by Chloe Neill
“And there is a very long story to tell.” He let his gaze slip back to the House. “Perhaps we can discuss it?”
Another long moment passed as Ethan looked at Balthasar, his expression blank but his energy suddenly hot, as if centuries of anger and frustration had finally ignited.
Step back, Merit. Ethan’s order was contrary to my mission. But before I could argue, he repeated it again.
Step back, Sentinel.
The second I moved, Ethan’s fist was up. With a sickening crunch of cartilage, he slammed it into Balthasar’s face, and the scent of blood filled the air.
The crowd erupted again, magic flaring from the Cadogan vampires. I stepped closer to Ethan, and Luc did the same, both of us ready to move should Balthasar attempt a response.
Slowly, he shifted his gaze back to Ethan, pressed the back of a hand to his nose. His eyes sparked with obvious shock that someone would dare to challenge him, much less a vampire to whom he’d gifted immortality.
“Comme tu as changé, mon ami.”
“Oui c’est vrai. La vie m’a changé,” Ethan said, in perfect French I hadn’t known he spoke. His voice was low and threatening, and utterly Masterly.
Balthasar pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing genteelly at the cut. “Ça va. Je comprends.”
“And let us be clear,” Ethan continued in English. “I am no longer a human, nor a boy, nor the child you once knew. Don’t ever call me again.”
Luc stepped forward, put a hand on Ethan’s arm. “Perhaps we should take this inside, away from the paparazzi? I think we’ve given them enough for one night.”
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 his 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 were 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 Ethan’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.
Chloe Neill was born and raised in the South, but now makes her home in the Midwest. When not writing, she bakes, works, and scours the Internet for good recipes and great graphic design. Chloe also maintains her sanity by spending time with her husband and their dogs, Baxter and Scout. She is the New York Times bestselling author of the Chicagoland Vampires Novels, the Devil’s Isle Novels, and a young adult series, the Dark Elite.
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