Is it safe to let him in the House? I asked Ethan silently.
And where else would we put him, Sentinel? I’d rather have him under watch than roaming the city.
“Get everyone inside,” Ethan said as camera shutters winked open and closed around us. “Take him to my office.”
I knew Ethan was right, but couldn’t help thinking of the fox in our proverbial henhouse.
Luc nodded, gestured Balthasar toward the House. Balthasar nodded regally, as if he were being shown to the king’s own chambers, and stepped forward as the guards opened the gate.
I slid my katana back in its scabbard and stood quietly with Ethan in the rain of flashes.
He sighed, ran his hands through his hair. “Of all the gin joints in all the world.”
“And he walks into yours,” I finished for him.
Ethan glanced back at me, and I saw the dread in his eyes. He’d confessed to me some of the things he’d done, the way he and Balthasar had worked their way across Europe, the women and blood they’d taken, until Balthasar had finally gone too far. But it had taken time for him to tell me. He’d been concerned my feelings would change if I knew who he’d been and what he’d done.
But didn’t that make him more? The fact that he could have continued to follow Balthasar, to debauch his way across Europe, and hadn’t. That he’d worked to free himself from a vampire whose psychic powers were undeniably strong. That he’d become a different kind of vampire, a true Master.
I couldn’t change the fact that Balthasar waited inside the House. But I could give him comfort. A reminder. So as cameras flashed around us, I took his hand.
He is your past, I said silently, and nodded toward the House that glowed warmly beyond the gate. We are your present and future. Face him on your territory, and let the reckoning take place there. And if he gets out of line, use that right cross and lay him out.
Ethan smiled with obvious reluctance. “It may get ugly. Likely will before all is said and done.”
I squeezed his hand. “Unfortunately, I think that’s guaranteed. But if things get too ugly, I’ll lay you both out.”
* * *
Ethan’s office was spacious and as beautifully decorated as the rest of the House. There was a desk on one side, a sitting area across from it, and a conference table that spanned the back wall.
Balthasar stood in the middle of the room, taking in the furniture, décor, mementos of Ethan’s life. Was he evaluating what he’d lost in Ethan’s revolution, or what he stood to gain if he could bring Ethan into the fold once again?
Luc stood in the sitting area, arms crossed and expression suspicious, beside Malik, Ethan’s second-in-command.
Malik was tall and lean, with thoughtful pale green eyes that set off dark skin. His stance mirrored Luc’s, and he was the only one in the room who wore the official Cadogan House uniform—slim-cut black suit, white button-down shirt. A silver teardrop, the Cadogan House medal, was suspended at the base of his throat.
Malik was protective of Ethan and the House, and his gaze drilled into Balthasar, eyes tracking across Balthasar’s face as if committing his visage to memory. All the better for Malik to double-check his bona fides later, I thought.
As I closed the door, Malik shifted his attention to Ethan, to gauge his mood, his magic, and his emotion as only a confidant and colleague could do.
When he was satisfied, he looked at me, a question in his eyes—Was this man who he seemed to be?
I gave Malik a quick nod, shifting my gaze to Ethan. He seemed to believe, and that was the only thing that mattered now. But that only created more questions: How had Ethan been wrong about Balthasar’s death? Where had he been in the intervening years? And, most important, what did he want from Ethan?
Balthasar dabbed at his mouth and, when he was satisfied the wound had closed—the benefits of vampire healing—tucked the handkerchief away again. “You have a lovely home, mon ami.”
Ethan ignored the compliment and the intimacy, walked to the sitting area, took a seat on the leather sofa, and spread his arms across the back, staking his position, his authority. I stood at attention beside him, ready to jump forward should the need arise.
“We enjoy it. You should begin.”
Balthasar quirked an eyebrow at the order—I wondered if Ethan had unconsciously picked up the affectation from him. “I will tell you my story, and you will reach your own conclusions.”
“Tell your tale,” Ethan said. “And we’ll see what comes next.”
* * *
Balthasar took a seat across from Ethan, fingers steepled in his lap.
“I was in London,” he began. “Three men walked into the house with crosses and stakes. They were the relatives of some girl or other, convinced I was evil, the devil incarnate.”
Not just some girl, Ethan said to me, his irritation obvious even telepathically. Persephone.
Ethan had loved her. Balthasar knew that, and had seduced and killed her in order to taunt Ethan. That selfish and violent act had been Balthasar’s final blow, prompting Ethan’s separation.
These men had been members of her family? I asked.
Yes was all Ethan said.
“I was the only one in the house,” Balthasar continued. “You’d just left, and I’d sent Nicole, as you call her now, on an errand.”
“To find me and bring me back,” Ethan said flatly, and Balthasar lifted his gaze to Ethan again, amusement in this eyes.
“Alive, if that was an option,” Balthasar agreed. “And if it was not . . . Well, it was a different time.”
“She did not find me,” Ethan said. “But I went back anyway.” A shadow crossed his eyes, as if he watched a memory play back. After a moment, he refocused on Balthasar.
“I heard about the mob. I went back, and saw you through the window. Bloodied. Almost decapitated.”
That explained why Ethan had believed Balthasar dead. A vampire could heal most wounds, but once the head was severed, the game was up. That was too much for even vampire genetics to mend. And the fact that Balthasar hadn’t contacted Ethan in the interim would only have reinforced what Ethan had seen. Still . . . there was doubt in Ethan’s voice now, put there by the vampire now sitting across from us.
I inched closer to the sofa, just enough for my hip to brush Ethan’s shoulder, a quick brush of contact I hoped would remind him that I was there. Balthasar saw the gesture, his gaze snapping like a cobra’s hood to notice the intimacy. There was something old and icy in his eyes. The utter absence of empathy, as if I was nothing more than a few brushstrokes on the canvas of his very long life.
I wanted to shrink away, but I forced my shoulders back, my chin up. I was Sentinel, and this was my House.
“Nearly decapitated,” Balthasar clarified, shifting his gaze to Ethan again. “The men initially decided to do away with me, and the gang of them, at least a dozen, made a very good first effort. That, I suspect, is what you saw. They’d decided burning at the stake would serve as a proper warning to those who would dare defile their daughters, and they left to prepare the bonfire. But that was not to be. One of the men, who had his own peculiar interests, decided he could use me for his own purposes. He was a member of a cult; they called themselves the Memento Mori.”
Remember, you will die, I translated roughly, trying to remember my Latin.
“They believed vampires had the power to unlock the secrets of omnipotence and immortality, that we could traverse the gap between life and death. The man took me from the house before my torturers came back, bandaged me. Let me heal. And then began his work.” Balthasar gestured to the scars along his neck. “He believed having a piece of me, quite literally, would give him strength. They kept me alive, if one could call it that. Weakened, chained, and dosed with extract of aspen enough to keep me only just conscious.”
I felt the sharp flash of Etha
n’s magic. Peter Cadogan had died from the same substance—from his slow poisoning by a romantic rival.
Balthasar must have sensed the magic, and he nodded. “A small enough dose results in lethargy in the extreme. Docilité. It also impairs the ability to heal.”
“I wasn’t aware,” Ethan said quietly.
“Nor was I,” Balthasar said. “But I learned quickly. They held me in Spitalfields, in London. Questions were not asked about screams, about blood, about midnight activities. Not when need was great, and happiness was in short supply.”
“You escaped?” Ethan asked.
Balthasar laughed, the sound like rough whiskey. “Nothing as romantic as that. The humans and their ancestors grew tired of caring for me, and they discarded me at an abbey in Walford. They either were gracious enough not to kill me, or believed I was nearly dead and the trouble would have been wasted.
“The abbey was a fortunate choice. The abbot was a kind man, and he’d sheltered supernaturals before. He helped me heal, to begin to function. And when it became clear I wasn’t aging, he helped me find new lodging to avoid the obvious questions. I moved from one safe house to another. I was in northern Europe. In Aberdeen for many years. The custodians didn’t know who I was, only that I needed refuge. And when anyone became suspicious, they moved me again. I ended up in Chalet Rouge. The safe house in Geneva.”
“I know it,” Ethan said with a nod.
“I improved slowly,” Balthasar continued. “Recuperated as the extracts slowly—too slowly—left my system. It took decades before my memories began to return. And they came one at a time, like cards being dealt. A memory of you, of Paris, of Nicole. I eventually remembered who you were. And I discovered who you’d become.”
Silence fell. Ethan watched Balthasar carefully. “And you’ve not contacted us in all that time? Or the GP?”
A lesser vampire might have squirmed under Ethan’s stare, but Balthasar seemed mildly amused by it. “Our separation was less than pleasant. You had feelings toward me, as I did toward you. Strong feelings. You left without permission.”
“You would not have granted it. You treated humans and vampires alike as if they were disposable. I grew tired of the depravity. Rémy took over the group when you were gone, and his behavior was no better. I did not go back.”
Balthasar’s eyebrows lifted. “It seems we are being frank. But it was a different time. I’ll not apologize for what I was, nor will I request your apology.”
Ethan’s gaze darkened. “I owe you no apologies.”
“Perhaps you do, perhaps you do not.” Hands still linked between his knees, Balthasar leaned forward. “But do you owe me thanks? You owe your immortality, and all the benefits it has brought you, to me.”
I felt the quick rise in Ethan’s magic. “And why are you here now?”
“I’d say to make amends, but that sounds equally naive and pretentious. Let’s say I became . . . unassailably curious.”
“Because I have power?”
Balthasar dipped his chin a bit, managed a wicked smile that edged toward creepy and malevolent. “Because you’ve become so interesting. As have your . . . accoutrements.”
“Careful,” Ethan warned. “Or you will quickly wear out your welcome.”
Balthasar made a vague sound of disagreement, then stood. He walked toward the bookshelf, long fingers lingering on the back of the chair. Before I could blink, he stood before the tall shelves, fingers now trailing across the mementos Ethan had collected over the centuries.
I’d barely seen him move.
God, but he was fast. Faster than any vampire I’d seen. He wasn’t just a relic or an anachronism of an older age, but a powerful predator. And he was showing off.
In consideration of the threat, I straightened beside Ethan, felt his answering attentiveness.
Balthasar picked up a small crystal globe, let it glide across his fingers.
“I’ll warn you again,” Ethan said, “and for the last time. Use care.”
“Care?” Balthasar asked. “The same care that you would show me?”
The world began to vibrate beneath my feet, as if the House had been suddenly perched on the edge of a machine large enough to spin the world on its tilting axis. It tilted around me—the entire room—while I stayed upright.
Me . . . and Balthasar.
Chapter Three
THE VAMPIRE’S GIFT
I gripped the back of the couch as the world shifted, saw Ethan’s eyes go wide. Saw his mouth form my name—“Merit?”—but heard nothing but the pounding of blood in my ears.
I glanced up, vertigo racking me as perspective shifted, caught Balthasar’s intense glance.
“What are you doing to me?” I demanded.
Balthasar smiled venomously as the sound grew louder and faster, as if hornets buzzed through my head. “I am demonstrating what it means to be one of my vampires.”
I became a marionette, pulled toward him as if gravity’s axis had shifted, sucking me sideways. I fought back—of course I fought back, tried to pinwheel my arms and legs to move. But the effort was useless. He dragged me stiffly forward, pulled me toward him by the sheer power of his will.
Balthasar had called me. Balthasar, who stood smiling through hooded lids, had managed to draw me in despite my obvious reluctance, my palpable fear.
This wasn’t supposed to work on me.
When Mallory had brought Ethan back to life, her power over him had briefly lingered. She’d been able to funnel her magic through him, and he’d detested the violation, her presence inside the sanctity of his mind.
I understood that feeling now, because that’s precisely what this was—a violation. By compelling me forward, he’d stripped me of my right and will, my ability to say no.
If this was glamour, the calling of a vampire to its Master, how did other vampires survive it? How did they live with the intrusion? The invasion? How was this different from what Mallory had done?
I glanced back, intending to scream for help, wondering why Ethan, Malik, and Luc hadn’t risen to stop him, to help me.
But they looked frozen behind me. Not because Balthasar had stopped time, but because I was moving faster, at the same speed that Balthasar had demonstrated a moment before.
I fought for control of my own body, of my own mind. I’d long ago learned to keep blocks in place to keep my keen vampire senses from overwhelming me with sounds, smells, and tastes. I tried to pull them down, imagined their working like heavy metal shutters, creating a seawall between my mind and the buffering waves of his magic. But it was like trying to hold back a hurricane with an umbrella. The magic spilled around it, over it, under it, and through it like a leviathan.
And with the leviathan came a pulse of passion and arousal so keen it was nearly painful. My body felt suddenly electric, every nerve sensitive and attuned to Balthasar—the line of his neck, the nimble fingers that twirled the globe, the beckoning eyes.
All the while, Balthasar kept smiling. The psychic ropes he’d used to pull me forward tightened, each shuffling step bringing me closer to him.
I couldn’t find breath to speak, and pled with my eyes for him to stop, to release me. But the fear only seemed to excite him, his arousal perfuming the air with old magic and the nearly overpowering scents of orange and cinnamon.
His eyes quicksilver with excitement, Balthasar bared his fangs with a hiss, needle-sharp tips gleaming as he prepared to bite, and extended a hand toward me.
“A kiss for a lovely woman,” he said.
The closer I drew, the more the rest of the world faded, until he was the only thing I could see . . . and the only thing I cared to.
The silver in his eyes spun like sugar, and he looked like the hero from a Gothic poem, with sable hair and fresh-cream skin, his lips flushed crimson with desire . . . for me, for only me, because he and I we
re the only ones in the world.
He would bite me. He would pierce skin and vein, and he would take from me, and I would never want for anything else. I would never need anything else, because he would be everything . . .
His hand gripped my arm and drew me closer, my eyes drifting shut as his bared fangs promised simultaneous pleasure and pain, the vampire’s gift. His lips found mine, made contact—
“Arrêter!”
Ethan’s voice boomed through the room on a shock wave of fury. Suddenly, he was beside us, hauling me away. Balthasar dragged himself from my mind, the separation leaving me cold and empty. Without his bolstering magic, the floor rushed toward me like I’d been thrown against it. I landed on my knees with rattling force. Nausea welled as the world spun, and I squeezed my eyes closed until I felt the carousel slowing.
Malik was suddenly at my side. “I’m going to help you to your feet.”
I nodded, unsure I’d be able to form words, and Malik put an arm around my waist, drew me to my feet. My knees wobbled but held.
“I won’t let you go,” he said quietly, and guided me toward the couch and away from the scuffle.
Even still, there was a terrifying part of me that didn’t want to go, that didn’t want distance from Balthasar, from the pleasure he promised.
Ethan grabbed him by the lapels, shoved him back against the bookshelves with enough force to snap wood and spill books and crystal to the floor.
Balthasar’s laughter was cold as ice. “Perhaps you’ll think twice the next time you lay hands on me, mon ami.”
Ethan’s voice was cold and sharp as Balthasar’s, and he pushed him again into broken wood and glass to punctuate the words. “If you touch her again, come near her again, I will tear you apart with my own bare hands, Master or not.”
Balthasar raised his hands between Ethan’s arms, attempted to break Ethan’s hold. But Ethan was driven by fear, love, and fury, and he had the upper hand.