Balthazar

by Claudia Gray

  The freezing water felt like a thousand razor blades slicing into her at once. Skye surfaced and screamed in pain, but she also started kicking as hard as she could, fighting the current to take herself to the far shore.

  The cold had its own will, it seemed, and within seconds her limbs seemed almost too heavy to move. Skye kept kicking, though, reaching out with each arm even as her teeth began to chatter. Water splashed her face, stung her eyes. She could feel the droplets beginning to freeze on her skin and hair within moments.

  Her ghost seemed to surround her again, but it felt different this time—like she was being shown something. Another way.

  A door.

  Gasping, Skye’s hand broke through the ice on the far shore of the river. She managed to stumble out, and her wet body felt as if it were freezing to the ground. Shaking so hard she could barely move, she crawled up the riverbank toward the grove near her school.

  The door opened near her, around her. It was as if she had no choice but to fall through. Skye collapsed onto the frozen snow, unable to move any longer. What was happening within her body had become a thousand times more important than what was happening around her.

  Someone was reaching through the door to her. Someone who loved her.

  Her lips formed the word she no longer had the strength to speak: “Dakota.”

  And that was when she knew she must be about to die.

  The Time Between: Interlude Four

  June 12, 1978

  Los Angeles, California

  DONNA SUMMER CROONED OVER THE SPEAKERS as the dancers moved on the discotheque’s illuminated floor. Balthazar—decked out in the polyester slacks and open shirt the era’s fashion required—moved among them, grateful for the crowd and the thick wreaths of cigarette smoke that caught the whirling blue-and-white lights overhead.

  All of these would help hide him.

  Finally, amid the swirling figures around him, at the very center of the dance floor, Balthazar glimpsed the people he sought.

  Redgrave, slick in a dark red suit and shiny pink shirt, dancing with Charity—she who had been so sweet, so innocent, so lost—now wearing a sheer white top and hot pants that barely covered her childish body. Sparkly shadow coated her eyelids all the way to the brows, and the thick, creamy blush so in vogue now made her look as artificially rosy as a porcelain doll.

  They were having fun. Even Balthazar could recognize that.

  The thought of it pricked through any semblance of sanity he’d restored to himself over the years. Rage swept through him—at Charity, at fate, but most of all at Redgrave, who had created them all in his own murderous, soulless image.

  Well, Redgrave was the one he’d come to kill. Charity could break her heart crying for him if she wanted. Balthazar told himself he didn’t care. What happened to his faithless baby sister didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but finally ending Redgrave.

  The others weren’t here tonight; he’d taken care to watch them for a long time, to track their movements for months, before making his move. Lorenzo wasn’t currently with the tribe—off on one of his solo jaunts, from which he inevitably returned blood-fat and overly satisfied with himself, a new, terrible poem in hand. Constantia and the others had set out in a black Trans-Am, to hunt or to party, assuming they saw any difference between the two.

  And finally—after weeks of Balthazar’s waiting and watching, the moment he’d wanted had arrived. Redgrave and Charity were out in public, and therefore vulnerable, all on their own.

  Balthazar grinned as he maneuvered his way through the dancers, more eager for this kill than he’d ever been for human blood. For the first time ever, he was going to murder someone and enjoy every second of it.

  As he approached, Charity whirled around in a circle beneath the glittering ball that hung overhead. The lights painted her blue, white, blue again. Redgrave laughed as he danced closer to her, his movements half obscene. For the first time, Balthazar didn’t care; anything that distracted his prey was welcome.

  He slipped one hand into his back pocket, where the switchblade’s handle found his fingers. It wouldn’t be easy beheading someone with this, but good luck getting an ax into a nightclub.

  Besides, if he had to saw harder to get the job done, that was just more fun for him.

  The music shifted to something even louder and faster as Balthazar finally made his way to their side. Before Redgrave could even turn his head to look at him, Balthazar brought his free hand to the man’s neck, gripping him with all his strength.

  “Say good night, Charity,” Balthazar said, swinging the blade up to slice through Redgrave’s neck.

  Charity screamed and jumped onto them, and they sprawled on the dance floor in a tangle of limbs.

  He’d expected a fight. Balthazar smashed his fist into Charity’s jaw—the first time he’d ever really struck her, and it hurt as much as he’d always expected. All around them, people began screaming, skittering away from the fight on their platform boots and wedge heels. As she went down, the blinking lights beneath the floor outlining her prostrate body, Balthazar turned back to Redgrave, and this time he managed to get the blade in.

  “What are you—” Redgrave’s voice cut off in a gurgle of blood. God, it felt good to shut that bastard up.

  “The hell is going on?” A bouncer made his belated appearance, but Balthazar easily threw the guy across the room before turning back to his messy work. The bouncer could pick himself up later. If the cops came, he could hurl them back easily enough, too. Balthazar had a job to do.

  He sawed deeper. Deeper again. Redgrave kicked and struck at him, but already his strength was beginning to fail. Balthazar finally had enough centuries, enough power, to stand against him. The golden eyes darkened with panic, and Balthazar rejoiced to see it.

  And then he smelled the smoke.

  Balthazar turned and realized that the loudening screams within the room had nothing to do with the fact that he was murdering Redgrave in front of nearly a hundred witnesses. They were mostly about the fact that the disco was now on fire.

  There was never one moment’s question about who was responsible, but all the same, he had to stare at the sight of Charity standing atop the bar, right behind the wall of fire. “They’re all going to die!” she shouted, pointing at the people desperately cramming the few exits they could reach. “And it’s your fault like always!”

  Instantly Balthazar knew he had a choice: He could finish Redgrave now and let the innocent humans around him pay the price, or he could save them and let Redgrave go free.

  Swearing violently, Balthazar rose to his feet, kicked Redgrave once in the face to make himself feel better, and ran toward the nearest exit. Some people were trying to get out, but they were crammed into the door so tightly that they were crushing one another; others, dazed and frightened, simply stood on the edges of the dance floor as if numb. He’d seen this in humans before—an almost animal response to danger, freezing still as if to keep a predator from seeing them. That same instinct could kill them now.

  Balthazar vaulted over the crowd, seizing one of the light arrays suspended over the dance floor to hang slightly above eye level. From there he could reach down and rip the door away from its hinges; although he banged it against several people and heard them cry out, the most important thing was that the exit was now clear. People began rushing out in earnest, and even the stupefied ones reacted once they saw clearly what they needed to do.

  He looked up through the smoky air—still striped with the colors of the rotating lights upon the ceiling—and searched for Redgrave and Charity. They were nowhere to be seen.

  “Redgrave!” he shouted, furious at the lost chance. But already he could hear fire engine sirens wailing—probably the police, too, if anybody had reported his attack before Charity turned to arson—and it was time to get the hell out.

  The scene in the parking lot was chaos. By now the discotheque was ablaze, tongues of orange fire leaping into the sky. Balthazar ducke
d through the crowd, hoping the soot that now coated his skin and hair would mask his appearance somewhat. Although he’d been willing to suffer the consequences of killing Redgrave in public—up to and including years in prison, execution in the electric chair, and the long, messy process of digging himself out of whatever pauper’s grave they’d have buried him in after—he didn’t want to go through all that while Redgrave still lived.

  He’d done his best. Taken every risk. And he’d failed.

  Wearily he walked to his red Mustang GT Fastback to find a note on the windshield, tucked beneath one of the wipers. He knew who it was from and was only mildly surprised to realize that they’d been able to determine which was his car. Probably he shouldn’t have left a pack of cigarettes on the dash. Or at least he should’ve switched brands.

  The handwriting was in Redgrave’s elegant script, each letter flourished the way it would have been in a note penned centuries ago:

  Balthazar—

  As long as you wish to be human, you will never be able to defeat me.

  When you finally accept that you are a monster, you’ll no longer wish to defeat me. You will again become mine.

  Charity sends her love.

  Redgrave

  Balthazar crumpled the note and let it fall to the asphalt. Behind him, the nightclub burned, and somehow the music played on and on.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  BALTHAZAR HAD RUN AS HARD AS HE COULD TO the church Constantia had described … only to find it empty. There were signs Redgrave’s tribe had been here not long ago (empty vodka bottles, cigarette butts, a tattered bit of lace he knew could only have come from a dress of Charity’s), but they were gone now.

  Constantia had lied. Even when she was trying to take him in as a partner, she’d lied. In retrospect, he didn’t know why he hadn’t understood that to begin with.

  He needed to go back to the last place he thought Skye had reached safely: her home. From there he could track her. At least the Tierneys’ house wasn’t far from the church. Within minutes he’d run to her door, only to see that he was too late.

  The front door had been forced. “Skye!” Balthazar shouted as he ran inside, though he knew she wouldn’t answer. Despite the darkness, he could see the few telltale signs that she had made it home and not left of her own free will. Her backpack was slung on the bench in the front hallway; wet footprints along the carpeted stair showed that at least four vampires had come after her.

  He ran up to her bedroom; he knew he wouldn’t find her there, but he couldn’t help himself. In her room was her phone—still blinking to tell her about texts she’d never read—and her coat. Balthazar’s fist closed around the collar of her coat, clutching it close to him as if it could somehow stand in for her.

  Where would they have gone? He had to think. There was only the one main highway out of town; ultimately Redgrave and his tribe had to travel that path if they were leaving Darby Glen, and Balthazar felt sure that they were. If he hurried, he might be able to cut them off—but how could he get there in time with his car a torn wreck on the side of the road?

  He could saddle up Eb—or ride bareback to save time, if Eb would submit to it—but even the fastest horse in the world couldn’t make that trip with the speed Balthazar needed to save Skye.

  Just then he heard a vehicle pulling in to the driveway. Skye’s parents, finally coming home too late? Constantia out for revenge? Balthazar went to the window, preparing to jump to the earth below and circle around, hopefully in time to steal whatever car had just pulled up while the driver was inside the house.

  Then he heard the voices from below: “Skye? Are you here?” That was Craig Weathers.

  “Hello? We thought we would check on you?” And that was Britnee Fong.

  Balthazar weighed the possibilities, made his decision, turned around, and started downstairs, just as the lights came back on.

  Craig stood near the door, his hand on the light switch. Britnee was a few steps ahead. Both of them gaped when they saw him descending the stairs.

  “Oh, my God?” Britnee said. “I thought Madison was just making stuff up?”

  Craig’s face hardened with anger; in one instant, he went from looking like a handsome boy to a formidable man. “What have you done? Where’s Skye?”

  Balthazar held up his hands, a gesture that he too late realized might have been more effective if he hadn’t been holding Skye’s abandoned coat. “Skye’s in serious trouble. We have to find her, now, and I need your help.”

  “The only trouble she’s in is because of you,” Craig said. “You’re our teacher. You’re not supposed to … mess with any of the students.”

  “I’m not a teacher,” Balthazar replied, giving them as much of the truth as he could while sounding credible. “I’ve been pretending to be one, but I’m not. She’s known all along. Skye’s been in danger since before this semester started, and I came to Darby Glen to protect her.”

  Both Craig and Britnee stared at him, clearly caught between surprise and disbelief. Britnee finally said, “That is so not where I saw this conversation going?”

  Balthazar descended the final few steps so that he and Craig were face-to-face. He said, “Skye’s been kidnapped. If we don’t stop the people who took her before they get out of town, I don’t know if we’re ever going to get her back. I don’t have a vehicle. Are you going to lend me yours or not?”

  Britnee raised her hand, as if they were still in history class. “Maybe we should call the police?”

  “This isn’t a situation the police can deal with,” Balthazar said. Especially not the handful of rent-a-cops in this small town, he left unspoken.

  Craig’s glare only became more intense. “Why should we trust you?” he demanded. “How do we know you didn’t hurt Skye?”

  Balthazar’s patience, already frayed, began to break. “Let’s find her and then you can ask her, okay?”

  Although he could tell Craig wasn’t convinced, Britnee put one hand on Craig’s arm and said the first sentence Balthazar had ever heard from her that didn’t sound like a question: “I believe him.”

  Craig breathed out sharply, then said, “I’m not giving you my car. But I’ll drive you wherever you want to go.”

  “That’s a bad idea.” Balthazar didn’t want to drag any more humans than necessary into this.

  “No way,” Craig insisted. “If you’re going anywhere in my car, we’re going with you.”

  Every second they spent arguing here was a second Skye didn’t have to spare. Balthazar yanked the car keys from Craig’s hand and said, “You’re coming with me, but I’m driving.”

  “Watch it!” Craig yelped as Balthazar swerved around another, slower vehicle; they were traveling at nearly a hundred miles per hour despite the high winds and light snow.

  “I’ve got this,” Balthazar said. This was definitely not the time to mention that he’d already totaled one car today.

  “Can you describe the car the kidnappers are in?” Britnee sat in the backseat. “We could call it in as a possible DUI? So the cops would at least stop them?”

  That would’ve been a good idea under different circumstances. “If the police try to pull them over, they won’t be able to help Skye. We’d probably just get the cops killed.”

  Craig said, very quietly, “Could that really happen to the police? To Skye?”

  What awaited Skye was so much worse that Balthazar couldn’t bring himself to think about it, much less describe it to Craig and Britnee. “This is as dangerous as it could possibly be,” he said. “Which is why, when we find them, I want you both to stay out of it.”

  “I could help,” Craig said. Balthazar shook his head once, a swift no.

  Britnee said, “I think I would probably be more of a hindrance in this situation?”

  “Exactly. Stay in the backseat. That works.”

  For a moment, they were all silent; the main noise Balthazar could hear was the roar of the car’s engine. His fear welled up to f
ill the spaces where their conversation had been. All he knew was his own wild terror that he’d lost Skye.

  Don’t be stupid, he told himself. Even if … even if Redgrave has her, even if he’s drunk from her, you know he won’t kill her. You’ll still be able to save Skye. She’s strong. No matter what she’s been through, she’ll fight to stay alive.

  The thought failed to reassure him. Every other time Redgrave had tried to take something from him during the past four centuries, Redgrave had succeeded. Anger pent up from those old treacheries, his countless defeats, burned within Balthazar until it pushed the fear out.

  Before, Balthazar hadn’t thought beyond retrieving Skye and making sure she remained safe and well. Now he knew he couldn’t rest until Redgrave was finished once and for all.

  As they took the next curve, Craig said, “This is around where Skye used to live.” He obviously said it just to fill the silence, but the idea caught fire in Balthazar’s mind. Instantly he knew what Skye would have done.

  “Show me where,” Balthazar said, turning in the direction that Craig pointed. Even as he did, he saw the black van, the vampires around it—and Redgrave.

  They looked dazed, as though they stood on consecrated ground. No doubt they’d encountered the wraith within Skye’s house … and she wasn’t with them. Maybe she was barricaded inside.

  Balthazar stepped hard on the brakes, tires squealing, and shifted Craig’s car into park so fast he could feel the gears grinding. “If I go down, get the hell out of here. If they come after you, go however far you have to go to lose them. Out of town, out of state, whatever you have to do. Got it?” Quickly he popped the trunk.

  Craig began, “Wait a second—” But Balthazar was already out of the car, slamming the door.

  He went to the trunk of the car even as Redgrave said, “You again?”

  Balthazar took out the crowbar he’d found there, marched toward Redgrave, and said, “Me again,” just before swinging the iron rod into Redgrave’s face.

  They were all on him within seconds, but none of them was at their full strength, and he’d never been angrier or more vicious. More deadly. Balthazar pounded at their guts, their groins, their heads, swinging so savagely that none of them could even reach him. Nothing held him back now: not worrying about being seen by humans who would misunderstand, not fear of capture, not any sense of sentimentality, nothing. He might even have been able to hurt Charity, if she’d been with them. The monster within him had never been so free. Causing pain had never felt so good.