Balthazar (12 page)

“That poor man,” sighed a stocky guy in a colorful shirt and tie. “I'm taking him over some flowers after school today. Rick Bollinger, music, drama, and debate. Welcome aboard. This place isn't too bad.”

“If you like suffering,” said somebody who looked like a track coach.

“Don't scare the poor man off,” said Tonia, as she ignored her own advice and stepped closer to Balthazar again. One of her fingers twirled a strand of her hair as she added, “Let's see—what do you need to know? Zaslow's not so bad if you stay on her good side. We've got an electric kettle, microwave, and hot plate in here, and we do a cake for the month's birthdays every first Friday. And if you're a smoker, the best spot to get a cigarette without the kids seeing you is right out this back way here.”

With some wistfulness, Balthazar said, “I'm trying to quit, actually.”

“Good for you,” the track coach replied. “Stuff rots your lungs.”

Not Balthazar's lungs, but he'd discovered that smoking had become incredibly annoying in the past decade. No smoking in theaters, on public transport, in most public buildings, even in bars: What was the point of that? The addiction, unfortunately, applied even to the undead, but he thought he could kick it. In the meantime, he kept chewing gum, patches, and an “electronic cigarette” at the ready.

Obviously worried that his attention was drifting, Tonia hurriedly added, “Well, we want you to feel really welcome here. If there's anything you need, Balthazar—you know, if you want someone to, um, show you the ropes—”

Was that a bondage joke? Please, let that not have been a bondage joke
. Balthazar quickly turned his attention to Rick and said, “Actually, I need a place to live while I'm here. I'm not … local. I was hoping for someplace out by the river, near the state land, maybe.”

“You like your privacy?” Tonia gave him a low-lidded look perhaps meant to be sultry. Balthazar noticed only how thickly mascara had clumped on her lashes.

“I like hiking. Riding. That kind of thing.” What he needed was to be close to Skye, the better to protect her, but that wouldn't go over well as a reason. As far as any of these people knew, he was an adult human male who should never, ever show any personal interest in one of his young female students, much less insist on living next door to one.

A gray-haired woman whose lunch was spread over an Algebra II textbook said, “The Macrossan house is for rent, if you want some space. Right in the center of town, but trust me, after the next big snowfall, you won't mind being closer to things.”

“That's okay,” Balthazar said. “I don't need much room; I don't have a lot.” Also, he expected to spend very little time at whatever home he found—he'd be with Skye as much as possible. The new residence was mostly a place for Darby Glen High to send him his paychecks, because there was no way he was grading papers and taking attendance every day
for free
.

“It really is a tough commute when the weather gets tough,” Tonia insisted. “And when you pull basketball duty during a blizzard—no fun.”

Basketball duty, too? Great. Then again, just before he'd walked into Skye's homeroom, Balthazar had heard her talking to a friend about going to a game tonight. That was reckless of her, but he could at least be sure to be there. “Speaking of which, I need to take my fair share. There's a game tonight, isn't there?”

“Yes, but that's okay. Nola and I have it, don't we?” Tonia gave the track coach a rather fake grin; Nola didn't bother smiling back. These two clearly didn't even pretend to get along when a newcomer wasn't in the room.

“Take the night off,” Balthazar said. “I'll go to the game, do my first shift.”

Tonia's face lit up, and too late he realized that he'd sounded like he was flirting with her. “Aren't you sweet? Isn't he the sweetest thing?”

“Like a Snickers bar dipped in maple syrup,” said the algebra teacher dryly, with an acerbic glance in Tonia's direction. “Good luck, More.”

I'm going to need it
, he thought.

During the day's classes, as the kids supposedly studied but mostly texted quietly, Balthazar reviewed some of what he'd be teaching this year. Ancient Civilizations: Well, that would take some work. He'd never been friendly with anybody from further back than about the eighth century AD. American Colonial History Honors Seminar, Skye's class: piece of cake, so much so that he didn't even bother flipping through the textbook. World War II Honors Seminar: Okay, doable. He'd just concentrate on the Pacific Theater, where he'd served his tour of duty. U.S. History, 1945–Present: been there, did that, had the T-shirt.

It was odd to look out at all the roomfuls of students and think that he was supposed to be an authority figure for them. They looked roughly the same age he looked most of the time, and the four centuries he'd walked the earth did nothing to change the fact that, deep within, Balthazar felt that he was a teenager. He always had, always would. Vampires never truly changed, after death—they gained experience, gained knowledge, and yet their souls remained, like their bodies, frozen in time.

And if there was any more proof that being a vampire was a form of damnation—well, Balthazar had never heard of a purer definition of hell than eternal adolescence.

His final hour at school was to be spent supervising an actual study hall in the library, which turned out to be Skye's study hall as well. As she walked in and saw him again, he had to turn his face away so as not to smile; it was going to be tough, pretending not to know each other every day.

But that didn't mean they couldn't communicate, as demonstrated by the fact that, about three minutes after Skye sat at her table with a friend, his phone vibrated to tell him he had a message.

He carefully slipped his phone in front of the Ancient Civilizations text he was reviewing to read:
OK, I've been wondering. Why didn't you just transfer in as a student? Then we could, you know, talk to each other during the day
.

NO WAY. I've tried real high schools several times in the past couple of centuries. They're all horrible. Unless another version of Evernight Academy comes along, I'm done being a student forever. So I figured I'd try it on the other side
.

Doesn't being a teacher suck even more than being a student? I mean, it looks like it would
.

That's only because, most of the time, being a high school student is temporary, and being a teacher is permanent. In my case, that's reversed
.

There was a long pause before Skye's next text; she clearly was holding on to her phone, but thinking hard, perhaps unsure what to say. Balthazar stole a long glance at her across the library—a bright room with pale gray scrubby carpet that was still soft underfoot, posters with various celebrities who thought everyone should READ, and bright orange movable bookshelves all around. Skye sat at the end of a long white table, sunlight painting warmth into her deep brown hair. She had a delicate face—more delicate than he'd realized before, more than he'd been able to see when she wasn't silent and still. Thick lashes visible even at this distance, pale skin that went rosy at her cheeks, and the elegant length of her throat—

—and that was just one more reason why he had a No Humans rule. Thoughts like that. Balthazar breathed out sharply as his phone vibrated again.

Are you really going to teach here every day until Mr. Lovejoy comes back?

Or until we get rid of Redgrave. Whichever comes first. Until then, I'm on faculty. I'm even sitting in on basketball duty tonight, so you can go to the game with your friend. Check with me about that stuff first, will you? I would've thought last night would make it clear that we have to be careful here
.

I've been trying to get out of that all day! I wasn't going to go. I don't even want to
.

Damn
, Balthazar thought. Now he had Tonia Loos hanging all over him
and
basketball duty, for no good reason.
Obviously I'm the one who should've checked with you. Well, I'm stuck now. Can you go to the game anyway? I really don't want to leave you alone more than necessary at this point
.

Skye looked more depressed by this than he would have anticipated—it was only a basketball game, wasn't it? But she sent back,
Sure. That means I've got to hang out with Madison at Café Keats until the game starts, though
.

I'll make sure you get there safely
, he promised.

Then her red-haired friend—Madison, presumably—began whispering to her, and their conversation was on hold.

Balthazar forced himself to stop watching Skye and to turn his attention to more critical matters. He was here to protect this girl; time to think less about the girl, more about the protection.

Now that he'd made sure he would be near Skye most of the time, he knew he was in a good position to stop Redgrave if he came after her. Now he needed to go on the offensive. To figure out what Redgrave meant to do with Skye, and the quickest, best way of stopping him, permanently.

Tailing Skye to Café Keats turned out not to be difficult. Balthazar was just one of several students and teachers who were headed toward the nearby Darby Glen town square; nobody would particularly notice that he happened to be about ten feet behind Skye and Madison at all times. There was a faster route to take to the center of town, a path that dipped into a small gorge but was perfectly walkable—but it was so severely ignored that he suspected it was considered uncool, somehow.

Apparently Café Keats was a coffeehouse. It looked inviting—bright turquoise walls, bright white tables and chairs, and some kind of stage in the back complete with a dark red piano. Students were crowding in, but others had already claimed the best tables. The place was packed. Skye would be safe there; no matter how bold Redgrave might be, he was nowhere near the point of trying an attack anywhere so crowded.

No, that would require getting Skye alone and Balthazar didn't intend to give him that opportunity.

For a moment, Balthazar watched Skye standing in line with her coffee, laughing with Madison, looking like the normal girl she deserved to be. He hoped she felt that way, at least for a while.

Then he took off. Before he devoted himself to Skye's protection full-time, he had one last logistical matter to handle.

“You're teaching at the high school?” said his new landlady, one Mrs. Findley. “My girl Madison's a senior there.”

“I think she's in my first-period homeroom.” Balthazar wrote the check out without worrying about the amount; investing well over the past few centuries meant money was the least of his concerns. “But it shouldn't be awkward. I keep to myself, mostly.”

“And we'll let you do that, never fear. Madison's always out, and my husband and I let the tenants do what they like as long as we don't hear screams or see fire.” Mrs. Findley obviously meant it as a joke, but Balthazar was uncomfortably aware that he couldn't rule either of those possibilities out. “Here's your key. Get yourself settled in, and let me know if you need anything.”

His new home was a carriage house, located far enough back from the Findley home that Balthazar could scarcely see it through the trees. Good. He'd have his privacy. Although the interior wasn't of much interest to him, at least it was pleasant; the Findleys apparently normally rented it out to tourists who came to hike and sightsee in better weather, and so it was furnished with simple, older wooden furniture. Just three rooms—a small kitchen, a dated but shining clean bathroom, and a large bedroom with a gas fireplace and a huge four-poster bed. For honeymooners, he supposed. That bed was larger than their entire sleeping area had been in his childhood home.

For a moment, the memory flared brighter in his mind. He remembered the fields of grass, Fido's barking, the sound of Charity murmuring nonsense words in her sleep. He remembered the first time he'd seen Redgrave, and how suspicious he'd been. Yet not suspicious enough.

Balthazar tossed his few things onto the bed and went back out, taking stock of his surroundings. If he'd judged the area correctly, he was within half a mile from Skye's home—a distance he could cover quickly. He walked due south, past the Findley home and back into the woods, surer and surer that he was headed in the correct direction … then stopped.

Between the Findleys' home and the Tierneys' was a river.

No, not a river—a stream, but one large enough to still bubble with water despite the cold temperatures. Balthazar knew this because he could feel the deep, illogical and yet irresistible dread any vampire felt near running water.

I can't cross this
, he thought—then immediately rejected that idea. He could cross it. If he had to, he would. It just wouldn't be easy. Crossing any kind of river or stream was, for a vampire, unpleasant at best, paralyzing at worst.

He imagined looking across the river and seeing her as he had that first evening, riding in the afternoon light. The sunset light now was much the same, and he could picture Skye perfectly: her alert gaze, the set of her shoulders, the outlines of her slim legs against the blackness of her horse. If she were over there, in trouble…