AS LONG AS YOU’LL HAVE ME
“Mia? Mia.”
“What? Oh.” She gave herself a mental shake. She was standing in the center of the outdoor arena, sun beating down hot on her face and neck, vision gone blurry behind the lenses of her sunglasses. She was in the middle of teaching a lesson, and she’d spaced out. Again.
Her student, Monica, had pulled her horse up to a halt right in front of Mia, and was currently staring at her with obvious concern, brows drawn together beneath the brim of her helmet. “Mia, are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m–” The ground tilted dangerously beneath her, and she braced a hand against the horse’s – poor, sweet Gephardt – shoulder to keep her balance. “Fine,” she said. But she wasn’t. Black spots crowded the edges of her vision, and a prickling cold erupted beneath her skin.
Gephardt nudged her shoulder.
“It’s really hot out here,” Monica said. “Maybe you should go sit in the shade a second. Get some water.”
Mia closed her eyes. Monica was right, but Mia hated the fact that she had to be coddled and sent to sip cold drinks like a novice who didn’t know her own body’s limits.
Her head swam, and she managed a nod. “Yeah. Maybe. Okay. I’m sorry–”
“It’s fine,” Monica assured. “Geppie needs a walk break anyway.”
When Mia managed to tip her head back and crack her eyes open, Monica gave her a reassuring smile.
Ugh.
“Alright,” she said, and stepped back from Gephardt’s solid shoulder; managed to walk over to the edge of the arena and the pop-up canopy tent they kept there for just such a purpose. Javier had filled the cooler there with fresh ice and the usual array of drinks: water, Gatorade, Coke, orange juice. Mia sat down in one of the camp chairs and made herself down half a blue Gatorade, stomach churning afterward.
In the arena, Monica let out Gephardt’s reins and the bay stretched his neck gladly, long walking strides eating up the distance across the sand.
Mia was in serious danger of passing out.
Last night, she’d spent half an hour staring at the place on the rug where Val had knelt in front of her, willing him to return. He hadn’t, and so she’d spent those thirty minutes replaying his growl – that’s what it had been: a growl. There was no other word for it. And then, after, his utterly crestfallen expression. The heavy sadness that had pressed lines into his smooth face.
This was getting so out of hand; she could no longer pretend that he was imaginary: this was a flat-out, off the charts hallucination.
But.
But…
She’d tugged the hardback copy of Dracula into her lap, opened it to the first page, and started reading. She’d read it a number of times, gaining some new insight on each read, coming away from the classic with a tweaked interpretation.
She’d read in fits and starts last night, skipping passages and whole pages. Finally, halfway through, she’d pulled out her phone and Googled Dracula. The usual nonsense results popped up: the count in his high collar, black-and-white movie stills, dozens of variations, plus fanart and fanfiction.
She’d refined her search to real Dracula. That had yielded a very different result.
Romanian prince born in 1431. Prince of Wallachia. Dubbed “The Impaler” thanks to his penchant for impaling victims on wooden stakes.
There were paintings.
Vlad had indeed had two brothers, one older and one younger. Mircea…
And Radu.
She’d stood up, left her phone on the floor, and gone straight to bed. She’d stared up at the ceiling in the dark and given herself a stern talking-to. It was time to drop this stupid shit. She needed a vacation, or to go on a date. Or, what was most likely to happen, to stop reading so damn many books about made-up stuff and focus instead on qualifying for regionals. The spring show season was melting into summer, and she had a long way to go.
Val was someone she’d conjured for her own amusement, because she clearly wasn’t keeping busy enough.
(A tiny voice whispered: Val might be a new tumor playing kickball with your brain.)
She’d rolled over, slammed her eyes shut…and not slept a wink.
Now here she was, dehydrated, exhausted, and miserable, about to faint in the middle of a lesson she was teaching; she wasn’t even riding.
She really did feel terrible.
She downed the rest of the Gatorade and, leaning against the fence for support, managed to finish Monica’s lesson. Her student kept shooting her concerned glances, and Mia broke one of her own rules: rather than walk through her usual post-lesson debrief while Monica cooled down, she patted Gephardt’s neck and said a simple, “Good job.”
The walk back to the barn felt like a hike, though the ground was level. She stopped once she was in the shade, hand braced on a stall front, breathing through her mouth while she fought the phantom weight on her chest.
“Mia.” The sharp clip of bootheels rebounded off the stall fronts like gunshots.
Mia lifted her head, already wincing, as her boss, Donna, bore down on her, long, ballerina legs carrying her across the bricks so fast it made Mia’s head spin.
“Javi said you were feeling poorly,” Donna said, blunt as usual. “What’s wrong? Do I need to send you home?”
“No,” Mia said, aiming for firm, falling somewhere a little south of that. “Just a little overheated. I’m fine.” She let go of the blanket bar she was holding and stood up straight to prove her point. She wobbled a little.
Donna’s eyes narrowed; her ponytail was so tight that the movement shifted her entire hairline forward a fraction. “You’re keeping up with your regular doctor’s appointments?”
“Yes,” Mia said, too fast, too sharp.
Donna’s eyes narrowed further. “Come down to my office. We need to have a talk.”
Shit.
Mia followed her, wishing her own hips and legs were so miraculously lean, dreading the conversation about to unfold.
Four years ago, Mia had emailed her résumé, five recommendation letters, and a video compilation that included the most awkward, painful interview of her life, to the one and only Donna Masters, already knowing she didn’t have a prayer of landing the working student job of her dreams. She’d fallen out of her chair when Donna herself called to offer her the job and ask how fast she could get her horse and all her worldly possessions to Denver.
The past four years had been a whirlwind of riding, teaching, schooling, and learning more than she’d ever imagined. A two-time Olympian, daughter of two trainers, and a passionate horsewoman, Donna expected nothing less than perfection from the people in her employ. She was a fair boss – but an exacting one. The last thing Mia wanted was to show the kind of weakness that she had so far today.
Donna led them into her office, a small square room with a view of the front pasture, its walls covered in framed photos, commemorative plaques, and ribbons. It was better organized than Mia’s office, more of a showpiece, with elegant leather couches and an elaborate antique French desk; a place where Donna could entertain high-dollar clients. There was a mini fridge in one corner, above it a massive framed poster of Donna at her last Olympics, astride the now-retired Key Largo.
“Sit down.” Donna waved at one of the couches as she dropped down behind her desk and shifted a stack of printouts over. “Have some water if you haven’t already.”
Gatorade still sloshing in her empty stomach, Mia eased down onto the couch. “I’m fine.”
“Where is that – ah, remind me to call Adrianna after this. We need to talk about the next steps in Lancelot’s training schedule.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe Donna wanted to talk horses, and–
Donna straightened the last bit of paperwork and lifted her head, gaze laser-focused on Mia’s face, sculpted brows somehow judgmental. “You don’t look well.”
Damn.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.�
� Not a lie. “And I wasn’t keeping up with my water intake.”
Donna stared at her. “Mia, one of the things we agreed on when you started here was that you would look after your health. I might be a hard bitch, but I’m not heartless – if you’re having problems–”
“I’m not,” Mia said, too firmly.
Donna sighed delicately through her nostrils. “You can talk to me, you know. If something’s wrong.”
But Mia couldn’t. What would she say: I’ve been seeing this beautiful man who claims to be a vampire every night, and I’m afraid he’s a brain tumor-induced hallucination. I’m too scared to go to the doctor and get a scan, because another tumor means more treatment, more surgery. Another tumor means I can’t keep working for you.
She took a deep breath and said, “Donna, I appreciate the concern, but I swear I’m okay. If something changes, I’ll tell you. But I need to drink some water and get to my next lesson.”
Donna held her gaze a long, unblinking moment, corner of her mouth twitching downward. Then she nodded. “Alright. Remind Asa to lengthen his stirrups this time.”
“Ma’am.” Mia got to her feet and made a hasty escape before Donna could change her mind.
~*~
She kept the fluids going the rest of the day, stayed in the shade as much as possible, and forced down a lunch of takeout chicken and veggies that Javier ordered from their favorite café. By the time she climbed into her truck and headed home, she felt tired, but pleasantly so. Strong, fit, and not like a fainting flower at all.
It really was just the heat, she decided. She turned up the radio and resolved to think about something else.
Which inevitably sent her thoughts spinning back toward Val.
The root of her problem, she decided between red lights, was basic loneliness. She got along with Donna, with Javi and the grooms. She enjoyed her students. But everyone around her was either much older, much younger, or happily married. Donna wasn’t the sort of trainer who kept lots of young students around. “I don’t want a bunch of gossip and drama,” she had said, dismissively, when Mia asked about the possibility of other working students. Mia didn’t want gossip and drama either – and she’d seen plenty of both in her lifetime of equestrian sports – but at the end of every day, she became acutely aware that she didn’t know anyone in Denver with which to hang out recreationally.
She read a lot.
Watched a lot of Netflix.
Most nights she was so tired that the thought of going out made her want to cry anyway, so what was the problem?
The problem was she didn’t have any friends at this stage in her life. She was twenty-eight, and bi-weekly phone calls with her mom were the highlight of her social calendar.
It made a crazy kind of sense that she’d invented her own charming, gorgeous man to talk to every night. Why try online dating when you could ogle a sleek blond with fangs?
Crazy or not, she wanted to see him.
She parked, went up to her little one-bedroom, locked herself in, flipped on the lights. Slid a single-serve frozen lasagna into the oven, showered, toweled her hair. And all the while she was composing an apology to Val in her head. If he showed back up, well…she was going to enjoy his company and stop questioning it. It could be her little secret. No one had to know she was losing her marbles.
She tugged on leggings, a t-shirt, and socks, and stepped out of her bedroom to find the object of all her obsessive thoughts lying across her sofa, his head tipped back over the arm so his hair spilled down to the floor. His brows quirked, and his mouth curved the tiniest fraction, a hopeful little smile.
Mia’s heart clenched, and oh no, she was in trouble.
“Hi,” she said.
“I’m sorry about last night.”
“Me too.”
“Did I frighten you?” he asked, softly.
“A little bit.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
She nodded.
“You look tired. What’s wrong?”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. The truth hurt, badly, but it proved to be the easiest thing to say. “When I was in high school, I had a brain tumor. The chemo, and radiation, and surgery almost killed me. The doctors didn’t know if I’d ever be able to ride again. But I beat it, and I can. And now…” Her voice cracked. “You’re here, and I’m afraid you’re just another hallucination. That you’re another tumor.”
His expression did something complicated, pain pressing grooves around his mouth. He rolled over onto his stomach, hair falling to frame his face. He reached one elegant hand toward her. “I’m sorry you were sick. There are lots of people who would say that I’m a cancer – but I’m not your tumor. I’m real. I promise you that.”
She stared at his hand a long moment – a hand she couldn’t touch. She couldn’t get close enough to feel his body heat, to bury her face in the softness of his hair and breathe in the smell of it. Couldn’t trace a finger down the pale column of his throat and feel the beating pulse there. Couldn’t ask him to find her own pulse in turn, to sink his fangs in it and drag her down to some dark plane where she was strong and whole.
But she could allow herself this indulgence.
Shaking, she stepped forward, reaching out to him. Her hand passed right through his, and she held it there, inside the swirling smoke that had been his fingers. “Will you keep coming back?” she asked.
He smiled, soft. “As long as you’ll have me.”
4
EVERDALE
“It’s cavalry movements. But…no battle. Just presentation. Beauty and strength for the sake of enjoyment alone. It’s wonderful,” Val gushed, eyes glued to the TV screen. He sighed dreamily, like a pining lover. “I wish this had existed in my day.”
“Uh huh.” Mia extended her legs out across her yoga mat, leaned forward and wrapped her hands around her feet. The deep stretch tugged at a sore spot in her lower back, and she winced.
“That, there,” Val said. She snuck a glance at the screen and saw footage from last week, her putting Brando through a rough attempt at a canter pirouette.
“Pirouette,” she supplied. “Or, an attempt at one.”
“Lovely,” he breathed, transfixed. And then, wistful, “I had a mare once who did them beautifully. A little Arabian, bright red with white markings.” He sighed. “God, I miss riding.”
Mia pulled up out of her stretch and stared at him a moment: the sparkle in his eyes, the naked longing on his face. “Hey.”
It was so much worse when he turned his head to look at her, the way her chest grabbed and squeezed. A long tendril of golden hair slipped from behind his ear and unfurled down his shoulder.
She cleared her throat. “I can’t do anything about the riding. But.” This was such a bad idea. “Do you wanna come to the barn with me?”
Such a bad idea.
But the way his face lit up made it worth the risk.
~*~
Mia went to change into breeches and a crisp white Everdale Farms polo, and when she got back to the living room, tote bag slung over one shoulder, Dansko clogs dangling from her fingers, she came to a grinding halt.
Val had changed, too.
Over his breeches, we wore an embroidered blue tunic, cinched around his narrow waist with a worn, brown leather belt. His boots were different, too, brown, scuffed, and bearing old horse sweat stains along the insides of the shafts. His hair lay over one shoulder in a single, tidy braid.
He tipped his head to the side, and she realized she’d been staring like an idiot.
“What?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Where’d you get the change of clothes?” She thought her voice sounded mostly normal.
“Oh. It’s just…” He shut his eyes, and his whole being seemed to shimmer. In the wake of the ripples, he wore his red velvet again. Another shimmer, and he was in heavy chain mail with leather shoulder guards, metal gauntlets and greaves, his hair braided in a tight crown around his head. A last shimmer, and it w
as the blue tunic, brown boots, and single braid once more.
Mia gasped. “Wow.”
Val’s eyes opened, and he grinned. “Astral projection, remember? I can look however I want.”
“…Good to know.” Her palms were a little clammy with something like excitement, but she didn’t dare set down her clogs and wipe them on her breeches. That would be too smitten-schoolgirl of her. “Ready to go?”
“Yes!” His fangs flashed when his smile turned delighted.
“Wait. Can you ride in the truck?”
His smile dimmed, grew thoughtful. “I believe so. We shall see, I suppose.”
And here came the big question: “Will anyone else be able to see you?”
Fangs again. “Not if I don’t want them to.”
Right. Because he was a…
Nope. She wasn’t thinking about that. She was living in the gorgeous, enjoyable moment. “Okay. Let’s go.”
~*~
It wasn’t until they were down in the parking lot, standing beside her truck, that she realized maybe someone born in 1435 and kept as a prisoner most of his life wouldn’t know anything about modern transportation.
“This is yours?” he asked, nodding to the dusty blue Ford with the Everdale sticker on the window and the trailer hitch set under the bumper. A single crease had formed between his brows, his mouth set in a neutral line.
“Yes. Do you know what a car is?”
“Yes,” he snapped, before she’d even finished speaking. Then the neutral line became a frown, and the tips of his ears turned a delicate pink. “I just…it’s rather large, isn’t it?” A note of doubt crept into his voice, and paired with the pink ears, she had to bite back a smile.
“It’s a standard size for a truck,” she explained. “You can’t tow a horse trailer with a sports car.”
“Of course,” he saw, but the groove between his brows deepened in puzzlement. He clearly had no idea what she was talking about at all.
“Look at it this way,” she said. “If you’re not really here, you can’t really fly through the windshield if I slam on the brakes, right?”
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 3