“Of course you did, because we were someone else’s sons. Where was your son? Your Matthias? Home safe in Hungary? In Transylvania?” He didn’t realize he’d risen from his chair until Cicero gently pressed him back down into it. He breathed in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving.
He had to be calm. Had to be.
He closed his eyes a moment, and took a sequence of deep, measured breaths. Slowly, the adrenaline bled out of him. The rage stayed, though, cold, and hard, and relentless.
When Vlad opened his eyes again, he was met with Hunyadi’s patient gaze – though he could hear the rabbit-fast kicking of the man’s heart.
“Fine,” Vlad said, and his voice was normal again. “It was political. Am I to assume that’s why you’re here now?”
A chagrined little smile that twitched his mustache. “Vladislav is no longer…amenable to our original plan.”
“How sad for you.”
Hunyadi sighed. “Vladislav has been growing friendlier with the Turks over the past year. Now he’s being vocal about it. He says he sees wisdom in allying ourselves with them. Stop all this constant warring, and just agree to their terms. He wants to be a good little vassal.”
“It’s a smart move, really. The Ottomans are far superior in number, arms, and wealth. Standing against them is a hopeless cause. Even a ‘dull-witted puppet’ can see that.”
“All true,” Hunyadi said. “But is that what you would do?”
“What does that matter? I’m nothing but a refugee.”
“I’m curious. Indulge me.”
Cicero’s fingertips danced against Vlad’s collarbone. A warning to be careful.
Vlad didn’t need it. He knew exactly where Hunyadi was going with this. This whole scenario had begun, alarmingly, to resemble the day Murat had given him his father’s blade and told him to take his rightful place as prince. Hunyadi was no different from the old sultan. Just another powerful, heartless man who’d butchered families and made use of marionettes to get what he wanted. He meant to use Vlad, appealing to his unrelenting hatred, dangling an empty promise of power.
Whatever the man proposed, agreeing to it would be seen as a sign of acceptance for what had been done to Father and Mircea.
Vlad stared fixedly at the sword in front of him, eyes tracing its familiar lines again and again. “What would I do?” he asked, just a whisper. “I would very much like to kill you now, leap out of this window behind me, and run off into the forest never to be seen again.”
Hunyadi’s men laid hands on their weapons, and Cicero growled. They paused, surprised all over again.
“But,” Vlad continued, “nothing would give me more satisfaction in this world that cleaving Sultan Mehmet’s head from his neck. And so you can see that I have a difficult choice between the two.”
Mildly, Hunyadi said, “I have these men here, and more in the chamber beyond. You couldn’t kill me now.”
“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” Vlad said, and for the first time he saw the gleam of true fear in the man’s eyes.
Cicero growled again, a deep rumble in his chest, to drive the point home.
Vlad looked at the governor across from him, the Hungarian devil who’d manipulated and badgered his family since before Vlad himself was born. He saw a brutal, loveless man hellbent on battle, damn the consequences. He could talk of “people” all he wanted, but Hunyadi wanted glory, influence, and wealth.
But when he blinked, he saw his brother. The skin of Val’s throat marred by bruises and fang prints. His neck weighed down by jeweled chains. His skin musky with a rapist’s spent passion.
He blew out a breath. “Mehmet has my brother, still. If you’re suggested an alliance between us, then I’m listening.”
A slow smile broke across the governor’s face. “I spent months as a prisoner alongside your old friend Skanderbeg. He spoke highly of–”
Vlad waved a hand to silence him. Swallowed the lump in his throat. Be patient, he heard George’s voice in his head. You have to learn to be patient. “It’s not possible to flatter me. Tell me your proposition.”
Hunyadi sat forward, eager. “I’ve already got men lined up to help you dispatch Vladislav. I want you to be prince in Wallachia, Vlad. And in exchange, I want free access to the Danube. I can also guarantee that together we’ll win back Moldavia for your cousin,” he said with a nod toward Stephen. “And together, a unified Hungary and Romania will have one last proper crusade. If the pope won’t help us, then to hell with him. But we will finally have the manpower, and the cooperation, to drive the Ottomans out of our lands for good. The Ottomans march even now on Constantinople, and Mehmet means to try and sack the city. Now is no time for old feuds and grudges. We have to stand together, Vlad, or fall one-by-one beneath the enemy.”
Put that like, Vlad didn’t suppose he really had a choice to make after all.
~*~
Hours later, when the deal had been hammered out and parchments had been signed, sealed, and sent, after Vlad had forced himself to shake the hand of the man who’d seen his father killed, he sat in his temporary bedchamber, the sword across his knees, staring at the blinding flare of moonlight down its length.
“I don’t understand how you aren’t furious with me,” he murmured.
Eira finished lighting the tall tapers on the mantlepiece and blew out the tinder she’d used to do so. She came to sit beside him, her split skirts rustling. Her hands twitched before settling together in her lap, like she’d wanted to touch him, but couldn’t, because of the sword.
“Nothing we do will bring your father back,” she said quietly. “We have to look after ourselves. And your brother.”
“And what of Wallachia?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Her expression hardened. “Wallachia is yours by birthright. It always has been. You’ll be doing right to defend it.”
“And John Hunyadi?”
“We’ll use him. For now,” she said, tone ominous. She leaned down to kiss his forehead, and whispered, “But we will have our revenge, darling. Don’t worry.” She pulled back with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “Get some sleep. We ride tomorrow.”
Back home, to a palace that would be his for a second time.
He nodded and she left the room, murmuring something low to Cicero, who stood at the door.
When she was gone, and the door was shut, Cicero went to the sideboard and poured a cup of wine; Vlad could smell its sweetness. The wolf brought it to him, and held it before his face, close enough to be tempting.
“Here,” he said, voice gentle. He’d been so, so gentle with Vlad all afternoon and evening, a hand on him at almost all times, face drawn with lines of sympathy. “Drink this, and then you need to feed.” He tilted the cup a fraction, so moonlight silvered the inside of his wrist, the veins there dark and inviting.
Vlad took the cup without much interest. “My mother left the room, you know, and yet I’m still being mothered.”
Cicero snorted. “Because you’re twice as difficult to mother as anyone I’ve ever met. Drink your wine.”
Vlad did, grudgingly, admitting to himself that its taste and tartness and warmth was immediately soothing. Cicero took the empty cup after, and offered his wrist.
Vlad stared at it a moment, the sinuous tracks of the veins, breathing over them. His fangs descended in automatic anticipation, but he didn’t bite. Not yet. “Can I tell you something?”
“You can tell me anything,” came the immediate response.
Vlad sighed.
“Vlad,” his wolf urged.
He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into Cicero’s open hand. “I hate myself,” he whispered. “I should have killed him. But I’m weak. I want revenge on Mehmet…even if it means consorting with the enemy. Another enemy.”
Cicero stroked his hair with his free hand. “Friends are few,” Cicero said, and his voice become reflective; the words sounded like old wisdom, something he’d heard elsewhere and was rep
eating now. “Pack is family, and family is love. Family is trust. You can help others, and let them help you, without trusting.”
“Hmm,” Vlad hummed. “Not exactly helpful.”
The wolf chuckled, and his voice was his own again, rough and familiar, a touch uncertain, but warm. “Allying ourselves with Hunyadi in order to defeat the Ottomans and rescue Prince Val…that’s not weak.”
“It feels like it is.”
“Sometimes things aren’t the way they feel.” Another pass of his callused hand across Vlad’s head, down his unbound hair, to his shoulder. A squeeze. “Drink now, come on.”
He took the wolf’s wrist in his hand and bared his fangs, and bit. As the blood filled his mouth, his thoughts shifted to his brother. He wondered where he was now, if he had access to blood. If he was strong, and healthy.
He suspected that, even if Val had been able to dream-walk, Vlad was the last person he would want to come and visit.
31
HEADSMAN
“My scouts have sketched it for me,” Constantine said, tone aiming for disinterested, but ending up grim instead. “It’s…impressive.”
Val bit back a sigh. He loved these visits – really he did – but he didn’t have much time, and pacing along the wall top while the waves crashed below with a dull roar, pennants snapping in the breeze, wasn’t the best use of these few stolen minutes. “Yes. I told you about the plans,” he reminded, as gently as possible. “We’re marching there now.”
“We?” the emperor asked, tilting his head Val’s direction.
He did sigh this time. “I’m a part of his retinue, remember? Advisor. Ally.” He left off lover. “I’m closer to him than anyone.” In more ways than one. “I listen to his obsessive rhetoric on the topic near-constantly. Constantine.” He halted, which forced his friend to do the same, and turned to face him. “He’s coming here. He’s having cannons cast from bronze. He’s…” His breath hitched as his anxiety swelled. “I’ve tried to discourage him the best I know how, but I can’t stop him.”
Constantine smiled at him. Softly, sadly. “I know you’re trying. That’s kind of you.”
No! he wanted to scream. He wasn’t being kind! He was helpless, and stupid, and without scruples. He sucked cock to stay alive, and he had to watch his captor march steadily westward, unchecked, nothing but a spectator to his conquest. He wasn’t trying. He was terrified, and he couldn’t seem to impress the emperor with the seriousness of the situation.
He opened his mouth to respond–
And opened his eyes back in his body. Damn it.
Val sat up, fighting the usual post-walking wave of dizziness. A moment later, the tent flap opened, and Mehmet stalked in, brow crimped and gaze indrawn with thought. He let the flap fall shut and headed toward the war table at the center of the tent, but paused, finally noticing Val.
He blinked, and his frown deepened. “Sleeping in the middle of the day? How industrious of you.”
Val scrubbed a hand across his eyes, working the grit from between his lashes. He could only have been unconscious for a half hour or so, but dream-walking left him as disoriented and groggy as a full night’s sleep. He’d first slipped out of his body while sitting cross-legged in the center of the rug, not wanting to truly stretch out in bed, instead ready to leap back to full awareness. But he’d obviously fallen over, and had awakened on his side.
He got unsteadily to his feet, stifling a yawn. His limbs felt heavy, and his heart raced, as if he’d just awakened from a nightmare. He was getting bolder and bolder, doing this during the day, in stolen snatches of time. Arslan had been sent to carry a message, and there hadn’t even been anyone to warn him of Mehmet’s return.
One day, the sultan would catch him at it, hear him mumbling, lift a lid and see that his eyes had rolled back. He didn’t like to think about the punishment that would follow.
“You keep me awake most nights, so I have to steal rest when I can,” Val quipped as he joined the sultan at the table. He passed a finger along the delicate collar at his throat, and suppressed another, nastier comment about the silver he was forced to wear. “What’s got you so pensive?” He sidled up close, shifted his weight so their hips bumped together. Usually, he liked to do that when there were viziers and generals around, enjoying the way it made them all squirm and divert their gazes. But mostly he did it because it was important that Mehmet think him smitten.
“Scouts encountered an engineer this morning,” Mehmet said, distracted, as he pulled out a roll of parchment and smoothed it across the table, over a map. It was a sequence of drawings, notes made in messy Greek beside each. “He said the emperor, the fool, declined to use his talents. We have guns…but these guns…” He laughed, low and delighted.
With a chill, Val realized what he was looking at – read the numbers for what they were: measurements. Impossibly huge measurements.
“This is a cannon,” he said, voice flat with shock…and horror.
Mehmet chuckled. “It’s the largest cannon ever cast. And it’s going to be mine.”
“Greedy,” Val said, teasing. But inside he was numb. His eyes traced the plans. God, it was massive. The kind that could penetrate walls. “You want everything.”
“As well you know,” Mehmet said, leaning into the pressure of Val’s hip, brushing their shoulders together. “Care to help me celebrate?” He turned his head, so his warm breath gusted across Val’s ear. “Where’s your insufferable little slave? Are we alone?”
“Oh, Arslan!” Val whirled away, a different kind of fear coursing through him. “He should have been back by now. My mare lost a shoe, and I sent him to ask the blacksmith–”
The tent flap opened, and the bottom fell out of Val’s stomach. He knew his mistake right away.
Nestor-Iskander held Arslan around the waist with one arm, keeping him upright, supporting most of the boy’s weight. Arslan limped on one leg, expression dazed, his face mottled with bruises that were still red and new, but which would darken over the next few hours. A split lip, a drop of blood on his chin. Ripped, dirt-smudged clothes.
But the worst was the smell: the scent of sweat, and fear, and sex.
Val choked on a whimper, and rushed to them.
“Arslan! Oh, sweetheart. Here. My God. Oh, what happened to you? Who did this?” He cupped the boy’s chin in the gentlest of touches, mirroring Arslan’s wince. He ghosted his hands over his shoulders, his arms, tears burning his eyes.
He looked to Nestor. Firmer, teeth clenched: “Who did this?”
Arslan coughed weakly, and clutched at his ribs. “It’s…it’s alright, your grace. It’s…my fault. I shouldn’t have–”
Val took his chin again; the boy winced but he held on, forcing eye contact. “It is not your fault,” Val said. “I should never have sent you alone down to the horse lines. I–” He took a ragged breath, fighting sharp pain in his chest. This poor sweet boy. So much already taken from him – his autonomy, his masculinity. And now his dignity. And his innocence.
Tears spilled down Arslan’s bruised cheeks, silent but steady, and he dropped his gaze, ashamed.
Val looked to Nestor. “Who?” he demanded.
The scribe bit his lip.
“Please, no,” Arslan sniffled.
“Hush.” Val put his arms around him and pulled him away from Nestor, into his own grip, tucked his face into his throat with a hand at the back of his head. “Who, Nestor? I want their names.”
Again, the scribe hesitated.
“They won’t hurt you in retaliation,” Val said. “They won’t hurt anyone ever again.”
Arslan looked up, eyes wide.
Val heard footsteps behind him.
Mehmet. He’d completely forgotten about Mehmet. Damn it.
He straightened and turned, finding the sultan behind him, arms folded, expression more curious than anything else. “It looks like someone ravished your slave.”
Val set his jaw.
Then Mehmet said, “What ar
e you going to do about it?”
~*~
A warm day. The heat intensified the pungent stink of latrines, of unwashed soldiers on the march, of horse manure ripening in the sun. Even a tidy camp, such as this one, reeked.
Val strode with his sword at his hip, boots kicking up puffs of dust. Long strides, his shadow bobbing along head of him.
Mehmet walked beside him, and a foursome of janissaries tailed them.
The sultan hummed quietly to himself, unbothered.
Val seethed.
He held his jaw clenched tight, breathing harshly through his nose, despite the stench. His hands tightened into fists at his sides, over and over, fingers itching to claw, to scrape, to hurt. His fangs were descended; if he spoke to anyone, they would be clearly visible.
He didn’t care.
He’d left Arslan in Nestor-Iskander’s care. The scribe had found him by the picket lines, he’d said, and known right away that Val would want to see him for himself. He’d been right; just as he’d been right that Val would want to mete out punishment once he knew the perpetrators’ names. In the months since becoming Mehmet’s most trusted scribe, Nestor had grown fond of Arslan – as did everyone who interacted with the boy. Sweet, and lovely to look upon, shy, unfailingly proper – except when he was alone with Val and Val asked him to speak his mind. He was slender, finer-boned than other boys his age, because he’d been castrated.
Val was no fool. He knew the way eunuchs were used here amongst the Ottomans. They guarded the women, and they serviced the men – Mehmet had at least a dozen, hand-picked from conquered towns, young men kept in a sort of forever boyhood, with smooth cheeks, and delicate limbs. Val found the whole business disgusting – but he had his own problems. His own backside to guard, as it were. He couldn’t control the things Mehmet did outside of the bed and tents and rooms they shared.
But this.
This.
Arslan was his. Val had Mehmet’s word that he’d never try to touch him.
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 45