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.