DRAGON SLAYER
Sons of Rome Book III
By
Lauren Gilley
The Sons of Rome Series
“The Stalker”
White Wolf
Red Rooster
Dragon Slayer
Golden Eagle
(coming soon)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are all the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is coincidental, or meant to serve as entertainment, rather than fact.
Names and characters are property of the author and may not be duplicated.
DRAGON SLAYER
ISBN-13: 9781795208420
Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Gilley
Cover design copyright © 2019 by Lauren Gilley
HP Press®
Atlanta, GA
All rights reserved.
Dear Reader,
The book you are about to read is a work of fiction, as you well know. But you might not know how closely it follows the true events of the life of the real Vlad Dracula.
I must confess a bit of a long-term, persistent fascination with the man history refers to as “the Impaler.” His name comes up, invariably, whenever someone mentions vampires; this is part of the reason, lifelong lover of vamps, and wolves, and dark, Gothic monsters that I am. But begin to dig, even a little, and one is struck by his sheer force of will. In a collective past rife with negotiators, deal-makers, and opportunists, Vlad stands out as implacable; singular in his hatred and focus. Yet, unlike the conquerors of the world, he sought not to take over the world, but merely to hold his ground. Villain? Monster? Some say yes, though many of his smallfolk loved him. Relentless, and intolerant, yes, but, as already stated – fascinating.
Vlad was always intended to be a part of my Sons of Rome series, and I always meant for him to be Val’s brother. But it wasn’t until I began researching in earnest, in the last few years, that I stumbled upon the unbelievable true story of Vlad, his baby brother, and their involvement with the Ottoman Empire. A true story that doesn’t make its way often to the silver screen, nor even the documentary screen, nor Western history books. Suddenly, it all started to make sense, and Vlad went from mythical beast, to furious, badly wronged prince, who, while his actions can’t be excused, his hatred could at least be explained. Dare I say understood. I then realized that I didn’t just want to fold him into my larger narrative – which I have done – but also to shed some light on his little talked-of true story. As closely as I could, I have within this novel stuck to the facts of Vlad’s life, and his wars.
But this is, of course, a story of the paranormal, and I have tweaked some details to suit my own mythology. In the Sons of Rome series, Vlad, and his little brother Val (Radu), are purebred vampires. Their father, Vlad Dracul, is, in my story, an alias for the presumed-dead Remus, co-founder of Rome, twin to Romulus. And so in this novel, Vlad and Val are, quite literally, sons of Rome.
Many other true figures from Vlad’s time appear within these pages, the most notable of which is the Ottoman sultan Mehmet, known as the Conqueror. He was Vlad’s great nemesis, but it has been my attempt to style the sultan as Vlad’s antagonist, and not the villain of this book. Indeed, my overall approach with this series is not one of casting heroes against villains, but to write in-depth character epics, in which the audience can decide or even debate the morality of the main characters, and those they struggle against.
Alright, I’ve bent your ear enough at this point. It’s my one request that you go forward into this novel with an open mind, reserving judgement on our two brothers until the end. And it is my great hope that you enjoy the journey. I don’t say this often, but I am incredibly proud of this book; writing it has been a singular experience.
Good luck, dear reader. I’ll see you on the other side.
~Lauren
(Feb. 2019)
Characters of Relevance We’ve Met So Far:
Prince Valerian: known to history as Radu Dracula, former prince of Wallachia, heir to Vlad Dracula. Vampire.
Prince Vlad Dracula: known as “Tepes,” or “The Impaler.” Prince of Wallachia. Vampire.
Fulk le Strange: Baron Strange of Blackmere. Werewolf.
Annabel le Strange: Baroness Strange of Blackmere. Werewolf.
Dr. Edwin Talbot: head of the Ingraham Institute. Human.
Mia Talbot: friend of Valerian. Edwin Talbot’s daughter.
Major Jake Treadwell: disabled former military officer in the employ of the Ingraham Institute.
Sergeant Adela Ramirez: disabled former military officer in the employ of the Ingraham Institute.
Captain Nikita Baskin: former Chekist captain in the Soviet Union. Vampire sired by Rasputin.
Sasha Kashnikov: companion to Nikita. Former Soviet weapon. Werewolf.
DRAGON SLAYER
“Pray, think that when a man or prince is powerful and strong at home, then he will be able to do as he wills. But when he is without power, another one more powerful than he will overwhelm him and do as he wishes.”
~ Vlad Tepes Dracula, in a letter to the mayor of Brasov, 1457
“I am young and rich and favored by fortune, so I intend to surpass Caesar, Alexander, and Hannibal by far.”
~ His Imperial Majesty Sultan Mehmet, “the Conqueror”
Prologue
Tîrgovişte, Wallachia
1439
He woke to the pain of his brother’s elbow in his ribs.
“Val,” Vlad murmured, half-asleep. “Stop kicking me.”
“Oh.” Val blinked up at the ceiling, the faint shadows from the fireplace that flickered over it. “Sorry.”
Vlad sighed and rolled toward him. The furs flapped, letting in a shaft of cold air that made Val gasp. But then his brother wriggled closer until there was no room for anything save soft shirts, body heat, and warm, sleep-sour breath between them.
The lantern Mother had left on the desk had all but burned down, only the last sputtering fraction of the wick. The fire crackled low in the grate, a diffuse glow that washed up over the bed where the two brothers slept together beneath a heap of furs and blankets to keep warm in the winter-chilled palace. There was just enough light for Val to make out his brother’s face, the glimmer of his cracked-open eyes through a screen of tousled dark hair.
“Where did you go this time?” Vlad asked, sounding more awake now.
The dream still clung to him. The dream that wasn’t a dream at all, but a visit. “I don’t know,” he said. “There was gold everywhere. And columns. Tapestries. I think it was a palace. There was a man. A prince, maybe.”
Vlad grunted in obvious disappointment. He liked specifics.
The very first time Val went dream-walking, it was to see his brother. His nurse had tucked him in for a nap, the sun high above, the light of his bedroom pure and without shadows. Val’s mouth still tasted of berries and cream, and his muscles burned pleasantly from playing, and his eyes had closed the moment his head touched the pillow.
But then, suddenly, he’d found himself awake. And out of bed. Standing in the center of the room where Vlad sat perched on a stool at a low, book-loaded table, reading from a tome almost as big as he was. Vlad had jumped, startled, his serious reading-face dissolving into an expression of intense shock. And then he’d frowned and huffed angrily. “You’re supposed to be napping.”
“I…I am. Or…I was.”
Vlad slid off the stool with a sigh, and came around the table, reaching for Val’s hand. “I’ll take you back,” he said.
But his hand passed straight through Val’s. As if it wasn’t even there.
Val stared down at his own small hand, agape, as he watched his fingers blur and swirl, like smoke, before resettling and becoming solid again.
Solid-looking.
Vlad let out a string of curses he’d learned from the wolves, no doubt, and tried again. The same thing happened.
Vlad was in the process of stepping right through him when Fenrir poked his head into the room and startled both of them with one of his booming laughs.
“Dream-walking is it, my lords?” Fenrir was very old, and very wise, even if father said he was a “great stupid lout of a wolf,” and he’d explained to them that Val was still very much upstairs in their shared bed, that this was his mind projecting itself.
“Not all vampires have the gift,” he’d said, “but some do. You do, your grace.” And he’d bowed low, beard swaying, so that Val had a view of the top of his head.
Val had laughed, and tried to clap his hands together, but of course he wasn’t really there, so that hadn’t been possible.
In the months since that first discovery, the dream-walking had happened with greater consistency. Mother had promised he’d someday be able to choose his destination, to drop into his strange not-dreams at will, and go visiting with others of their kind across vast distances. But so far, it happened when it wanted to happen.
He thought Vlad might have been jealous of his skill, but Vlad never said so. He only asked about his travels, pumping him for details, trying to experience it vicariously.
Vlad’s nose wrinkled. “Are you sure it wasn’t Father again?”
“No, it wasn’t him. This prince wasn’t speaking Romanian.”
“Father speaks lots of languages.”
“But it wasn’t Father.”
“Uncle, then?”
“No, it–”
Footsteps in the hall. Their mother’s scent reached them before the door swung open. They both froze; Vlad’s dark eyes went comically wide. Candlelight stretched across the floor and Mother entered with a soft, musical chuckle.
“Boys,” she chided, coming to sit on the side of the bed. The candle’s glow fell over them, gentle as the hand she smoothed across each of their foreheads in turn. “I seem to remember putting two handsome princes to bed two hours ago.” When Mother scolded, it was always with a smile, and it always made Val want to promise that he’d never step so much as a single toe out of line ever again.
“Val went dream-walking,” Vlad said, shifting onto his back so they were both looking up at Mother’s quietly radiant face.
Her hair fell in thick gold waves to her waist, the ends trailing across the blankets. “Oh? Where did you go, darling?” She pushed Val’s hair out of his eyes, smile impossibly warm.
“He doesn’t know,” Vlad said.
“I don’t know,” Val echoed. “I was by the sea. I could smell the salt. And there was a man – very tall, and handsome, and he had curly dark hair. I think he was important.”
“Hmm, he sounds important,” Mother agreed, smoothing his hair again. “What else do you remember?”
He felt his face scrunch up as he fought to recall. Every time he dream-walked, it became easier to recall the details. The first few times had left him foggy, his thoughts distorted. But the more he walked, the more pieces he was able to bring back with him. Now, tonight, he remembered a velvet night sky studded with stars, the distant shush and slap of gentle waves. He remembered buildings packed cheek-by-jowl, smooth pale stone that gleamed in the moonlight, architectural angles that reminded him of…
He gasped. “Greek. They were speaking Greek.” The man he thought might be a prince, bent over a wooden table with another man, a silver plate dotted with burning, melting candles. They’d spoken in Greek.
“Ah.” Mother’s smile became proud. The same smile she bestowed on Vlad when he slid down from his horse’s bare back, a brace of hares clutched in one small hand. “My son the triumphant hunter,” she would always say. She looked at Val like that now. “Did you go to Byzantium, love?”
“I…” He wracked his brain, searching, searching. He’d made a noise, a quiet clearing of his throat, and the two men had turned around in their chairs to look at him, looking startled. Humans were always startled by what he could do.
But before that, before they’d noticed him, one man had called the handsome, curly-haired stranger by his name.
“Constantine,” he said. “That was his name.”
Mother beamed. “My clever boy. You went all the way to the seat of the emperor.”
Val felt himself smiling in return.
“Wow,” Vlad breathed beside him, breath warm where it tickled Val’s neck.
Byzantium. Constantinople. The eastern seat of the Roman Empire. A fitting destination, he supposed, for a son of Rome.
~*~
An Empire Away
Nightfall in the palace gardens of Edirne smelled of a strange blend of orange blossom and healing wolfsbane. The climate here was that of Eastern Europe, of Wallachia, and Transylvania, and Hungary. But the Turks had brought plants from farther east with them, and architecture and customs as well. Overhead, the sky wheeled dark and star-studded. A breeze stirred the flames of the torches; they scudded and smoked, and lit the way with bright flickers. Mehmet admired the patterns on his bare toes as he walked down the pebbled path, wending his way beneath the shadows of climbing roses.
He still missed his mother, living with her and the other women in the harem. But it was time for him to start acting like a man, as Father had said. And men didn’t hang off their mother’s skirts.
Did men eavesdrop, though? He hoped they did, because that’s what he was doing now, moving toward the low murmur of voices just ahead beneath a wisteria bower. One belonged to his father, but the other was a stranger.
Silent from long months of practice, Mehmet skirted one of the bower’s stone support columns and ducked down into the shadows of a decorative hedge. When he peered through the leaves, he saw two figures standing in the flickering torchlight: his father’s familiar stocky build, and a tall, lean stranger, a hood hiding most of his face. Mehmet caught the wet gleam of dark eyes, and the end of a prominent nose.
They spoke in Turkish. “I’m afraid,” Father was saying, “that I fail to understand your reasoning for this, my lord. Generous gifts are not given without the expectation of reciprocity.”
The stranger chuckled. “You really think me so mercenary, Your Majesty?”
Father didn’t join in his laughter. “I know who you are, and what you’ve done.”
“Ah. You disapprove, then.”
“I did not say that.”
The stranger rolled his weight back onto his heels, obviously surprised.
“Sometimes,” Father continued, “it’s a man’s own flesh and blood that stands in the way of his empire, and steps must be taken.”
A gleam of teeth beneath the hood as the stranger smiled. “Then we understand one another.”
Father cocked his head. “I understand much of you. Still. Choosing my son, when you have nephews – that I do not understand.”
It was quiet a moment, save the rustle of leaves and the pounding of Mehmet’s heart behind his ribs.
“My nephews are fine boys,” the stranger said at last. “But they are content. They lack…imagination.”
Mehmet didn’t know why, but he shivered.
The hooded face turned toward him. “Speaking of which, it seems your son has joined us.”
Oh no! He’d tried so carefully to be quiet.
Father turned toward his hiding spot, expression shifting from surprise to outrage. “Mehmet–” he started.
The stranger lifted a staying hand. “No, it’s alright. Don’t scold the boy. Mehmet, come out now, you’re not in any trouble.”
He hesitated, thinking of the mullahs and their riding crops, their assertions that they would make a mannerly boy of him for the sultan.
The stranger pushed his hood back and revealed a high forehead, and strong
jaw, bold cheekbones. Fierce and beautiful, like one of the Greek statues he admired so much. “Come here, Mehmet,” he said, smiling, “let me look at you.”
Mehmet left his hiding place, brushing leaves from his kaftan, trying to look as upright and respectable as possible – a waste after hiding, but he wanted, suddenly, to impress this man.
The man looked down at him, and his smile widened. In the dancing torchlight, his eyes seemed to glow. “Hello, Mehmet. My name is Romulus, and I think you and I shall be great friends.”
1
ONLY MY MIND
Denver, Colorado
Present Day
The first time it happened, Mia was coming off a twelve-hour day at the barn. She’d climbed into her first saddle at six, schooled four horses, handled a tricky lameness exam with a client’s horse and a man-diva of a vet who sniffed at her contemptuously every time she asked a question, and then she started teaching lessons. At some point, Donna shoved half a peanut butter sandwich into her grubby hand and said, “Eat that before you fall over.” When she got home, bone-weary and ready for bed by seven p.m., she’d noticed a big greasy spot of peanut butter on the collar of her polo. Figured.
She took an obscenely hot shower, threw her schooling clothes in the direction of the hamper, and reheated a Tupperware of leftover pasta. Hair still wet, she collapsed into her comfiest chair, dinner and a glass of wine on the side table, favorite ugly socks on her feet, her current vampire novel du jour in one hand. It was a boring evening; the kind a busy trainer/working student gunning for the pro circuit lived for.
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 1