It was our time to dance again, but as I stepped forward, the man froze in place. Even when I turned around, reaching for his forearm to remind him of our turn, he remained immobile. In the shadowy socket of the mask, his eyes were dark and inscrutable. “Is everything well?” I asked.

But he didn’t answer. Nor did he move. All he said was: “Where do you think he went?”

“Who?”

“The duca. Where do you think he is now that he’s dead?”

“Oh.” I bit the inside of my cheek, uncertain. Truth was, I had no idea. Some might assume that immortality would offer insight into the afterlife, but that was not the case for me. I had no idea whether something existed past the current realm. If it did, I doubted that it would welcome the likes of me. The cursed. “I don’t know. But I am not convinced that it matters.”

“You aren’t?”

I shook my head. “The duca was a kind man who earned the love and gratitude of many. He will live forever through the memories of those who outlast him. I will remember him for as long as I live, and as long as I carry him in my heart, he will be here. With us.”

I smiled at the man, but he didn’t smile back. And when I next turned from him, he disappeared into the night.

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Chapter 13

I’m not surprised that it took me so long to make the connection between the man at the ball and Lazlo.

Yes, the mask tattooed on his heart is an exact copy of the one I’d worn. But I’ve lived countless lives, and objects tend to fade faster from my mind than people or experiences. In fact, I rarely thought about our conversation in the pleasure gardens over the last few centuries, and certainly never beyond the occasional spark left behind by a missed connection. An impression of regret. The feeling of lost opportunities.

Nothing of much importance.

My arm falls to my side, and I step backward, almost tripping over the already regenerating body of the vampire. Lazlo just looks at me, wiping the blood oozing from the shallow cut on his neck. His posture is unconcerned, almost relaxed.

I trace my own injury with my palm, feeling my skin as it rapidly mends itself. “Why were you there?” I ask, still reeling. The parade is in full swing—brass instruments and hollers, interrupted by the occasional recording of eerie organ tunes. “Two nights ago, when you saved me? How did you realize I was in danger?”

He gives me a silent look, one that demands to know: If you’re not stupid, why are you acting like it? Then he kneels down to take care of the vampire’s body, bending his head like a soldier who’s being knighted.

He is, once again, leaving himself at my mercy. He remembers who I am, who he is, and yet he does nothing to protect himself from me. “I think you know,” he says. “And if you don’t . . . I’m sure you can figure it out.”

I swallow. “How long have you . . . ?”

“Awhile.”

I shake my head, incredulous. “You—you are going to have to be more specific.” I watch him easily hack the vampire into smaller pieces of meat, tiny enough that he won’t be able to regenerate before dawn.

“About what?” With a scrunch of his nose and a pragmatic shrug, he kicks the pieces over to where the sun will hit them as soon as it rises.

“I . . . About everything.”

He sighs deeply, as though my inability to read his mind is an inconvenience, but one he will try to deal with out of the grace of his heart. He glances at the slice of revelry we can see from the alleyway, then back at me. “I don’t think here is the best location to do this.”

“Where, then?”

“I have a place.”

“Here? In New York?”

He nods.

“Where?”

His smile is small and wistful. “Across from yours, actually.”

Across is, somehow, an understatement. He lives in the house facing my apartment building, exactly two sidewalks and a narrow crossroad away from me.

I linger at the door, a little bewildered, and don’t follow him inside, even when he looks at me with that half-reproachful, half-impatient, scolding expression that I’m becoming all too fond of. “If I wanted you dead, you would be dead.”

“That is very presumptuous of you. You could try, but I would—”

“Aethelthryth,” he says, absolute. Tired, too.

I clear my throat. “I can’t.”

He frowns.

“I can’t come in. Unless you formally, verbally invite me.”

His eyes widen as though Lazlo Enyedi, Guild slayer extraordinaire, had forgotten about one of our most dangerous limitations. “Right. My bad.” He clears his throat. “Aethelthryth, nothing would make me happier than having you with me here, or in any other place that I will call home, for as long as I live. Please, come in.”

I try not to gasp, but it’s a blanket invitation—incredibly difficult to take back, and therefore stupid to extend. He must know that.

Suddenly, stepping inside feels dangerous for a whole new set of reasons.

I do it anyway.

Lazlo couldn’t quite see inside my apartment from his home, and I doubt he spent his days observing my every move. But he did have a view of my fire escape, and I cannot help but mentally go through all the nights I spent sitting on the steps, looking up at the sky and down at the city.

“How long?”

“Hmm?” In the kitchen, he takes off his sweater to wash off the worst of the blood.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Come on. You know how long.”

Right. “Why?”

“Why not?” He shrugs. “I have lots of free time. Very few interests. Just the one, really.” He glances in my direction.

He’s talking about you, a redundant, obnoxious voice screams in my head. I want to punch it. “What about . . . killing vampires? Shouldn’t you . . . Am I the last of my bloodline?”

“No. There are two more. But they are like you.”

“Like me?”

“They carefully select their food. No longer kill innocents.”

It still makes no sense. “Since when did the Hällsing Guild give a pass to ethical vampires?”

“Since never, I believe. But I wouldn’t know. I stopped working with them a while ago.”

“Oh.” I tilt my head. “I didn’t think that was something slayers could do. Retire, I mean.”

He kills the faucet and turns to me, leaning back against the counter, giving me a full view of the Colombina mask on his shirtless chest. “They don’t. Slayers just keep being reassigned to new bloodlines until they die. Some have tried to leave, but it tends to get messy. The Guild is not a particularly benevolent former employer.”

“Then why did they let you go?”

“They didn’t. When I left, they sent people after me.”

“And?”

“And I sent them back.”

“With a politely worded refusal to rejoin?”

“With their heads cut off.” Another shrug. “I didn’t choose to become a slayer. I was the youngest son of poor parents, and they sold me off to the Guild to feed my older siblings. Nothing was explained to me—I was molded and plied and ordered to slaughter what was described to me as a horde of beasts made in the devil’s image that threatened the very survival of humankind. But four centuries ago . . . things changed, and I no longer wanted any part of that. I left. The Guild tried to punish me, but after a while they realized that no slayer was powerful enough to take me, and they quit. There aren’t too many vampires left, and all I want is to mind my business. I may be a loose end for them, but I’m a harmless one.”

Four centuries ago. The 1600s.

When the masquerade ball happened.

I can’t wrap my head around it. “So, we talked about the meaning of life or some shit at a dance, and you had fun, and you changed your mind about killing vampires because . . .” I swallow. “Because you suddenly found me cute or something?”