzo, the frustration of a denied kill, and the certainty that he would pay for this defiance later.

But not now. Now they needed shelter in the middle of town, and fighting in the middle of the night would awaken too many humans. Drinking from the girl would no longer be a clandestine, unknown act. It had become too dangerous to risk.

With a scowl, Lorenzo swept past Balthazar. He stomped his entire way up the stairs, like a spoiled, thwarted child. Martha slumped against her doorjamb in relief. “Thank you, sir. He was most insistent, sir.”

“I know they tell you to be kind to the guests,” Balthazar said. “But you don’t have to put up with that. You shouldn’t. It’s not safe. You must take care of yourself. If anyone ever makes you … frightened, or unsure—then be wary. Take whatever precautions you must. Do you hear me?”

Martha nodded. A curl of her dark hair fell across her rosy cheek, and for a moment Balthazar remembered what it had been like to feel desire—real desire, human need, not this shadow of lust that Constantia demanded of him time and again. Not that he would ever endanger another human through showing affection for her. Not after Jane.

The girl was more innocent than he was, of course, suspecting nothing of him but noble motives. “Why do you travel with such people? They’re not—they’re not gentlefolk. Unlike you, sir.”

“I have nowhere else to go.”

“Anywhere else would be better, I should think.” As if afraid she’d overstepped her bounds, Martha flushed, stepped backward, and gave him a quick nod before shutting her door soundly.

Anywhere else would be better.

More than that—Martha had called him a gentleman. He had saved her from Lorenzo, and even if there would be consequences for his action, this girl would not be the one to bear them.

Was it possible there was a place for him in this world? People who might accept him as something other than a monster?

It seemed impossible—yet less impossible than it had always been before.