Chapter 16 #2
Each evening, I sat in the drawing room on the striped settee with its elaborately carved back, my journal resting on my lap.
Fuck Balthazar and his disdain for my writing.
I wrote to keep from losing myself entirely in his absence.
He could return whenever he pleased and in whatever mood suited him, but—this was mine.
The estate we occupied in 19th-century England was grand but stifled by ghosts.
The room was large and airy, yet thick with the echoes of the past. Faded tapestries hung along the walls, depicting ancient hunts with spears and hounds.
The colors were dulled by time, but the images retained a certain wild majesty.
A heavy velvet curtain draped the tall window, muting the pale light as it filtered through layers of lace. In the corner sat a massive mahogany desk, atop it a tarnished typewriter—its keys worn and silent. The steady tick of a grandfather clock kept time like an eternal heartbeat.
A loud clatter came from the foyer, startling me. I bolted to my feet and raced to see if Balthazar had arrived home again. I was oh, so eager to see him.
A strange but beautiful man carried Balthazar in his arms, walking across the floor with purposeful strides. He looked up when I slipped through the doorway, and I was met with eyes the color of emeralds.
“Ah, you’re home, Lady Tocino. Where might I put him?”
I was shocked he knew my name, yet deeply disturbed to see Balthazar hanging limply in his arms.
“Is he dead?” I said, my hands fluttering around my face like birds.
“Balthazar?” the male said, his eyebrows arching. “No. But he’s quite ill. He killed the wrong person. He killed a sick person and took on their bad energy. Where might I place him, mademoiselle? He’s growing heavier by the second.”
As he drew closer, I became lost in the stranger’s green eyes and sculpted face.
His strong jawline was lined with a day’s dark stubble, and his high, prominent cheekbones gave way to a wide forehead that spoke of intelligence and strength.
His eyes were almond-shaped and bright, with long, dark eyelashes that danced like a fan when he blinked.
My breath caught in my chest, and my skin flushed with heat. I’d never felt such a physical reaction to anyone before, and the sensation was dizzying.
The stranger smiled at me, his eyes twinkling with mischief and understanding. “Mademoiselle?”
His gaze flitted toward Balthazar, who sagged in the stranger’s arms.
“Oh! Of course,” I stammered, snapping out of my daze. “Bring him into the drawing room, if you please.”
I hurried ahead, gesturing for him to follow. With a quick sweep, I snatched my diary off the settee and stepped aside to clear space.
The stranger lowered Balthazar with exquisite care, as if placing a child in a cradle. There was something almost reverent about the way he handled him.
Balthazar groaned, his face pale and slick with sweat.
“You’d best fetch a basin,” the stranger said, not missing a beat. “He’ll be violently ill when he wakes. Do you have any tinctures or draughts for gastritis?”
“Gastritis?” I repeated, my brows knitting together.
“A stomach condition,” he explained, casting me a kind and quietly commanding look.
He perched beside Balthazar, fingers brushing the damp hair from his fevered brow.
“Quick,” he urged, eyes still on Balthazar. “He’s burning up.”
Balthazar curled in on himself, drawing his legs toward his stomach with a soft, pained moan.
I spun on my heel and hurried from the room, heart pounding. I returned a few minutes later, clutching a basin and a small satchel of medicinal supplies—but the stranger was gone.
Vanished.
Balthazar had shifted on the settee, hunched over his abdomen, eyes glassy with pain.
The moment he saw me, he waved an impatient hand. “Over here with that basin. Quickly.”
I rushed to him and knelt just in time.
His body heaved, and a violent stream of vomit splashed into the basin. The stench was revolting—thick, acidic, and unnatural. I turned my head and clenched my jaw to keep from gagging. I was not built for nursemaid duties, which was beyond what I could stomach.
It took everything in me not to throw the basin out the window and run screaming from the room.
At last, the retching subsided. Balthazar collapsed against the cushions, pale and trembling, his skin clammy with sweat.
“Water,” he croaked. “And get that putrid mess away from me.”
He gestured weakly toward the steaming basin with a grimace of disgust.
I didn’t need to be told twice.
Holding my breath, I rushed to the kitchen, shoved open the back door, and flung the basin—with its foul contents—into the dusty street. The sound of it splattering on the ground made my stomach twist, but at least it was out of my sight.
When I returned, I carried a glass of water, condensation beading along its rim. Balthazar took it and drained it in a single, greedy gulp. He handed it back to me, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs as his head hung low.
“Who was that man who brought you here?” I asked softly, settling beside him. “And how did he know my name?”
“His name is Malik,” Balthazar muttered. “A friend of mine.”
He groaned and dropped back against the settee, letting his head loll onto the cushion. “God. What a fucking mistake I made earlier. Sometimes I hate being the darkness. I always have to kill to keep going.” His voice turned bitter. “I wish I could kill when I wanted to—not because I have to.”
Then, with a grunt, he waved a hand. “Fetch me a cloth. I stink.”
I bit my tongue before the protest could slip out. Another order, I thought. But I obeyed.
When I returned, his eyes were closed, and sweat still coated his face. I knelt beside him and dabbed his brow, cheeks, jaw, and neck, wrinkling my nose at the pungent scent rising from his skin.
“Perhaps a bath would be soothing,” I murmured.
“Perhaps,” he mumbled. “But everything feels like so much effort. It’s exhausting—having to kill, always.”
I folded the cloth and set it aside. “How did this happen?” I asked. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
His eyes fluttered open. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, as if every movement cost him.
“Malik and I were hunting,” he said.
My jaw clenched.
So, they hunt together.
I pressed my lips into a thin line, saying nothing. But questions crowded my mind—How close are they? How long has this gone on? And why had Malik been the one to bring him home—gently, like a lover might?
“We came upon a man covered in boils,” Balthazar said, his voice hoarse and low. “He was groaning, writhing in pain. I was famished… not thinking clearly. I thought I was doing him a mercy—ending his suffering, silencing those pathetic wails… and restoring myself.”
He dragged a hand through his damp hair.
“I was wrong. When I took in his essence, I absorbed his sickness.”
With a soft groan, he slumped sideways, resting his head in my lap.
I stiffened at the sudden weight, startled by the heat radiating from him. Still, I stroked his clammy cheek, pushing damp hair strands from his face. The sticky warmth of his fevered skin made my stomach churn, part pity, part revulsion.
“How do you know this… Malik?” I asked, my tone carefully casual.
“I raised him,” Balthazar murmured, eyes still shut. “Taught him everything he knows. He’s like a son to me.”
Something cold twisted in my gut.
Like a son, and yet… I’d never heard his name until today.
“I see,” I replied quietly, forcing the words through gritted teeth. I didn’t want to start a fight—not now, not when he was weak—but the jealousy burned like acid in my throat.
“Is there a way,” I asked, brushing a curl from his temple, “to kill just for… pleasure?”
“It’s funny you should say that,” Balthazar whispered. “Malik and I were just talking about that, right before I made that mistake. We wondered if there’s a way to feed on suffering without consequence.”
He nuzzled closer, his breath hot against my thigh. He inhaled deeply, as if drawing strength from my scent and presence.
And all the while, his words clung to me like nettles.
He and Malik were talking, laughing, and sharing ideas. My lover and his not-son. My darkness… and his disciple.
I wanted to trust him.
I wanted to believe Malik was nothing more than a loyal underling.
But the way Balthazar spoke of him—with pride, with possessive fondness—felt too much like affection. Too close. Too familiar.
I masked the churn of emotion behind a placid expression and kept my hand moving through his hair. Outwardly calm. Inwardly calculating.
How do you compete with someone who knows a man’s darkness better than you ever will?
The sting of that truth pulsed beneath my skin like poison.
But I refused to let it show.
I smiled sweetly, injecting a feigned curiosity into my voice. “And what did you two discuss? Enlighten me.”
Balthazar opened his eyes, and a sneer twisted his lips. “Malik believes there’s a way to give us a happy ending,” he scoffed. “Can you imagine? A happy ending—for the darkness.”
“No,” I said flatly. “That’s absurd. And why would we even want one? I crave more darkness, not more light.”
The room fell still, save for the insistent ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner—a metronome to the dread building in my chest. I glanced sideways at him, wondering if he’d drifted into sleep. But no. He wasn’t asleep.
He was far away.
Riding next to Malik.
With Malik.
His son. His companion.
I clenched my fists. I wanted to slap him back into the present, back to me.
“Tell me more about this happy ending,” I prompted, my voice low, controlled.
Balthazar sat up abruptly, as if yanked from memory. His eyes landed on me like he saw me for the first time.
“Malik and his lover, Layla, claim there are two daggers—Sun and Moon,” he said, brow furrowing. “And if wielded together, they could grant us bliss. Eternal bliss.”
He paused, uncertain.
“But I don’t believe him,” he muttered. “I don’t see how two knives could change anything.”
A chill ran down my spine. My pulse quickened.
“And what if this Malik is trying to take advantage of you?” I asked carefully. “What if he’s feeding you fantasies so he can take what you’ve built for himself?”
Balthazar’s eyes narrowed, and a low growl escaped his throat.
“Nonsense,” he snapped. “I raised Malik. Taught him everything. He wouldn’t, couldn’t—turn on me.”
But something flickered behind his eyes.
Doubt.
Thin, fragile. But real.
“I love Malik,” he said, and the words hit me like a whip. “With every fiber of my being.”
A thousand knives lacerated my heart.
I stood abruptly, stalking toward the hearth, the firelight illuminating the venom coiling inside me.
“You loved my father too, Balthazar,” I hissed. “And what did he do to you? He betrayed you. Burned you. Left you bleeding. And now you stand here defending Malik as if he’s immune to the same temptation?”
He flinched.
“Malik is trying to overpower the master,” I said, my tone deadly. “It’s textbook, isn’t it? Gain the trust. Learn the secrets. Then cut the throat.”
“How dare you?” Balthazar rasped. “Malik would never betray me. I nurtured him with my hands. Gave him more than any father ever could.”
His face twisted in anguish as he grappled with my accusation.
“That’s exactly what people do,” I said coldly, savoring the pain in his eyes. “They exploit the vulnerable. They study the master until they learn how to destroy him. You killed my father to prove your superiority. Now Malik is following your example.”
Balthazar rose from the settee like a storm gathering strength. He stalked toward me, his eyes blazing—half confusion, half suspicion. He studied me intently, as if trying to pierce through the mask I wore… and perhaps sensing what lay beneath.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low and wary. “Why are you trying to turn me against my son?”
I clenched my fists, struggling to contain the fire raging inside me. The rage. The betrayal. The hurt. He had kept Malik a secret. A companion. A son. A piece of himself he’d never shared with me.
And now I wanted to rip it away from him.
To burn it all to ash.
“Can’t you see?” I shouted, my voice rising with feral energy. “He’s trying to outwit you. Outrun you. Malik will do anything to get what he wants, and when he does, we—our happiness—will be sacrificed in the process!”
I stepped closer, the hearth flames casting shadows across my face.
“We have to stop him. He and Layla. Those daggers are a lie. A fairy tale for fools. They bring false hope, and he’ll use them to strip everything from you. From us. We must strike first—before it’s too late.”