And then, suddenly, it wasn’t.
She glanced up from her book, intent on spearing a difficult hunk of chicken with her fork, and froze.
A man stood in the center of her living room.
Her fork fell out of her hand, landing on the edge of the plate with a clatter.
The first thing she noticed was his hair. It was impossible not to notice: long, full, pale gold waves that fell nearly to his waist.
Then the eyes: blue.
The face: narrow and regal.
The clothes: red velvet, and a black fur cloak, and knee-high polished boots.
He was stunning.
He was impossible.
Slowly, Mia set her book aside on the table.
The man wasn’t looking at her, was instead inspecting the room around him, making a slow turn in the center of the rug, tilting his head side to side as he took in her TV, Ikea furniture, and overloaded bookshelf. He stopped, finally, blue eyes widening, and stepped in closer to inspect the titles on the spines.
Later, much later, she would remember the way it was the books that had captured his interest first, and she’d carry that little kernel of gold with her for the rest of her life.
But for now, she had an intruder in her apartment, and the closest weapon to hand was the lamp on the table beside her. Slowly, slowly, she leaned over and wrapped her fingers around the base. It was a chunky faux-bronze thing that she thought was supposed to look antique, and it was heavy. She gave it an experimental tug and it eked toward her a half-inch, shade wobbling alarmingly. She bit her lip, wincing. It would take both hands, but she thought it would make a good projectile. She’d get only one shot, though, so it had to count.
“Hmm,” the man hummed, back still to her, “you can throw that if you like, but it won’t do any good.”
She snatched it up in both hands, heart leaping wildly, and chucked it at him.
He didn’t move, but the lamp didn’t strike him. It seemed to pass through him, his back and shoulders swirling like smoke a moment, then resettling. The lamp crashed against the bookshelf; a handful of well-loved hardbacks toppled to the floor, pages crumpling. The frame of the shelf had cracked.
Silence, save the rough scrape of Mia’s breath in and out of her lungs. Holy shit, she thought. What the…
The man turned, unhurried. A sharp little smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “I did warn you.”
A dozen potential questions gathered on the back of her tongue, but what left her mouth was, “What are you?”
His smile widened; the lamplight caught on sharp, white canines. “Oh, well. This is interesting.” He tipped his chin down, and his eyes flashed, and he leaned toward her in a way that sent goosebumps rippling down her arms. There was such an inherent threat in his posture. Like the villains in her favorite novels.
“Stop.” She threw up a hand, as if that could keep him back. “Just…” She couldn’t breathe. “Stop.”
He relaxed a fraction, head pulling back on his slender, pale neck. “I can’t actually touch you, you know. Not even if I wanted to.” To demonstrate, he reached behind him and passed a spectral hand through a shelf on her bookcase.
I’m dreaming, she thought with sudden relief. She’d been even more tired than she thought, and she’d passed out in the chair; probably dropped her book; probably spilled her wine.
Or what if it’s worse than a dream? an insidious voice whispered in the back of her mind.
No. She couldn’t think that. Not right now.
She was dreaming.
And yet…
“What are you?” she repeated.
He smiled, but it was softer this time, almost delighted. “You could have asked all sorts of things, you know. Who. Why. What are my intentions. But you went straight to what.” His smile became almost a grimace, but he folded his arms and cocked his hips in obvious challenge. “What am I? I’m many things. A prince. A prisoner. A brother. A legacy. But that’s not what you meant, is it?”
“You look…” Her eyes moved over his glorious hair, his fine features, his elegant clothes. Beautiful. “…like an elf.”
But that wasn’t right, and when he smiled again, she saw his canines, that sharp flash, and knew. “Close, darling,” he said. “But not quite.”
Mia took a deep breath that did nothing to calm her pounding heart. She glanced over at the book she’d laid on the table; its cover depicted a long-haired vampire in medieval armor, arms around a human woman.
She exhaled in a rush. “Of course there’s a vampire in my living room,” she muttered, gaze flicking back to the intruder. “Of course.”
His grin was blinding. He sketched a deep, formal bow, hair sliding over his shoulders in gorgeous disarray. “Prince Valerian of Wallachia, ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
She blinked at him. “What kind of accent is that?” Because if she was dreaming, why not play along? It was the most entertaining thing that had happened to her in months.
He sighed. “I’ve just told you. Wallachian.” When she continued to stare, he said, “That’s in Romania, darling.”
“Ah.”
“I speak many languages, though. English, obviously. And I’m fluent in Slavic – written form, mostly; all the books were in Slavic when I was a boy – and Latin; Russian; French; Turkish; Greek. A little Italian.”
Breathe, Mia reminded herself. “Okay. Um. So you’re a vampire.”
“Quite.”
“Can you…turn into smoke? Is that what this is?” She gestured to him.
“Smoke?” His nose wrinkled and his lip curled. “No. This isn’t smoke. It’s an astral projection.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not really here, you see. Only my mind.” He tapped the side of his head. Then glanced around the room again. “Where is here, actually?”
“Denver, Colorado.”
“Fascinating,” he hummed, but looked more concerned than fascinated. He turned back to her, clasping his hands behind his back; the movement pulled his cloak wide, revealing broad shoulders and a tiny waist encased in brocaded red velvet. “You haven’t introduced yourself.”
“Because this isn’t real.”
He tilted his head. “Of course it is.”
They stared at one another – studied one another. One of those long moments, stretched out slow like taffy. Almost sweet in the way she relished it. A moment for a careful decision: continue the charade? Or go call her doctor?
In the way of all drowning people, Mia grabbed for the charade.
“So…you’re a Romanian prince, huh?”
He smiled again, a kind of smile he hadn’t shown her yet, full of gladness. “What’s your name?”
“Mia. Mia Talbot.” She held out her hand, like an idiot.
His brows jumped, and for one fast second, he looked like he’d been slapped. But then his expression melted back to the way it had been, and he stepped forward. “Mia.” He extended his hand toward hers, slow and careful, and she marveled at the way his narrow fingers passed right through hers. “Pleased to meet you. You can call me Val.”
2
VAMPIRE
“If you’re not really here, then where are you?”
Val sat on the end of her kitchen island – at least he appeared to, swinging his booted feet and frowning down at them in contemplation. He’d left off the cloak and velvet coat this time, was dressed in a simple shirt with a vest over it, the cuffs trailing laces. His hair caught the evening sunlight that slanted through the windows, rivers of gold spilling over his shoulders. “In a cell,” he said, and his voice had lost all the bright spark it had held only moments before, when he’d asked what she was making for dinner.
It had been a week since he first appeared in her apartment, and he’d returned every day since. Shortly after she arrived home from the barn, once she’d showered and changed, he materialized in the living room, beautiful and smiling.
On the first day, she knew this was a bad sign. At the very best, she
’d gone batshit crazy and invented herself a handsome imaginary friend to combat the quietly crushing loneliness she refused to acknowledge. At the worst…
She couldn’t think about the worst.
By the third day, when Val appeared between the turning of two pages, cross-legged and splendid on the rug, she’d felt a traitorous swooping in her stomach. She was looking forward to his impossible visits. To his questions about her books, and her favorite TV shows, and her job. Learning she was a horse trainer had lit his face up like Christmas morning. “Are you really?” She’d ended up pulling down one of her horse albums, full of photos chronicling her equestrian journey from the days of jodhpur straps all the way to last year’s regional win.
He’d tried to touch the album page, divot marring his smooth brow when his fingers passed through. “But you sit the horse so well,” he’d murmured. “You’re a natural.”
She’d blushed at the quiet praise.
So far, they hadn’t talked about anything serious. Why waste a good imaginary friend on mundane drama? But he looked tired today, shadows like soft indigo paint smudges lingering beneath his eyes. So the question slipped out.
Mia stood at the island chopping veggies, and she set her knife down. “A cell?”
“Yes.” His boot heels drummed soundlessly against the cabinet face.
“Val,” she said carefully, moving around to the end of the island so she could see his face. “Are you in jail?”
He didn’t answer a moment, gaze still trained on the floor, chest lifting as he took deep breaths through his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was almost a growl, bitter and hurt. “Does that matter? Are you one of those people?” He lifted his head, eyes flashing; his fangs were more prominent than normal. “Do you take incarceration for guilt without knowing the circumstances?”
She’d spent her whole life communicating with creatures who couldn’t speak; learning the little body language tells.
Val bared his teeth in a challenge…that was also a way to brace for rejection. His words taunted, but his eyes begged. And doubted.
“No,” she said, simply, and returned to her vegetables. “If you’re innocent, you shouldn’t be locked up. But thanks for making assumptions about me.”
It was silent a beat save the clean slice of the knife through bell pepper.
Then Val turned to look at her over his shoulder, mouth gone soft, eyes wide. “Oh.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not…especially.”
“Okay. So don’t.” She scraped the peppers over with her knife and started in on the squash.
Silence stretched for so long that she thought he might have fritzed out. Every evening, after she’d loaded the dishwasher and her eyelids started to flag, he would always say, “You’re tired. I’ve kept you long enough.” He would bow, smile one final time, and then disappear. She’d nearly jumped out of her skin the first time, but by now it was normal.
This whole thing was becoming alarmingly normal.
She really needed to call her doctor and set up an appointment.
Finally, she said, “Did I tell you how Brando’s tempi changes are coming along?” and was ashamed to admit to herself how badly she hoped he was still here.
He said, “No, you haven’t.” Clear relief in his voice.
Mia smiled.
~*~
“I was born in 1435,” he said when she asked him how old he was.
Mia paused with her coffee cup halfway to her lips. Her imagination was very specific, she’d give it that. “So…” she mused, doing the math in her head. “Five-hundred-eighty-three.” A staggering thought, even if it was a fictional one. He looked twenty-five at most. “So vampires really are immortal, I guess.”
“Quite.” He’d been sitting cross-legged, and kicked his legs out, leaning back on his hands.
Mia sat opposite, back braced against the sofa. She couldn’t help but notice that the velvet was back tonight, in all its intricate glory. “Is that what you were wearing when you…” Were captured, she left unsaid.
“Oh no.” He waved one long-fingered hand. A massive ruby ring on his middle finger seemed to catch the light. “I bargained this from a French aristocrat in 1802.” He gave her one of his sharp grins. “I just had to have it.”
“What kind of bargaining power does a prisoner have?”
His smile stretched, until it was all teeth. “He wanted immortality. I told him I’d turn him in exchange for his beautiful outfit.”
“And did you?”
“Of course not. I drained him dry and tried to escape.”
She glared at him. “You’re horrible.”
“And yet you’re the one sitting here talking to me. What does that make you?”
“Well, after that little murder confession, I’m thinking it makes me an accessory after the fact.”
He rolled his eyes and groaned. “Oh, you humans and your moral indignation.”
“Murder warrants some indignation.”
He huffed a sigh. “He was one of my jailors, and a horridly perverted one, too.”
She lifted a single brow.
“And we’re back to incarceration.”
“You won’t tell me what you were locked up for.”
“Hmm. No, I won’t.” He glanced away, pretending to inspect the blank TV screen, but Mia could see the downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.
Who’d ever heard of a self-indulgent hallucination who pouted? He acted the age that he looked, not the age he actually was.
“1435,” she said, because he was too beautiful to frown. “I’m not much of a historian. Did you live in a castle?”
He brightened a fraction, turning back to her. “Yes, the palace at Tîrgovişte. I don’t really remember anything from Sighișoara, before. Mother always said it was very provincial. But Tîrgovişte was lovely. Father had just been confirmed as Prince of Wallachia, and the city was always teeming. My brothers – Mircea and Vlad, both older – were training to be knights. Mircea was the eldest, and he was being groomed as Father’s heir, you know. Vlad wanted to be a military man.” He chuckled. “He was martial from birth, I think.”
Vlad. The named pinged something in her memory banks.
She wasn’t a historian, no, too busy with juggling her riding dreams alongside first high school, then her tumor, then her recovery, then college. She’d majored in communications, intent on using the degree to manage the riding school she wanted to some day run. And though she loved to read, she didn’t force herself toward educational tomes; she read novels, to unwind, to slip into the skins of women with daring, dangerous, wondrous lives.
But she’d always loved vampire novels.
Romania. Prince. Vampire. Vlad.
“…I had this pony,” Val was saying, but trailed off, brows pinching together, when he saw her face. “What?”
Mia’s next breath rattled a little in her throat; a shiver moved beneath her skin as she pushed to her feet and walked across the room to the bookshelf. She ran a fingertip along the spines, searching, chanting no way, no way, no way in her head.
“What?” Val repeated. “Is something wrong?” He sounded worried.
“Your brother…Vlad…” Most of her collection consisted of secondhand paperbacks, but she had a whole shelf dedicated to the titles she loved so much she’d bought them in hardback collectors’ editions. She found the one she wanted and pulled it out, turning the cover toward Val with shaking hands. “Your brother Vlad, as in this guy?”
It was her gorgeous, leather-bound version of Bram Stoker’s Dracula.
Val’s eyes narrowed as he read the title. Then he smiled. A closed-mouthed, tight, sideways smile laced with an emotion too faint for her to place. “Ah, yes.” His tone seemed carefully modulated. “I always forget they named a book after him.”
Mia let her hands fall to her sides because her arms felt weak, heavy book thumping against her thigh. “You’re shitting me.”
“It’s
all fiction. Stoker’s character is nothing like my brother. Nothing that happens in the book is true.”
Nothing about this conversation was true.
“Dracula is real,” she said, deadpan in an effort to keep a meltdown at bay, “and he’s your brother.”
“Yes.”
She sat down hard on the floor and covered her face with her hands. “I have to call my doctor,” she whispered to herself, stomach clenching.
“Why?” Val’s voice said, right in front of her, and she startled so hard she whacked her head on the bookshelf.
He winced in sympathy and eased back a fraction; he knelt on the rug in front of her, hands on his thighs, limned in golden evening light.
Mia let her hands fall into her lap. “This isn’t real,” she said. “You’re not real.” The words scraped her throat, and she hated them, but there was no sense letting this play out any longer.
His mouth fell open; he wore a slapped expression. “I – I – I am real.” He pressed his lips together, jaw clenching tight; she saw the tendons leap beneath his fine skin. “Don’t say that, I’m real!”
“How? How could you possibly be? Vampires don’t exist outside of books.”
His lips skinned back off his teeth; he opened his mouth…and snarled. An aggressive punch of sound, like the tigers she’d seen once at the zoo. No human could have made that sound.
Mia startled again, whacked her head again.
The sound cut off immediately, and Val lifted both hands like he meant to touch her. They realized at the same moment that that wasn’t possible; he froze, and she caught her instinctive flinch.
His hands went back to his thighs and he let out a long, slow exhale, shoulders drooping. His gaze dropped to the rug. “Sometimes I wonder,” he murmured, “if I really am dead. Or if I’ve been buried, and I’m only dreaming. Maybe this is purgatory; centuries of never being able to touch, or taste, or smell…until I’ve paid off my debts.”
“Val–” she started.
And he disappeared.
3
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 2