“I mean it!” she called after them.
When they were far enough away for vampire ears, Val said, “You were really stupid.”
Vlad shoved him sideways into the wall. And took off at a sprint, laughing back over his shoulder.
Val growled and followed.
They hadn’t shared a bedchamber in some months, a change Val hated. He’d known the split was coming, and that it made sense. They were both growing up, and more importantly, Vlad was becoming a man. A slightly-scrawny, pale man, but a man nonetheless. He was beginning his official apprenticeship as a knight, and was well on his way to becoming a warrior of legend. It was time to leave childish things behind, including sharing a bed with his clingy little brother.
And Val knew that, as a prince in his own right, it was time to start thinking more like his brothers.
But he was six. And he’d never slept alone until a few months before, and he missed the warmth and weight that came with having his brother beside him. It still hit him with a fresh wave of surprise and loneliness every time he walked into his bedchamber, with only his clothes hung up in the wardrobe, and only one comb on the dressing table. Only his boots lined up at the end of the bed. The linens always cold when he slipped between the covers.
Tonight, he stuttered on the threshold, the now-normal melancholy hitching, jumping, and then leaving him. Vlad was right on his heels, pushing the door shut and climbing up onto the bed with him. He was grinning by the time they settled.
“What?” Vlad asked. He was impatient, bristling with anticipation.
“Nothing.” Val lay down with his head on the pillow and folded his arms over his middle. Took a deep breath. “Alright.” He shut his eyes. “Wake me if someone comes.”
“I will.”
It took longer than it usually did to go under. The excitement of the evening, his heartbeat racing from running, the thrill of doing something forbidden…and the fear. Vlad had no hesitation when it came to disobedience, but it always made Val’s stomach squirm.
Down, down, down, he thought. He envisioned the fall, and the subsequent rise, and then he was doing it, and found himself in the cool dark plane that existed between his physical body and his destination. And then it was down again, his blood calling him back to earth, and he opened his eyes as he coalesced in a dark corner of his father’s study.
Cicero and Caesar stood sentry on either side of the door, backs flat to the wall, gazes carefully blank. They missed nothing, Val knew.
In fact, Cicero cocked his head, and his eyes swept slowly up to meet Val’s gaze.
Val winced, and he almost bolted, almost went flying back to his body. But he made a pleading face and shook his head. Please don’t say anything. The wolf gave him a long, penetrating look, then turned his head away.
Val let out a deep breath and looked toward Father’s desk.
Dracul sat behind it, Mircea at his side, and Hunyadi had been given a lavish chair across from them. A pitcher of rich red wine sat in the center of the desk, and all three of them held cups, though Mircea’s pressed-together lips and white cheeks revealed that he wasn’t drinking his. He was nervous; if Val had been there in person, he would have been able to smell the apprehension on him.
Val wasn’t even there, and he was apprehensive.
Remus of Rome was a literal living legend. But right now, tonight, Father was Vlad Dracul, and even if he was a good and fair prince, he wasn’t the celebrity in the room. No, that honor went to John Hunyadi. Who currently studied Father with a shrewd gaze.
Everything Val had ever heard about the man hit him all at once. He was purported to be charming, and Val had seen him dancing tonight – with Mother, even, smiling at her as he spun her across the clean-swept stones once the trestle tables had been cleared away. He was said to be a wealthy man – the Holy Roman Emperor borrowed from him, as opposed to the other way around. And Father said he was ambitious; that he wanted not merely to defend Christendom, but that he wanted all of Eastern Europe for himself and for his sons.
“Ambition is a thing that gets men killed,” Father had said once, his frown deep and contemplative. “Or, maybe worse: gets a man ruined.”
Val tried to steady his breathing and settled in to watch.
“A lovely dinner,” Hunyadi said, voice deceptively conversational.
Father lifted his cup and took a slow swallow of wine. “I’ll be sure to pass your compliments along to our cook.”
“You do that.”
“It’s an honor to have you here with us, my lord,” Mircea said, voice paler and meeker than Val was used to. Half-human or not, Mircea was the most rational and easygoing of the three of them, the one with the best manners. But tonight he had shrunk down into himself, and the idea chafed at Val.
“Aren’t you the perfect little prince,” Hunyadi said with a soft laugh. His voice was kind, and not mocking, his smile genuine.
Mircea’s gaze fell to his lap.
“Your eldest?”
“Yes.” Father’s voice held the barest note of impatience. “My heir: Mircea. You saw his brothers at dinner.”
“Named for your father, I take it.”
A tiny pause, only half a breath. “Yes. Of course.”
“You mentioned your other sons…”
Father tensed, a fast flicker of muscle leaping in his jaw.
“The little one,” Hunyadi said, drawing it out slow, “is golden.” His brows lifted, a quiet asking for confirmation. For explanation. “And neither you nor your wife are, Dracul.”
Mircea lifted his head, eyes wide and startled.
Father eased slowly back in his chair, hands clenched tight on its arms. “Why have you come, Hunyadi? What do you want from me?”
“Come, let’s not be so crass about it–”
“Make reference to my golden son again, and I will show you crass.”
A long, tense silence.
The candle flames danced, shadows leaping up the walls.
Val’s belly clenched and cramped, and he wished he was corporeal so he could grab onto the chair beside him. He’d never seen Father like this.
Hunyadi held his gaze a moment, expression placid, then nodded. “I need to move my troops through Wallachia. Across the Danube and into Ottoman territory. I’m on a mission from my king – we’re renewing the crusade that Albert abandoned, and I’m here to ask for your assistance, Vlad Dracul.”
Father blew out a breath. “I was afraid of as much. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
The charming façade slipped for the first time that night. Hunyadi’s smile fell away, and he leaned forward in his seat. “What do you mean? Why not?”
“I signed a treaty with Sultan Murat, and I won’t go back on it.”
Hunyadi sneered. “You would honor an agreement you made with those barbarians?”
“A treaty is a treaty.”
“You would side with them over me? Over the rest of Europe?”
Father sighed with barely-checked frustration. “Wallachia is the border between their lands and Europe. I am their neighbor. If I allow you through, that will be seen as a violation of the treaty, and he will put my entire principality to the sword. My people will suffer. My family. Don’t ask me to make that kind of decision. You can crusade all you want, but you won’t have any participation from me. I’m sorry, John, but this is what I have to do.”
Hunyadi’s hands curled into fists; his jaw clenched. His voice was calm, though. It sent a little chill skittering down Val’s back. “I think you’ll end up regretting that decision.”
Val shut his eyes and returned to his body. He swam up from the haze and opened his eyes to find that his head was resting in Vlad’s lap, Vlad peering down at him expectantly, hair hanging down around his face.
“Well?” he asked.
Val let out a sigh, exhausted and yet almost dizzy with nerves. “He wants Father to let him cross the Danube. He’s trying to get another crusade started.”
Vla
d frowned. “What did Father say?”
“He said no.”
12
GALLIPOLI
“I’m leaving you my bell, Mama,” Val told Eira before they departed, and put the bit of dinted bronze into her cupped palm.
She’d smiled at him. “Won’t you need it with you, on your trip?”
“No. You keep it. And if you need me, you can ring it, and I’ll come find you.” He’d said so in a fit of uncommon bravery, little chest puffed out, wanting to be the man that his older brothers already were.
Eira had hugged him close, and kissed his forehead, and wished him safe travels in an uncharacteristically tight voice. She was worried, he knew, and it had pained him to leave her behind.
But this was such an adventure.
Their party rode down a narrow, dusty roadway carved along a narrow ledge, only wide enough to ride two abreast. To the left, an uneven hillside of heaped boulders, laced with scrub grasses and stunted olive trees. To the right, a downward slope thick with brambles; effective barriers on both sides.
Val clutched tight to his reins, and willed Dancer not to trip.
“Stop being so frightened,” Vlad admonished.
Val dared take his eyes off the trail long enough to shoot his brother a dark look. “I’m not.”
“Uh-huh. That’s why your knuckles are white.”
He attempted to relax his hands a fraction.
“We’ll be there soon,” Vlad relented. “And then you can finally see what a sultan looks like.”
“Oh, yes,” Val said, perking up as he remembered. He’d never been in the saddle for such long stretches, and he was sore, and tired, and nervous about the drop-off beside them. He’d forgotten his initial excitement at the outset of the journey: he’d finally get to see the sultan.
A messenger from Edirne had arrived in Tîrgovişte several weeks before, bearing a summons from Sultan Murat, leader of the Ottoman Empire. He’d learned of John Hunyadi’s visit, and, in elegantly subtle terms, had suggested he questioned Dracul’s loyalty. He wanted a meeting. A confirmation of their treaty, a show of goodwill, and a chance to speak face-to-face. He would have his heir, the young Mehmet, with him, he said, and asked if Dracul might bring his sons as well, so the boys could meet. They’ll be allies someday, when you and I are dead and in the ground, the missive read.
They rode now to Gallipoli, and an audience with the sultan who controlled their father’s alliances and military actions.
Val was excited. And he was torn.
They rode a moment in silence, hooves clopping loudly on the hard-packed road. Val snuck another glance at his brother, and found Vlad scowling beneath the hood of his cloak.
“Why are you angry?” Val asked. He could feel his brother’s aggression, radiating off of him like the heat from a fire, and it dimmed his own anticipation.
Vlad snorted. “Because I don’t want to meet the sultan.”
“Because of Father?”
Vlad answered with a question of his own: “Why should I want to meet the man who subjugates us?”
Val had no answer for that, and lapsed back into silence.
The trail sloped down, and narrowed farther, so they had to ride single-file, and lean back in their saddles, counterbalancing the horses’ forward momentum. The land to the right leveled off, its brambles shoulder-high, and tightly-woven enough that daylight couldn’t penetrate the boughs and thorns. A cloud scudded across the sun, shading them, and the wind changed direction, suddenly.
That was when Val caught the scent of humans. Many of them, and not in their party. A group come to greet them, Val thought. The sultan’s men.
At the head of the line, Cicero halted, and threw up a hand to signal them.
Val reined his mare in hastily, nearly colliding with the rump of Vlad’s horse.
“What–” he started.
But Vlad twisted his head around, nostrils flared, eyes wild. “Ambush,” he whispered.
And then the rocks on the hillside beside them moved, and stood up, and revealed themselves as men clad in brown and gray, faces wrapped, skin around their eyes painted black.
The cry went down the line: “Ambush!”
“Val, run!” Vlad shouted.
Val spun Dancer – tried to. He yanked the reins around, and she collided with the mount of the guard behind them. The mare shied hard, tripped, and Val gripped the saddle tight with his legs to stay aboard.
Scrape of steel on leather as swords were drawn; shouts of men, frantic; blooming scent of anxious sweat.
Attackers leapt down off the hillside into their midst, dozens of them, like the land itself coming alive and rolling over them like a landslide.
Val froze, pulse drumming in his ears, hands going wet and weak on the reins. Dancer tried to bolt, tried to squeeze past the horse behind and make a run for it. But the way was blocked.
Dancer reared.
And a hand latched onto Val’s foot, which had come out of the stirrup in the madness, and strong arms dragged him down out of the saddle.
The world tilted. He screamed, or thought he did; he could hear nothing but the awful hammering of his heart.
He hit the ground with a teeth-rattling thud, all the breath leaving his lungs. Flat on his back, shocked into stillness for one horrible, critical moment, he saw a face appear above his own, blotting out the light. Another, and then another.
He finally sucked in a breath. “Vlad! Papa!”
He wanted his mother, a powerful, instinctual urge to press his face into her throat and be hugged.
He tried to flip onto his belly, tried to get away. Men shouted, horses screamed, dust swirled around him.
Then a foot caught him in the ribs.
Pain exploded in his head, and then he was gone.
13
NOT COPS
Present Day
Mia returned to herself with a deep, desperate gasp. It felt like she fell, and then landed, suddenly, her knees threatening to give out. She blinked black spots from her vision and fought to get her racing pulse under control.
“Wha…” she panted. “What was…”
Her surroundings resolved themselves slowly, seeming to tilt around her. She was in Brando’s stall, still, one hand braced on the boards of the wall, the other clutched at the base of her throat where a low ache made itself known.
With sweat-damp, clumsy fingers, she dug her phone out of her jeans pocket and checked the time. She’d come in to groom Brando around three, and it was only fifteen after. A quarter hour had passed, but it had felt like years.
The dream. The vision…whatever it was. It had seemed so real. She’d been inside Val’s head, had seen life through his eyes.
His four-year-old eyes.
His life in fifteenth century Romania.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, wobbling dangerously as dizziness washed over her. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”
Then her panic derailed.
Because where the fuck was Val now?
“Val?” Her voice cracked. “Val?” She took a step, and stumbled forward, tripped over the track that housed the stall door, and almost face-planted in the middle of the barn aisle. Louder, not caring if anyone heard or thought she was insane: “Val?! Where are you?”
“Mia.”
She whipped around and found Donna bearing down on her. She was flanked by two strangers, a man and a woman. Both in dark, nondescript clothes.
Mia shivered, and she didn’t know if it was the aftereffects of her vision, or something else.
“Mia,” Donna repeated, face set at unhappy angles. “Are you alright?”
No. No, she wasn’t even a little bit alright. “I…” Her breath still huffed in and out, chest tight. “I don’t…” Her gaze skipped to the strangers. Their stern expressions, their squared shoulders. The guns on their hips.
“Why are the cops here?” she asked, still too scrambled for any tact.
Donna sighed, like she was weary, but her gaze
was electric with an emotion Mia had never seen on her before. It took her a moment to realize it was anxiety, and her own fractious heartbeat accelerated another notch. “They aren’t cops,” Donna said, admirably even-toned. “This is Major Treadwell and Agent Ramirez. They work with your father.”
Oh God.
She remembered Val’s spectral hands making a grab for her shoulders, the naked terror on his face. If Dad was holding Val against his will, chained up in some basement, then these expressionless droids with guns were the sort of people guarding him.
She drew herself as upright as possible; Donna steadied her with a hand at her elbow. “I don’t have anything to say to either of you,” she said. “Tell my father I don’t want anything to do with him.”
The man, Treadwell, frowned politely. She detected something beneath, though, something pained. “With all due respect, ma’am, you don’t exactly have a choice in the matter. We have reason to believe you’ve been consorting with a dangerous prisoner. We’re going to have to take you in.”
Donna spun around, hand already lifted, finger aimed at his chest. “What? Uh-uh. Oh hell no. I said you could talk to her, not take her in. If you’re not cops, you can’t do that anyway. Fuck you, buddy.” It was the most emotion she’d ever displayed.
Major Treadwell frowned at her a moment, then shifted his gaze around her to Mia. “Miss Talbot,” he said, tone aiming for reasonable. “Your father’s apprised us of your medical situation. He only wants to help you, and it’s imperative that you cease all contact with this prisoner immediately.”
“Did you just–” Donna spluttered. “Don’t you dare act like I’m not here, asshole! This is my barn, and you can’t–”
“Don’t get hysterical, ma’am,” the woman, Agent Ramirez, said, hand settling on her gun.
Red-faced, Donna opened her mouth to respond–
And Mia put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “It’s alright, Donna.” She was afraid for her boss, suddenly. These people had God knew what kind of jurisdiction, but anyone willing to lock up a centuries’ old vampire prince? It was safe to say that they weren’t too worried about the law of the land. Or, worse, they were far, far out of reach of regular law enforcement. Whatever was happening, this was her family, her fault, and her problem. “I’ll talk to them, at least.” Her heart slammed against her ribs, but she forced herself to be calm. “Is it alright if we use your office?”
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