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.

But he had not expected to find Redgrave … or Charity.

They stood together, side by side. Behind them was Constantia, as beautiful and deadly as ever. Her dress was silk, deep red, the color of blood. Her dark eyes narrowed as she recognized him, and he could sense both anger and unwilling desire as they glimpsed each other—or was that only what he felt himself? Lorenzo, too, remained with the tribe; he was clothed in the latest fashions for men, plaid trousers and stovepipe hat, and he would have looked ridiculous but for the crazed, feral gleam in his eyes.

Worst was seeing Charity—even more broken—still by Redgrave’s side. She wore one of the hoop-skirted dresses that were all the rage, lavender and ivory, all frills and lace except for the ragged, dirty hem and sleeves. His little sister’s wide, dark eyes took him in, and he could see no joy, no relief. Even anger would have been something for him to cling to. Instead there was only mute, numb unknowing.

“The prodigal,” Redgrave said, his smile white amid the dusky gloom. Not a speck of ash or dust marred the black sheen of his suit. “How we’ve missed you, dear boy.”

“I haven’t missed you,” Balthazar replied, hating the false bravado in his voice but not knowing how else to answer. “Move along. Nobody wants you here.”

“Nobody wants us anywhere.” It was Constantia who answered him, her voice commanding in a way that sent chills coursing through him—some good, some bad. “That’s why we go where we want.”

Redgrave cocked his head. His profile might have been carved of ivory, perfect and cold. “Shouldn’t you be on the battlefields?”

“Shouldn’t you?” Balthazar shot back.

“We have been, of course. This is a fine war for wounded. Minié balls shatter the bones so brutally, and yet leave the soldiers gasping there for hours. Delicious. Don’t pretend you haven’t sampled. We saw your tracks at Second Manassas, you know.”

“Bull Run,” Balthazar corrected, but bickering between Union and Confederate names for battles was a puny attempt at distraction. Yes, he’d drunk his fill of human blood during this war. It was a mercy, he told himself—and that was true, because the shattered, dying men he killed welcomed a swifter, less painful death. But he did not do it as an act of mercy. He drank because he wanted blood. When he had left the war to return to New York City last year, he had done so primarily because he was afraid of what he was becoming.

“Balthazar?” Charity whispered. “Is it really you?”

How the childlike sound of her voice broke him. Balthazar could hardly bear the sight of his little sister standing among her captors as soiled and ineffectual as a broken doll. “Yes. It’s me. Come here, Charity.”

“Go nowhere, Charity.” Redgrave put his hand out to stop Charity, his palm resting against her abdomen in a gesture of indecent ownership. Charity stopped in place, her eyes meeting Redgrave’s as if they knew nowhere else to turn. “Balthazar. Who is it you’re hiding in there? Should we investigate?”

The chill that swept through Balthazar’s bones nearly paralyzed him. His own fate—what did it matter, damned as he surely was? But the people inside this warehouse still owned their own lives and their own souls. They had to be protected … no matter the cost.

Balthazar swallowed hard. “Do you want me to come with you?” Every syllable was bitter in his mouth. “I will.”

Charity’s childlike face lit up. For a moment, he saw his wretched future—as Constantia’s plaything, as Charity’s companion and brother only in silence—and Balthazar forced himself to accept it. If that were the price of innocent lives, it would be paid.

“How good it would be to have you with us again.” Redgrave stepped closer. The nearby gaslights made his aristocratic silhouette sharp despite the increasing darkness. His golden eyes glittered as he brought his black-gloved hand to Balthazar’s chin and grasped it, turning his head from side to side as though he were inspecting a horse he hoped to buy. The leather was cool and soft against his skin. “But you turned on us once. What guarantee would we have that you wouldn’t do so again?”

“You have a hostage,” Balthazar said, his voice as low as a growl. “As you well know.”

“But I’ll never hurt little Charity. Not in any way she doesn’t enjoy being hurt. She remains my favorite toy. So that doesn’t work, you see?” Redgrave’s hand dropped, and Balthazar sensed the increasing danger. “We can’t trust you again, I fear. I know you won’t hunt us, for baby sister’s sake, but beyond that—no one could say what you might be capable of. Least of all yourself.” That bloodless smile leered too close to Balthazar’s face. “If you ever awoke to your full potential, you might be a creature to reckon with. But you’re too busy grieving for what you lost. Too busy pitying the weak and wishing to be human.”

In the distance, another great crashing sound echoed through the streets, as well as a fresh wave of screaming. Faraway firelight glowed orange behind the outlines of buildings. This heat, this riot, this horrible moment—they seemed as if they could never end.

Balthazar tried to catch Charity’s eyes, hoping she might take this moment to turn against Redgrave—they weren’t strong enough to beat him, not even together, but they might be able to get away if they worked in tandem. Instead she was playing with a strip of lace that had come loose from the sleeve of her dress, as thoughtless and unconcerned as a child.

Could he leave her here? Abandon her once again to Redgrave? Balthazar knew he had to, but it was no easier the second time.

Lorenzo strode forward, past Balthazar. “I say it’s time we find out what’s behind this door, don’t you think, Redgrave?”

“No!” Balthazar shouted, but too late; Lorenzo had ripped the warehouse door from its hinges. The other vampires swarmed after him, and Balthazar ran inside, too—to see that the building was empty, the back door still ajar.

Richard took his chance, Balthazar thought with a rush of relief. He’d spoken of hiding them in the nearby post office basement—too obvious, Balthazar had said. While he’d been arguing with Redgrave, Richard had silently herded the group into their new place. The uproar outside had muffled the sounds.

Redgrave breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring. “Many. Afraid—ah, deliciously afraid. Gone … but not far. Shall we follow?”

Balthazar was the first to reply, by slamming his fist into Redgrave’s face.

It was only the second time he’d dared to attack his sire, and even with more than two hundred years’ strength and experience, Balthazar knew he was still no match for Redgrave. But he could hold his own now. He could cause the bastard pain.

They fell to the plank floor, a loose nail head cutting into Balthazar’s back even as he grabbed Redgrave by the ear and jaw and slammed him down alongside him. Redgrave shoved him so hard that Balthazar went skidding across the floor; splinters jabbed into the skin of his side, arm, and face as he slid. He hit the wall so hard that a couple of his ribs broke—they’d heal quickly, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

As Balthazar groaned, he heard Constantia call out gleefully, “This way! Come on!”

Redgrave grinned down at him, clearly understanding that murdering the people Balthazar had been helping to protect would be more hurtful to him than any further physical punishment. He was gone in an instant, the vampires leaping through the back door faster than Balthazar could get to his feet.

But he pushed himself upright and ran after them, ignoring the blood trickling down his face and the stabbing pain in his side. They reached the door only a few seconds before he did, but long enough for them to pull it from its hinges—a great tearing sound of metal, a shriek that rang out over the bedlam surrounding them—and leap inside. Balthazar shouted out, a wordless cry of anger and helplessness, and hurtled inside after them…

… to face the cold.

“What the—” Balthazar’s voice choked off as he realized the basement stairs on which they stood were far colder than could be explained by being inside or underground. It was more than the absence of the sweltering July heat; it was as cold as January, as though they had stepped inside an icebox.

And though no torches burned, and no lanterns were held aloft, the room glowed with an eerie blue incandescence.

Richard, like those he had brought with him, stared up in mingled worry, anger, and confusion. His eyes clearly asked the question, What’s happening? Balthazar could not answer.

Then he glimpsed something he had always longed to see on Redgrave’s face—pure fear. But it gave Balthazar no comfort, because he heard Constantia whisper, “Wraiths.”

Wraiths. Ghosts. The spirits of the slaughtered dead, lingering on earth because of their unfinished business—or so Redgrave had always said. He had spoken of wraiths with the deepest terror and loathing, swearing they were the sworn enemies of vampires, the only creatures on earth who found it easy to harm them, and steering them far clear of any building rumored to be haunted. Although wraiths occasionally terrorized human beings, they chose to manifest seldom—if at all—to mortals. However, the mere presence of a vampire could drive the wraiths to spectral phenomena as spectacular as they were dangerous. Constantia had once whispered to Balthazar, as their heads lay on one pillow, that the whole reason Redgrave had asked them to endure the voyage to the New World was because he thought a land so desolate would harbor fewer wraiths.