Once upon a time, vampire glamour had been a crucial skill for luring and seducing humans. Master vampires also used the psychic skill to call the vampires they’d turned, to psychically pull them to the Master’s side. By stroke of luck, or the unusual circumstances of my turning, I could feel glamour, but I was largely immune to the effects. So why was this magic affecting me?
Hold, Ethan said silently, the word heavy and lumbering as if he’d had to force it out through a syrup of magic.
And then Ethan uttered one word aloud. A word that would change everything.
“Balthasar.”
Ethan said the name with utter conviction, equal to his previous certainty that Balthasar had been dead. I wanted to demand this vampire produce his bona fides. But Ethan seemed to need no further convincing.
The word was like a charm, a key that unlocked the viscous magic. In the space of a blink, it dissipated, pouring across us like a northern wind. And just as quickly, now freed of our magical bonds, the world erupted with movement, with noise. Reporters, apparently unaware of the delay, rushed forward, shouted questions, microphones and cameras pointed like weapons.
Ethan took a step backward, shock etched in his face, in his eyes.
I lifted my sword, moved between them, putting my body and blade between Ethan and the vampire he now stared at. The vampire he apparently believed was the one who had made him.
Luc, Brody, and Lindsey moved behind us, katanas drawn, a steel shield against the horde of reporters.
Balthasar cast a mild glance at me and my sword before shifting his gaze to Ethan again.
“It has been a long time,” he said, his accent faintly French, his words softly lyrical. But that demon still lurked behind his eyes. He was a Master from a different time, a man who demanded loyalty, who defined the world for his vampires.
Ethan’s internal struggle was clear on his face—he was torn between biological loyalty to the vampire who’d made him and hatred of the monster he’d been and tried to make of Ethan.
“A very long time,” Ethan cautiously agreed.
“There is much to say.”
“So it appears,” Ethan said. He gestured toward the reporters around him. “You arranged all this?”
“I believed it was the only way to secure an audience with you.”
“For what purpose?”
“To give voice to long-unspoken things. To make amends. There is”—Balthasar paused, obviously selecting his words carefully—“a void when one of your children is separated from you, as we have been for so long. At this time in my life, I find that void more painful.”
Ethan just watched him, as one predator might watch another, with careful consideration. “We have been apart for a very long time. I believed you were dead.”
“And there is a very long story to tell.” He let his gaze slip back to the House. “Perhaps we can discuss it?”
Another long moment passed as Ethan looked at Balthasar, his expression blank but his energy suddenly hot, as if centuries of anger and frustration had finally ignited.
Step back, Merit. Ethan’s order was contrary to my mission. But before I could argue, he repeated it again.
Step back, Sentinel.
The second I moved, Ethan’s fist was up. With a sickening crunch of cartilage, he slammed it into Balthasar’s face, and the scent of blood filled the air.
The crowd erupted again, magic flaring from the Cadogan vampires. I stepped closer to Ethan, and Luc did the same, both of us ready to move should Balthasar attempt a response.
Slowly, he shifted his gaze back to Ethan, pressed the back of a hand to his nose. His eyes sparked with obvious shock that someone would dare to challenge him, much less a vampire to whom he’d gifted immortality.
“Comme tu as changé, mon ami.”
“Oui, c’est vrai. La vie m’a changé,” Ethan said, in perfect French I hadn’t known he spoke. His voice was low and threatening, and utterly Masterly.
Balthasar pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed genteelly at the cut. “Ça va. Je comprends.”
“And let us be clear,” Ethan continued in English. “I am no longer a human, nor a boy, nor the child you once knew. Don’t ever call me again.”
Luc stepped forward, put a hand on Ethan’s arm. “Perhaps we should take this inside, away from the paparazzi? I think we’ve given them enough for one night.”
Is it safe to let him in the House? I asked Ethan silently.
And where else would we put him, Sentinel? I’d rather have him under watch than roaming the city.
“Get everyone inside,” Ethan said as camera shutters winked open and closed around us. “Take him to my office.”
I knew Ethan was right, but couldn’t help thinking of the fox in our proverbial henhouse.
Luc nodded, gestured Balthasar toward the House. Balthasar nodded regally, as if he were being shown to the king’s own chambers, and stepped forward as the guards opened the gate.
I slid my katana back in its scabbard and stood quietly with Ethan in the rain of flashes.
He sighed, ran his hands through his hair. “Of all the gin joints in all the world.”
“And he walks into yours,” I finished for him.
Ethan glanced back at me, and I saw the dread in his eyes. He’d confessed to me some of the things he’d done, the way he and Balthasar had worked their way across Europe, the women and blood they’d taken, until Balthasar had finally gone too far. But it had taken time for him to tell me. He’d been concerned my feelings would change if I knew who he’d been and what he’d done.