Finally he pushed aside the last branch and saw a small grove. In the center stood Skye, her ruffled sundress fluttering in the sudden strong breeze. Her bare feet were pale against the vivid grass. She simply stood there, waiting for him with a smile on her face, and Balthazar took a step toward her—
—just as Redgrave appeared behind Skye, and slipped his arms around her waist.
“Only her friend,” Redgrave whispered as he stroked Skye’s hair away from her face. She simply glanced back at him, as eager to be with him as she’d been for Balthazar a moment before. “Only her protector. And yet you dream about her dancing for you barefoot in a meadow. How incredibly pathetic, Balthazar. Your erotic imagination might at least have become a bit more creative in the past few centuries.”
This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. Why wasn’t this real anymore? “Let go of Skye,” Balthazar said. The words were difficult to force out. “She doesn’t want you.”
“I’m the master of this dream now,” Redgrave said as he traced his fingers along Skye’s bare arm. “So I think she does want me. Don’t you, my dear?”
Skye’s response was to turn to Redgrave and kiss him, as passionately as she had ever kissed Balthazar. But Redgrave wasn’t pushing her away the way Balthazar had. Instead he was responding to her, delighting in her, and the sight was sickening to behold.
This isn’t real, Balthazar thought. He knew that, didn’t he? He attempted to step forward and break this up—to fight for her if he had to—but his feet wouldn’t move. Glancing down, he saw that he stood in mud, or quicksand … something dark and liquid that had begun to drag him down.
Redgrave’s laughter made him look up again. “I’ve half a mind to make you watch this in real life, Balthazar. It could be even more enjoyable. And you know I can do it, don’t you?”
Balthazar awakened with a start. Panting, he leaned against his headboard and put his face in his hands. The fact that his sire was invading his dreams again to torture him was bad enough.
Worse that Redgrave knew what Skye really meant to Balthazar—and had figured it out faster than Balthazar himself had.
“I hate this hellhole,” Nola Haladki said.
Balthazar gave her a sympathetic glance. They stood on the sidelines of the auditorium, which was now draped with various pink and red decor, while Snow Patrol blared from the DJ’s booth and couples did that weird twitching thing that for the past forty years or so had passed for “dancing.” He missed the waltz. “By hellhole, do you mean Darby Glen High in particular, or the Valentine’s Dance in particular?”
“Both.” Nola took a swig of the sherbet-and-Sprite punch from her blue plastic cup. “I’ve been getting my certification for physical therapy online. This summer I’m doing the hands-on part of the training, and then I am so out. Of. Here.”
“You’re going after what you really love,” he said. “Good for you.”
Nola gave him a sidelong glance. “Listen, kid. You’re fresh out of college. You probably still think you can ‘inspire students’ or some crap like that. But I’m telling you now, if you think it’s going to be all Freedom Writers all the time, you’re living in a dream world. This business sucks. Get out while you still can.”
As gravely as he could, Balthazar said, “I doubt I’ll be doing this for the rest of my life.”
“What’s that you won’t be doing?” Tonia Loos came skittering up on her high heels, which, like her skintight dress, were brilliant red. “Balthazar, you look amazing in that suit. Too bad you can’t wear it to school so we could enjoy the view every day…. Oh, hi, Nola.”
“You both look wonderful tonight, too,” Balthazar said. Which was true: Although Tonia’s getup was a little loud for his taste, she was undeniably attractive in it, and Nola had abandoned her usual fleece track jackets for a gray satin sheath that gave her a classic elegance.
Nola gave him a grin and a nod; Tonia draped herself on his arm. “You’re a smooth talker, you know that?”
“I’m gonna see if any of the kids got around to spiking the punch yet,” Nola said, with the definite implication that, if they had, she’d help herself to a glass before making the students dump it out.
“You know,” Tonia said, looking up at him from beneath a veil of thickly mascaraed lashes, “later on, when the crowd’s started to die down, sometimes the teachers dance.”
“I doubt they’ll play many songs I know.”
“You’re always so mysterious! Never talking about yourself. Like, for instance, what kinds of music you enjoy. What songs would you know?”
Balthazar considered Tonia carefully before answering. “If I answer one of your questions, will you answer one of mine?”
“Ooooh, a guessing game. I love games.” Tonia’s grin widened.
“I tend to like older music,” he said. “Classical, mostly, though I have a soft spot for fifties stuff. Elvis, rockabilly, that kind of thing.”
“I bet the DJ would play some Elvis. At least the remixes.” Tonia was obviously very fixated on the idea of their dancing together later that night. Balthazar resolved to have something very important to do at the end. “Okay, your turn. What do you want to know?”
Balthazar kept his voice very gentle, because he suspected that, with her, the words would have to be harsh: “Why is a woman as attractive as you so insecure?”