Then he went back upstairs, returning to Constantia’s bed and the wreckage of his existence. He lay beside his lover, blankets pulled up around his shoulders, and shut his eyes tightly.

But he did not sleep.

By dawn, Balthazar knew what he had to do.

He rose and dressed fully, stockings and breeches and coat and hat. Constantia still did not stir. For a moment he looked down at her beautiful face and tried to think how to bid her farewell—if he could ever divide himself from her entirely, which at that moment seemed impossible. She was poison, but poison that flowed within his veins. She would be a part of his vampire self forever.

And yet it was easier than he would have thought to walk out of that room, hopefully never to see her again.

Charity was awake. Balthazar had known she would be; even in life, she rose before anyone else, before the sun itself. She sat in the great room of the inn, huddled in her bedraggled clothing before the lingering embers of the fire. The glowing coals and the dim light of dawn from the one window provided the only light. Her eyes lifted to his, but she did not rise to greet him, nor speak.

She’d had very little to say to him since the day she died.

“Charity,” Balthazar whispered. “Is Redgrave asleep?”

“Yes.” Her place in Redgrave’s bed was as assumed, and as unnatural, as Balthazar’s place beside Constantia.

“Very well. That gives us a chance to go.”

“Go?” It was as if that were not a word in English, so flat was her incomprehension.

After a century and a half of captivity, who could blame her? Balthazar reminded himself to speak slowly and clearly. Sometimes Charity failed to understand, but this—this she had to understand. “We’re leaving them. The vampires. We’re going this morning. Setting out on our own. You and me.”

Charity’s brows knitted together in consternation. “Leave Redgrave?”

“Yes. Charity, this is our chance. We can leave them behind. Let them follow the war. We’ll make our own way. Maybe—maybe on the outskirts of a city, where we can hunt animals in the woods and nobody will bother us.” Balthazar knew she would resist this—Charity liked human blood far too much—but surely it would be worth it to her, if it meant escaping the murderer and ra**st who had held her captive so long. “Just us. As it should have been. You understand me, don’t you?”

Slowly, Charity nodded.

Balthazar smiled. Thank God. Why had it taken him so long to see just how simply, how quickly, their long nightmare could end? He had no idea where creatures like he and his sister could find peace in the world—they were unholy, damned, no part of God’s creation—but they could look, couldn’t they? They could try. Together, they might find a way to exist without Redgrave, without Constantia, without the bloodshed. It was just possible that he and his sister might have the chance to be … happy.

Then Charity said, “You want to take me away from Redgrave.”

“Yes.”

“Away from him. Away from all the blood. Away from everything.” Charity’s body trembled now, shaking almost as strongly as a convulsion.

“Charity, listen to me.” Balthazar took her shoulders in his hands. “This isn’t how we should be living. You know that, don’t you? Don’t you feel it, deep down?”

A tear trickled from the corner of Charity’s eye as she nodded. The glowing embers pinked her pale cheek. “I do. I know how it should be. And I know who took it from me.”

The shove hit him as hard as a blow, sending Balthazar sprawling across the room until he landed flat on his back on the stone floor. Charity stalked toward him, her fragile hands balled into fists.

“Come with you? Trust you?” Charity shook her head. “Not you. Never you!”

“Charity—”

She reached into the fire, pulling out a superheated pair of tongs that glowed red in the early morning light. Metal near melting cast pinkish-red light onto her face, onto her unearthly smile. “Get out. Go away. Or I’ll behead you myself.”

“Come with me,” Balthazar pleaded. “Charity, please. This is our best chance.”

“You didn’t choose me!” she screamed, so loudly that he knew at least one of the vampires would wake.

So Balthazar pushed himself up from the floor, drew his coat more tightly around him, and ran out into the snow. As it sloughed into his boots, chilled him head to toe, he continued hurrying away from the inn—from Redgrave, and Constantia, and the only life he’d known since his death.

He still had no idea what kind of existence a monster like himself could expect.

He knew only that he had to find it—and face it, alone.

Chapter Seven

BALTHAZAR REACHED INTO THE INNER POCKET of his long coat, taking hold of the bone handle of the wide-bladed knife he’d put there. This would do for a beheading if he got the chance.

Not that it was likely. Redgrave wouldn’t invade Skye’s home with anything less than full force. Lorenzo, Constantia, and the rest of the crew he’d acquired since they’d last met—they would all be with him. That meant Balthazar had to stick to the plan and put off his ultimate revenge until later. Even though there was nothing he wanted more than to make Redgrave pay for what he’d done to him, what he’d done to Charity—

—his eyes sought Skye, her form visible in the darkness, young and frightened but trying so hard to be strong—

—because of what Redgrave was doing to Skye, too. Because of every foul, selfish thing Redgrave had done these past four centuries. It was more than enough reason to take off a guy’s head.