Vlad warred with himself a moment. He wanted to get to his feet and walk away. To say something cruel. To give in to his constant, simmering anger…
But he was exhausted, and shaking, and…
He slowly lowered his arm and just…slumped sideways. Rested his face against the back of the pew in front of him.
George’s brows pinched together in a look of sad concern. “You’re like Mehmet, aren’t you?”
Vlad growled. It was a pathetic little sound, but inhuman all the same. “I am nothing like Mehmet.”
George tipped his head. “I meant that you’re not – not mortal, are you? You’re something else.”
Vlad tried to rally his scattered thoughts and studied the other hostage a moment. This could be a trap – a way for the Ottomans to get him to give up his secrets; send in the friendly face to tease secrets out of him. But his vampirism wasn’t a secret, was it?
He sighed. “I’m a vampire.”
To his credit, George only blinked a few times, and then finally gave a slow nod. “Alright.”
“Alright? That’s all you have to say to that?”
George seemed to consider his next words. He sat back in his pew, hands folded together in his lap. His gaze was shrewd. “There was a time,” he said, finally, “when the heir hoped to make a friend of me. He didn’t come to Edirne until he was eleven – he spent his boyhood in Amaysa. When he arrived, the moment we met, there was something about him that…troubled me. It’s true that princes are spoiled, and tend to grow up both too fast and too slow all at once. They have women too early, and a sense of maturity too late. But Mehmet was like no eleven-year-old I’d ever met. Composed, cold, always guarded. But also lustful, and malicious.”
He shuddered. “I didn’t dare push him away outright. And because of that, I got to see a side of him that – well, let’s say his behavior isn’t boyish.
“He never told me what he was exactly, but he feeds from the women in the seraglio. Puts fangs in their throat and drinks their blood and ruts against them.” He tipped his head the other way, gaze narrow. “But I don’t get that sense from you or your brother.”
Vlad’s skin crawled. He took a few shallow breaths through his mouth. He shouldn’t say more. But he’d already come this far…
“My brother and I are born vampires. Purebred. Natural. The sultan is human, which means Mehmet was turned as a child. That never ends well. Turned adults are one thing. But.”
George stared at him a long moment, and then nodded. “Can you tell who turned him?”
“No. Not without tasting his blood, and that only works if I recognize the blood.”
“Barbaric,” George said, but not with any heat or disgust. “You really do need blood to survive.”
Vlad didn’t answer.
“And I’m willing to bet that human blood is more potent than animal.”
“Hmm,” Vlad murmured. He might be spilling his guts, but he had some sense of self-preservation left. Werewolf blood was the strongest, the best, part of the ancient symbiotic relationship that had begun on the banks of the Tiber.
“They aren’t letting you feed from the women, I know. What do they give you instead? Chickens? Goats?”
“Sheep,” Vlad bit out.
“Is that enough?”
“When you’re healthy it is.”
“So that’s why you’re so sickly right now.”
Vlad glared at him. “It takes a lot of energy to heal broken bones.”
George glanced away, up toward the cross on the wall. “When you feed,” he said, the words drawn out. “Do you kill the – thing – you’re feeding from?”
“Some do. I never have.” Vlad growled again. “What the hell does that even matter? Why do you care?”
George didn’t answer right away. He stared into the middle distance a long moment. Then, finally, nodded and turned back, jaw set at a resolute angle. “If it’ll help, you can feed from me.”
“Wha…what?” Shock gave Vlad enough strength to stagger to his feet, though he had to clutch the pew for balance. “Are you insane? Why the hell would you offer to do that?”
George sat forward, and dropped his voice. “Remember how I told you I’m playing the long game? I’m also realistic: when I’m released, I’ll go home to Albania, and no matter the willingness and might of the army I plan to raise, I am only one man, and we will be but one vassal state. I’ll need allies, Vlad. And I think maybe you hate these men more than I do.” He smiled, a wicked line like a knife slice across his face. “I want to help you, yes, but believe me, it’s in my own best interest to keep you alive and well.”
He stuck out a hand, the same one Vlad had declined to clasp before. “This is what happens behind enemy lines. Hostages with a common purpose make alliances. There’s no reason we can’t help each other.”
Vlad stared at his hand – the hangnails, the sword calluses – and slumped a little more into the pew. He felt the blood draining out of his face, receding from the healing crack in his skull that needed it so badly. Felt the floor tilt; felt his knees threaten to give. His voice shook. “You don’t – you don’t k-kn-know what you’re offering.”
“No, I do.” George reached up and began unbuttoning his kaftan, and oh, that was bad. “I’m offering you a drink.”
Vlad slammed his eyes shut, and swayed where he stood, gripping the pew so tight he heard his knuckles crack. “You don’t – your throat? Are you insane?” Even though his eyes were shut, he could hear the shifting of fabric, the faint low thump of a healthy pulse. Could smell skin, and sweat, and blood, blood, blood, freely offered blood. “I’ve never fed from a human before. What if I can’t stop? What if I kill you?”
“I’m trusting you not to.”
“But why?” He opened his eyes and found George watching him calmly, his kaftan unbuttoned all down the throat.
“I already told you: I need an ally.” He pulled the collar down, exposed the tempting column of his throat. The vein pulsed there. “And I’m trusting you because no matter how thirsty you are for blood, you’re hungrier for release. For returning to your homeland. If you kill me, they’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life – at the very least. They might even kill you. They certainly won’t educate you, and arm you, and make you an officer, and eventually send you back home as their intended puppet.”
“They–” Vlad gasped. “But they–” His mind reeled; he was too tired to make sense of what the Albanian boy had just said. “But they won’t…”
“They will. That’s what they plan to do with me, and it’s what they plan to do with you. Sway you to their cause, and send you back to Wallachia to rule according to their wishes.”
He couldn’t – he couldn’t think. And there was a throat right there, being offered, and he…
“Vlad,” George said, gently this time. He patted the bench beside him. “You can barely stand. Just–” and here came the first sign of hesitance, doubt flickering through his eyes “–don’t take too much, okay? I have to be able to walk out of here.”
Vlad fought it – really he did. But there were some fights that could not be won by will alone, and this was one of them. One time, Vlad told himself, and sank slowly, shakily down onto the pew. His fangs descended, and saliva gathered at the back of his mouth, and gooseflesh broke out down his arms and back. Anticipation. Bloodlust.
His vision had already gone hazy, George just a blurred shape in front of him, but he managed to say, “My ribs.”
“What?”
“If I try to take too much – if I won’t stop – then hit my ribs. Here.” He ghosted a hand over his side to demonstrate. “And push me away.”
Sound of George swallowing. “Alright.”
And then Vlad couldn’t wait anymore.
He shifted forward, hands finding the boy’s shoulders, and hauled himself up into his lap, gracelessly. He pressed his face down, seeking with nose and lips, and found the pulse point on his throat.
He bre
athed there a moment, open-mouthed, and felt the skin beneath his lips flicker, like a horse twitching beneath a fly.
“Vlad–”
He bit. It had been a long time since he put his teeth in something – someone – but he remembered the punch of fangs through flesh, the way blood boiled up into his mouth. Wolf blood was the best, the strongest, and its richness had always filled him with comfort. This, though, this human blood, tasted exotic and thrilling, like flower nectar.
Vlad closed his eyes, dimly aware of the obscene growl that rumbled in his throat, and drank.
It was a tide on which he floated. He didn’t know for how long. All his hurts faded into the blurred edges of his consciousness, along with rational thought and restraint, leaving only the blood, and his suddenly-empty stomach, and the building pressure down low in his hips, the tingling in his spine.
But something broke through the haze, finally; a hand touched his neck, and awareness came tumbling back, almost painful. Vlad opened his mouth, retracted his fangs, and let the hand ease him away from his source of nourishment.
He blinked, and George slid into focus. Even in his haste, Vlad had been careful, and the wound was neatly done: tidy punctures. It would bruise, but that was inevitable. As he watched, a few pulses of blood seeped out and trickled down George’s throat toward his as-of-yet-untouched kaftan.
Vlad braced a hand on his thigh, pitched forward and caught the rivulets with his tongue. Chased them back up to the bite and then began to lick the mark with methodical steadiness. He already felt better, his head clearer, his limbs stronger. The thirst was slaked enough that he could tamp it down and focus now on healing, rather than harming.
Still, George jerked beneath him at the first swipe of Vlad’s tongue. His voice was steady, though, when he said, “What are you doing?”
“I have to seal it,” Vlad explained between licks. “Or the blood will ruin your clothes.”
“Oh.” George shifted a little, but then settled, and waited. “Alright.”
When Vlad pulled back, the bleeding had stopped, and the messy raw wound looked only like two punctures and the purple-blue indentations of the rest of his teeth. Not a drop of blood had been spilled, save the last bit that he licked off his lips before flopping backward and lying along the pew, breathing heavily through his mouth. He was dizzy, but not sick-dizzy, like he had been before; this was the headrush of slowly fading euphoria.
Rustle of fabric: George buttoning up his kaftan, no doubt. Creak of the pew as he stood, footsteps, and then George appeared standing above him, bite now hidden by his collar, expression guarded.
Vlad draped an arm over his eyes and concentrated on the pulses of energy moving like lightning through his veins. “Thank you for the drink,” he said, still breathless. “It worked wonders.”
A beat passed before George said, “You’re welcome.” Then, hesitant: “Is it…are you always like…like this?” He coughed politely.
“Like what? Wildly aroused?” Vlad snorted. “No. Only when it’s living blood. Other times it’s just a nice pleasant warmth.”
“Oh. Well.” Even without looking, Vlad could imagine the discomfort on his face.
Vlad barked a rude laugh. “I wouldn’t have fucked you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t like other boys that way.”
“Yes. Well. Um. Alright…”
Vlad lifted his arm a fraction and peeked up at him. For once, George didn’t look like the much-older pseudo-uncle of the group, instead red-faced, and uncertain, and awkward.
Vlad chuckled and covered his eyes again. For the first time since their capture, he wasn’t blisteringly angry about something. No, he was flying instead, sky-high and pleasantly tired, and sated. The arousal was a dull itch, something that might be fun to explore, but which wasn’t pressing the more his heartbeat slowed.
“Go back to your studies, Iskander Bey,” Vlad said, tone imperious. “Before I change my mind.”
He laughed out loud when he heard George’s hurried footsteps across the flagstones.
~*~
Four days later, Vlad walked up to Mehmet in the practice yard and fixed him with a dark look. They were both fresh from their studies, neither sweaty nor winded yet. The heir was in the process of wrapping his wrists, to brace them for the sparring to come.
Vlad said, “I want a rematch.”
All conversation stopped around them; there was only the trill of birds from beyond the walls.
Mehmet finishing tying off his bandages at his leisure, and then cast a glance to his left, toward George, and then right, toward the sword master – who was currently occupying the only patch of shade in the yard, head ducked down in disinterest.
Then he looked at Vlad. Crooked smirk, fangs flashing. “Are you speaking to me, Wallachian?”
Vlad very pointedly didn’t growl. “I don’t see anyone else here I might have a grudge against, do you?”
“Heh.” The heir breathed a laugh. But his eyes were hard, jewel-bright. “You’re confident, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m a better swordsman than you, too.”
“Then why’d I beat you half to death last time?”
“I got distracted. It won’t happen again.” The back of his neck itched; he could feel Val’s gaze on him from across the yard, but he would not turn. Would not react to the slow-blooming fear-scent coming from that direction.
“Boys,” George tried.
Mehmet stood from the bench in one quick motion, and sliced a hand through the air, silencing the older boy. “Stay out of this, hostage.”
George sighed. Vlad thought he might have thrown up his hands, but didn’t turn his head to look. “Fine. So be it.”
Vlad, chosen practice sword already in his hand, backed away toward the center of the yard. Kept his eyes trained on Mehmet as the heir went to the wall where the weapons were kept and selected one after several long moments of deliberation.
“Your weapon won’t make a difference,” Vlad taunted. “I’ll beat you regardless.”
Mehmet chuckled, and finally drew a length of bright, ringing steal from a scabbard left propped against the wall.
Vlad’s pulse kicked. That was no practice sword, was instead a sharpened blade.
Mehmet turned toward him, sunlight gliding down the length of his sword. He adopted an innocent expression. “A problem?”
Vlad settled into a ready stance, his blunted sword held in a sure grip. “No.”
“Mehmet,” George started to protest, and then apparently thought better of it, falling silent.
“Well?” Vlad said.
Mehmet grinned. Lifted his sword. In a delighted voice too low for anyone else to hear: “You know, I think your brother missed you while you were healing. He looked so lonely. All by his pretty lonesome…”
Vlad tightened his grip on his sword and refused to take the bait. Mehmet wanted him to take the first swing, but he wouldn’t do it. He’d learned his lesson last time, and he was patient. Had always been patient.
He edged to the right, circling, slow, forcing Mehmet to turn with him. “Tell me.” His voice was even. “Does your holy book allow you to find boys ‘pretty’?”
Mehmet’s smile became a baring of teeth, instead. “You wish to talk of religion?” Words laced with insult.
“No,” Vlad said. “My grandfather was a god. I don’t give a fuck about your religion.”
“The god of what? Submission? Servitude?”
“God of War,” Vlad growled, and made his first move.
A vicious swing, one that Mehmet blocked just in time. He grunted when their blades clashed. A high metallic screech as Vlad powered past the block and his sword slid against the other one.
Mehmet leapt back, and they faced off again. The heir was panting now, sweat gleaming at his temples from just one meeting.
Vlad took a measured breath and moved against him again.
In the time since their last encounter, Vlad had realized something. Mehmet wa
s an ambitious, clever, learned boy. An ideal heir in that respect. And he was a vampire, so he was strong, and quick; a formidable opponent to be sure.
But Vlad was a son of Rome. Brought up like a Spartan child; taught to fight, and shoot, and ride, and run, and kill. And he wasn’t an heir. He was a second son. And second sons were bred for one purpose: war.
When he thought about it like that, his previous defeat was an embarrassment.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
Vlad launched an aggressive offensive, strike after strike, cutting in from a new angle each time, pushing forward with sure steps. Mehmet could only parry and block, stumbling back. He bared his teeth, and the tendons stood out in his neck as he worked to deflect the kind of blows that would cut even with a dulled blade; that would shatter bones. Vlad wasn’t training anymore, and he knew it.
Vlad had pushed the heir an entire circle of the training yard when he felt his strength begin to flag. Even vampires couldn’t go forever. He needed a break, now, before his arms started to shake and he left himself an opening.
He dropped low, under Mehmet’s intended block and swept his blade at his ankles. It connected.
Mehmet shouted and went down, turning the fall into a controlled tuck and roll. He popped up a few meters away, unsteady on his feet, breathing hard through his mouth, fangs fully extended.
“Yield?” Vlad asked.
Mehmet growled; loud, and deep, and panther-like. There would be no mistaking what he was after this. If any witness hadn’t already known, they would know now.
What the hell. Vlad growled back.
A soft gasp, off to the side. “Brother.” Val.
Vlad ignored it. This time, he let Mehmet come to him.
A run, a leap, a high, arcing swing.
Vlad dodged it neatly and brought his own sword up, a flash of silver in the sunlight. He heard the crunch of bone as Mehmet’s shoulder shattered.
The heir yelled and went to his knees. His arm hung at an unnatural angle. He braced the knuckles of his other hand down in the sawdust, sword hilt still gripped in his fist.
Vlad paced around him. “You were turned,” he said, “and I was born. That’s a very big difference, your grace.”
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