Could he leave her here? Abandon her once again to Redgrave? Balthazar knew he had to, but it was no easier the second time.

Lorenzo strode forward, past Balthazar. “I say it’s time we find out what’s behind this door, don’t you think, Redgrave?”

“No!” Balthazar shouted, but too late; Lorenzo had ripped the warehouse door from its hinges. The other vampires swarmed after him, and Balthazar ran inside, too—to see that the building was empty, the back door still ajar.

Richard took his chance, Balthazar thought with a rush of relief. He’d spoken of hiding them in the nearby post office basement—too obvious, Balthazar had said. While he’d been arguing with Redgrave, Richard had silently herded the group into their new place. The uproar outside had muffled the sounds.

Redgrave breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring. “Many. Afraid—ah, deliciously afraid. Gone … but not far. Shall we follow?”

Balthazar was the first to reply, by slamming his fist into Redgrave’s face.

It was only the second time he’d dared to attack his sire, and even with more than two hundred years’ strength and experience, Balthazar knew he was still no match for Redgrave. But he could hold his own now. He could cause the bastard pain.

They fell to the plank floor, a loose nail head cutting into Balthazar’s back even as he grabbed Redgrave by the ear and jaw and slammed him down alongside him. Redgrave shoved him so hard that Balthazar went skidding across the floor; splinters jabbed into the skin of his side, arm, and face as he slid. He hit the wall so hard that a couple of his ribs broke—they’d heal quickly, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

As Balthazar groaned, he heard Constantia call out gleefully, “This way! Come on!”

Redgrave grinned down at him, clearly understanding that murdering the people Balthazar had been helping to protect would be more hurtful to him than any further physical punishment. He was gone in an instant, the vampires leaping through the back door faster than Balthazar could get to his feet.

But he pushed himself upright and ran after them, ignoring the blood trickling down his face and the stabbing pain in his side. They reached the door only a few seconds before he did, but long enough for them to pull it from its hinges—a great tearing sound of metal, a shriek that rang out over the bedlam surrounding them—and leap inside. Balthazar shouted out, a wordless cry of anger and helplessness, and hurtled inside after them…

… to face the cold.

“What the—” Balthazar’s voice choked off as he realized the basement stairs on which they stood were far colder than could be explained by being inside or underground. It was more than the absence of the sweltering July heat; it was as cold as January, as though they had stepped inside an icebox.

And though no torches burned, and no lanterns were held aloft, the room glowed with an eerie blue incandescence.

Richard, like those he had brought with him, stared up in mingled worry, anger, and confusion. His eyes clearly asked the question, What’s happening? Balthazar could not answer.

Then he glimpsed something he had always longed to see on Redgrave’s face—pure fear. But it gave Balthazar no comfort, because he heard Constantia whisper, “Wraiths.”

Wraiths. Ghosts. The spirits of the slaughtered dead, lingering on earth because of their unfinished business—or so Redgrave had always said. He had spoken of wraiths with the deepest terror and loathing, swearing they were the sworn enemies of vampires, the only creatures on earth who found it easy to harm them, and steering them far clear of any building rumored to be haunted. Although wraiths occasionally terrorized human beings, they chose to manifest seldom—if at all—to mortals. However, the mere presence of a vampire could drive the wraiths to spectral phenomena as spectacular as they were dangerous. Constantia had once whispered to Balthazar, as their heads lay on one pillow, that the whole reason Redgrave had asked them to endure the voyage to the New World was because he thought a land so desolate would harbor fewer wraiths.

But the New World wasn’t so new any longer, and as blue light burned brighter and nausea gripped Balthazar’s gut, he knew that all Redgrave’s fears had been justified.

The wraiths were the only creatures unholier than he was himself.

The pain lashed through him—through all of them—like being stabbed with a sword of ice. Balthazar crumpled along with the rest; they collapsed atop one another in a heap. Charity fell beside him, and for one moment their eyes met.

Still, two centuries later, she was more afraid of him than of Redgrave or the wraiths.

Wraith light swept down again, agonizing and swift. Redgrave somehow summoned the strength to lunge back up the steps and out the door the way he had come; his tribe followed, Charity among them. Although Balthazar tried to clutch at the hem of her skirt, pain had weakened his grip, and the fabric simply brushed his fingertips for a moment before she was gone.

Now the wraiths had only one vampire to torment—Balthazar himself—and the attacks grew more blinding, more terrible. His body twisted in response to the assault, fangs jutting from his jaw as if this were an attacker he could fend off. He could hear the screams of the people inside, horrified by what they were witnessing even if they didn’t understand it. As Balthazar pushed himself toward the door, he looked up once to see Richard … and in his old friend’s face was more revulsion than compassion.

Richard had never seen this—his monstrous true form. It could never be unseen. Although he could not have guessed the full truth, Richard must now realize that Balthazar was not human. One small refuge, one fragile friendship, was broken. With it went Balthazar’s ties to the human world.