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 ducked 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.
RedgraveBalthazar 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.