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 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.
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.