Jane was steadier. Terror was in her eyes, but she righted herself into a sitting position and was obviously working hard to stay calm. On her cheek was a smear of blood. Balthazar imagined licking it off.

Then he could hear everything. The stamping and snuffling of the horse and the cow—the wind through the high grasses outside—and the beating of Charity’s and Jane’s hearts. The rushing of blood in their veins.

Blood. That was what he needed.

His jaw began to ache. Fangs slid through the flesh.

“You need something to eat,” Constantia said. “So you can have one of them.”

“Have?” Balthazar didn’t understand.

Then he did.

He launched himself at Redgrave, shoving the man back against the wall and tearing at his face—only to be thrown back with such force that he slammed against one of the stable stalls and splintered it almost in half. Before Balthazar could even get to his feet again, Redgrave had grabbed him by the hair and punched him in the face, again, three times, until only his own blood (not enough blood) clogged his nose, ears, and eyes.

Seemingly at a great distance, Jane and Charity screamed and screamed. It made no difference.

Only when Balthazar was too weak to stand did Redgrave stop. “That was unpleasant, wasn’t it?” He sounded unconcerned. “You’re only one day old, boy. I’ve got centuries on you. If you fight me, you’ll get more of the same. Except next time, I’ll make you watch me beat them first.”

“Balthazar, what’s happening?” Jane said. Her eyes were red, her voice hoarse. “Who are these people? Are they demons?”

Charity rocked back and forth in her little crumpled heap on the floor. Before she had seemed shattered; now she seemed utterly disengaged. “Ring a round the rosy, a pocket full of posies—”

Redgrave stepped forward. “One of these girls will become a vampire—and you will be the one to do it. They’ve already been bitten; oh, trust me, I drank deep. That means they’re prepared. All you have to do is drink her blood until she’s dead.”

“I won’t—” The words froze in Balthazar’s mouth. He could only think of the phrase drink her blood.

“Do you think your refusal will save their lives? It won’t. But I want you to do it, Balthazar. I want to see the pleasure on your face as you make your first kill. And I relish the chance to make you choose which one to murder—your sister or your love?”

Jane tried to rise, but Constantia shoved her down again. Charity’s voice was even softer as she sang, very slowly, “Ashes, ashes—”

She’s mad, Balthazar thought as he looked at his sister. She always was, a little, but now she’s broken. She’ll never be right again.

“Which one will we bring to you, Balthazar?” Constantia said. “Choose quickly, or we’ll have to start making them beg you to choose. You don’t want to see us do that.”

Jane shook her head, increasingly desperate. “Don’t let them do it—hold on, someone will come—”

Balthazar had never been so enraged, and yet the ever-increasing hunger within him was even stronger than his anger. He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. This was what it meant to cease being human; this was what it meant to be a monster. Even the sound of heartbeats was driving him mad.

The part of his mind that remained his own rationalized: Charity’s broken. She’ll never be right again, never be sane again. Jane is the stronger one; she can endure this. It’s already too late for Charity.

His eyes fell on his little sister. For one moment he remembered her as a small child, playing in the meadow. She used to pick wildflowers by the armful and drop them in his lap.

Then he closed his swollen eyes, and all he could hear was the rushing of blood in her veins for one final, fatal moment.

Charity whisper-sang, “We all—fall—down!”

Balthazar snapped. He leaped at the sound of her voice, heard her start screaming (“No! No! Don’t, not you, don’t, please don’t!”), and bit into her throat. Charity’s scream rose in pitch, and she beat at him desperately with her other hand, but there was no stopping now. He didn’t want to stop. This feeling—fangs in human flesh, human blood filling his mouth, his body growing stronger with every swallow—was the most glorious, satisfying sensation he had ever known.

Her punches grew weaker, then ceased. Her body became heavy in his arms. Her pulse went as soft and uneven as the beating wings of a butterfly, until finally it stopped.

Balthazar dropped her body onto the stable floor. At first he felt nothing save the desire for even more blood—but no, he was sated. Only then did it hit him that this was his little sister, dead by his hand. She looked like a broken porcelain doll. Balthazar pulled back from her, recoiling from what he’d done, but there was no leaving this behind.

“Isn’t that better?” Redgrave said. “Don’t be too glum. She’ll be with us again at the next sunrise. A bit peeved with you, I’d expect, but still. Awake and immortal.”

Slowly, Balthazar lifted his head to look at Jane. The revulsion on her face seemed to hold up a mirror to his soul.

She can go on from here, he told himself. She’ll be scared, and she’ll hate me until she dies—but Jane can bear this. “Let her go,” he said. “You made me choose. I chose. We’re done here.”

Constantia helped Jane to her feet and brushed off her gown. Jane shook so that she could barely stand, but her expression was resolute.