But he had not expected to find Redgrave … or Charity.

They stood together, side by side. Behind them was Constantia, as beautiful and deadly as ever. Her dress was silk, deep red, the color of blood. Her dark eyes narrowed as she recognized him, and he could sense both anger and unwilling desire as they glimpsed each other—or was that only what he felt himself? Lorenzo, too, remained with the tribe; he was clothed in the latest fashions for men, plaid trousers and stovepipe hat, and he would have looked ridiculous but for the crazed, feral gleam in his eyes.

Worst was seeing Charity—even more broken—still by Redgrave’s side. She wore one of the hoop-skirted dresses that were all the rage, lavender and ivory, all frills and lace except for the ragged, dirty hem and sleeves. His little sister’s wide, dark eyes took him in, and he could see no joy, no relief. Even anger would have been something for him to cling to. Instead there was only mute, numb unknowing.

“The prodigal,” Redgrave said, his smile white amid the dusky gloom. Not a speck of ash or dust marred the black sheen of his suit. “How we’ve missed you, dear boy.”

“I haven’t missed you,” Balthazar replied, hating the false bravado in his voice but not knowing how else to answer. “Move along. Nobody wants you here.”

“Nobody wants us anywhere.” It was Constantia who answered him, her voice commanding in a way that sent chills coursing through him—some good, some bad. “That’s why we go where we want.”

Redgrave cocked his head. His profile might have been carved of ivory, perfect and cold. “Shouldn’t you be on the battlefields?”

“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.