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 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.