Then there was nothing at all.

Massachusetts, 1640

IT WASN’T LIKE WAKING UP.

First all Balthazar felt was pain. His flesh had been torn open all along his neck, arms, torso, legs—everywhere. The ropes had long since cut through his wrists, and the weight of his body hanging from them had gone from agony to numbness and, now, back to agony again. There was an odd silence—a stillness within him, rather than without—that he didn’t understand.

He didn’t remember what had happened to him. He didn’t not remember. Instead he was in a place beyond memory or thought. Balthazar was nothing but pain—pain and something else—

—hunger.

“There he is.” Redgrave’s voice was smooth and soft again. “We thought you’d never join us. Constantia here was wondering if we’d have to dig you a grave.”

Smooth, feminine arms wrapped around his waist. Balthazar managed to open his eyes and take in the scene. His familiar old barn was now smeared with gore. The tattered remnants of his shirt and jacket lay on the floor with the straw. Constantia clung to him the way Charity liked to carry around her dolls. “Isn’t that better?” she said, smiling at him. “You’ll see.”

An image welled within his mind: his mother and father, drained of all blood, lying broken and dead upon the floor. He thought he remembered screaming when he saw that, but none of it seemed to matter any longer.

Balthazar tried to speak, but his throat was dry. “I’m—I’m hungry.” Why wasn’t he getting angry or fighting back or demanding to know where his sister was? Down deep, he knew all those things were more important, but he’d never been hungry like this. It was as if he’d never eaten, never in his life, and if he didn’t have something right now, he’d die.

Only then did he realize what the stillness within him was: the lack of a heartbeat.

Redgrave seemed to know what he was thinking. He gave Balthazar a silky smile. “I apologize for the unpleasantness last evening. But your father’s accusation made things rather difficult for me and for your sister, and it was obvious that you wouldn’t be willing to assist us. And Constantia here was so fond of you.”

Your father’s accusation. Memories exploded inside Balthazar’s head like gunpowder in a keg. Charity had kept slipping away, more and more often, and they had all thought it more of her silliness until two days before. Mama had found Charity and Redgrave on the riverbank, and though it seemed he’d done no more than steal a kiss, it was obvious that he meant more by it. Redgrave was not a man to content himself with a young girl’s kiss.

Charity had sworn he used some black magic on her, made her submit to him though she didn’t wish to, but even those who believed in black magic didn’t believe her.

Papa had denounced Redgrave to the elders—there was talk of making him and Constantia leave town, rumors even that Constantia was not his sister, though they lived together—

—and then last night.

I want to explain myself and beg your pardon, Redgrave had said at the threshold of their house. Papa had slammed the door in his face.

Then they had burst through the door.

“They’re dead,” Balthazar said. He pulled at the ropes, pulled harder, desperate to be free, to kill Redgrave, and to eat. More than anything, he needed to eat.

“Your parents are indeed with us no more.” Redgrave leaned against the wall of the barn, his arms folded in front of him. “Your sister is still breathing, though she’s less pleased with her liberation than I would have expected. And she’s all too reluctant to take the next step.”

Balthazar pulled harder on the ropes, and they shredded. For the first time in what felt like months, he had his weight back on his feet where it belonged. Dust and splinters rained down on him as he lowered his aching arms. Constantia stepped back—not in dismay, though. Her expression was more amused than anything else.

Redgrave confided, “I really dislike forcing the issue. We did with you; it’s made Constantia so happy. The things I do to please her. But Charity—her I meant to persuade. She’s not easy to persuade.”

Charity was alive. That was good. Balthazar took some encouragement from that, but it was hard to focus. He needed something to eat—or drink. Needed it desperately. He looked in the horse’s troughs—he was hungry enough to eat oats, or straw—but no, that wasn’t right. What did he need?

“So, we’re going to play a little game,” Redgrave said. Constantia hurried outside, like someone about to bring in a surprise. “Glutted as we were last night, both Constantia and I fed this morning. I tried to show Charity how easy it could all be, but it seemed to—traumatize her. Constantia paid her attentions to a visitor to your home, someone who was concerned because you hadn’t been seen this morning. I should warn you: Constantia’s the jealous type.”

The barn door opened again, and Constantia pushed two girls into the barn so hard that they tumbled to the ground. Their hands were bound, and both of them were disheveled, crying, and streaked with blood—

Blood.

The thought of it filled Balthazar’s mind, a tide that turned his whole world red.

But—Charity. His little sister had never looked more like what the townspeople called her: a madwoman. Though tears streaked her face, her expression was vacant; she lifted her tied wrists so that she could tug at the ends of her curls, hard enough to hurt, though she never flinched. Her whole body shook.