Balthazar - Page 41/93

Richard’s dark face shone in the light of the one lantern he held. “They’re powerful close.”

“They’re all around us. It doesn’t mean anything.” Balthazar hoped he was speaking the truth. If the rioters found this place—and the dozens of black families huddled inside—the repercussions would be deadly. And he would feel obligated to defend those hiding here, by any means necessary … no matter how unholy his means might be.

“Thought the rain last night might’ve cooled them off.”

“No such luck.” Already the summer heat beat down on the city, punishing and heavy with humidity, enough to drive the sanity out of more stable men than those gone savage outside.

This was Richard’s mission, Richard’s rescue; he was the one who had mobilized late last night after the first day’s ugliness and had gathered the others together. That was the hard part. Balthazar knew he played only a very small role in this by offering a warehouse he owned as a hiding place. But if the rioters realized who hid here and broke through the door, his role would expand into violence. Only his full vampiric strength would allow him to fight off so many attackers. The people huddled in this warehouse would then realize that Balthazar was something other than human. The semblance of a normal life he had painstakingly carved out for himself here in Manhattan would shatter in an instant.

If that were to be the price of keeping these people alive, then Balthazar would pay it. But he would not pay it gladly. Whatever shadow of a life he had, he hoped to keep.

Richard whispered, “I don’t like the sound of it out there.”

“Me either.” Balthazar didn’t say what he’d seen, rather than heard: the two bodies hanging from a makeshift gallows, dying slowly, the ropes too short to allow for broken necks and merciful swift deaths. The sight of a suffocating man’s feet kicking—that wasn’t for sharing. “When it’s quieter, I’ll go out. See what’s happening.”

“Appreciated,” Richard said. Their eyes met, sharing a glance of the darkest humor. To the fools outside, who looked no deeper than a person’s skin, Richard was somehow suspect, and Balthazar—the murderer, the monster—would be trusted.

The warehouse had fortunately been all but empty of cargo; only a few barrels sat stacked in the corner. This left more room for the dozens of people—African-Americans, some escaped slaves but mostly free people whose ancestors had lived here for generations—to hide from the marauding hordes in the streets. They huddled together, some of them families with small children, desperately silent in contrast to the ugly yelling from outside. In the past day, more than one hundred people had died—far more, Balthazar suspected. Some of the slain had been the friends, neighbors, or family members of those who hid here now.

Balthazar took a deep breath as he realized, yet again, the fragility of human society. When you thought it was set, it shifted; when you thought it was safe, it changed. He’d spent most of the past century on his own, more or less—wandering for a couple of decades before realizing that the hustle and bustle of New York City was the best place to disguise his own unearthly nature. For the past thirty years, he’d made his home in lower Manhattan, shunting from neighborhood to neighborhood as needed to make sure that nobody noticed he didn’t age. A handful of individuals had even gotten to know him; they’d all observed and commented on his peculiar habits, even Richard, who swore that Balthazar must live on air and sunshine like a flower, since nobody ever saw him eat. But in New York, it took more than that to count as “weird,” and so he was accepted. Some of these people Balthazar would even dare to call friends, the first friends he’d had since his death.

He loved it here … or he had, before this violence beneath the surface had finally boiled over. Now Balthazar saw the ugliness beneath the chaos that had hidden him so well.

Richard whispered, “They’re coming closer.”

“Only a few.” Balthazar’s sharp vampire senses told him that the people walking closer to the door were no more than six or seven in number. He could take that many humans easily, as long as they were not Black Cross. And what would Black Cross be doing here now?

And yet when he lifted his face to sniff the air, he could scent nothing. The people approaching were oddly without smell, as if they were scrubbed without soap, or as if they were…

His eyes opened wide.

“Balthazar?” Richard whispered. “What’s going on?”

“The people coming here—” They’re not people. Balthazar wanted to say this but couldn’t. “They’re dangerous.”

“Like I couldn’t have guessed that for myself,” Richard said. His dry humor normally amused Balthazar, but not today.

In the far distance came a roaring sound, as if some great firework had been set off, or something had exploded. God only knew what the rioters were doing to this city. But the rioters had already become second on Balthazar’s list of concerns.

First were the people approaching this place, closer and closer. Something within him stirred, signaling to him: Other vampires were near.

Balthazar rolled up the sleeves of his loose cambric shirt and took the gas lamp in his hand. Resolutely he climbed the steps to the door, set his hand upon the iron lock, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Outside was chaos. The street was all but deserted, but along the ground lay evidence of the day’s mayhem: scattered debris, crumpled leaflets, an abandoned shoe, various bottles and trinkets and trash tossed aside by the fleeing. The twilight dark had begun to cast shadows, but not so deep as to obscure the group of people standing at the far end of the square. Balthazar had known, even before leaving the warehouse, that he would find vampires here.