The woman slept, her raven hair fanned out against the silken pillows. She didn’t look any older than she had an hour before, but her life had just been shortened by an indeterminate amount of time. It might have been hours or days. It might have been months or years.
He justified it by telling himself that he didn’t take too much from any one of them, but there was no way to objectively know if that was true. The ouroboros wasn't designed for precise measurement. It had a single purpose: to prolong the mortal life of its owner by stealing from others at the instant of sexual release.
He had tried to stop countless times. To simply let it end. Sometimes he was so weary of living, he almost didn’t care what waited for him after death. Almost.
But fear always dragged him back in the end.
Balthazar had done unspeakable things. It mattered not that they were in the distant past. The man he had been was beyond redemption. He knew because he had spent lifetimes trying to atone. To gather all the talismans he could find and hide them from the Duzakh. But the stains on his soul ran too deep. When he did die, he had no doubt the Pit would be waiting for him.
And so he bedded them, always a different one. The women sought him out. He knew he was attractive, but that wasn’t why they wanted him. Nor was it for his wealth, although that made things easier. No, they wanted him because they sensed his wounds. His self-hatred. And they thought they could fix him.
“Lucas.”
Balthazar stood at the balcony of his villa in San Sebastián. He’d pulled on a pair of trousers but left his shirt unbuttoned. The sun warmed his skin.
“Yes, my lord?”
Lucas Devereaux had spent his childhood at an elite boarding school in Switzerland. He spoke seven languages fluently and had impeccable manners. He was also a master swordsman and expert in various Eastern arts of hand-to-hand combat. Balthazar had known him since he was a small boy, orphaned and alone. Sometimes he felt more like Lucas’s father than his employer, although they looked only a handful of years apart.
“Pack our things and close up the house.”
“Very good, my lord. Where are we going?”
“London. I have some matters to settle there.”
Lucas’s expression didn’t change, but Balthazar knew he was surprised. They’d never once been to England, although Balthazar kept a townhouse in the City. In truth, he liked New York and was sorry to leave it.
No choice now. Even if they don’t know who I am yet, they’ll figure it out eventually.
“Saddle my horse. I’ll go on ahead and meet you at the station.”
Lucas understood he didn’t wish to see Doña Higuera de Vargas when she woke up. The lady would be miffed at her abandonment, but she was married and unlikely to kick up much of a fuss.
Balthazar padded barefoot to a writing desk and removed a sheaf of papers, carefully rolled up and tied with string. He’d found them with Sister Emily’s corpse, which had drifted down the corridor until her foot caught between the bars of an empty cell. He’d nearly tripped over her on his way out of the Tombs.
It was only fair. If the S.P.R. intended to keep his amulet, he would keep their maps. The fragile pages had sustained water damage from the flooding, but most were still legible. Balthazar resolved to have copies made as soon as possible.
He had met Claudius Ptolemy in Alexandria, at a dinner party in honor of the Roman Emperor Antoninus Pius. At the time, he’d thought the man a bit of a bore. Balthazar laughed softly. And here the old astronomer had been consorting with daemons and secretly making maps of the twelve Greater Gates.
If they ever fell into the hands of the Duzakh….
Balthazar thrust the papers into a leather valise. He buttoned his shirt and let Lucas help him put on a coat. He buckled on his sword and went out to the stables. There were bandits in the mountains and he’d learned it was always better to be armed than not. One of the primary lessons of a long life.
She didn’t remember me, he thought, as he swung a leg into the stirrup and mounted his black stallion. But she hated me nonetheless. Understandably.
“May the Holy Father keep you, my lord,” Lucas said, fingers brushing forehead, lips and heart in the sign of the flame.
Good thoughts, good words, good deeds.
Balthazar repeated the gesture. “And you, Lucas.”
He paused for a moment under the scorching Basque sun. Insects buzzed in the cypress trees. He could smell the salt tang of the ocean. The Bay of Biscay lay just over the hills, a stretch of cobalt water notorious for its sudden, violent storms.
Through the open French doors, Balthazar heard the crash of something breaking. Doña Higuera de Vargas stalked out to the balcony wearing nothing but a sheet and unleashed a torrent of heated Spanish in his direction.
“Nincs drágább az idönél,” he murmured.
There’s nothing more expensive than time.
Balthazar spurred his mount up the narrow, winding road that led into the pass.