Mehmet chuckled, though his pulse beat like a war drum, the loudest sound in the cabin. “Acerbic as ever. I guess ruling suits you.”
“You know very well that I rule no longer.”
That earned the hint of a mocking smile. “No, you don’t, do you? You Dracula brothers are terrible princes, both of you.”
“Says the man who put us on thrones.”
A sharp grin. “Clearly, I’m a poor judge of character.”
“Yes,” Val agreed. “You tend to underestimate the people around you. Vastly.”
The grin lingered a moment longer…and then faded, when Val said nothing else.
It was funny, he reflected, now that he was standing here, how calm he felt. The moment he’d set foot on the deck of the ship, he’d known a sense of peace. Deeper, colder, more right than the peace he’d known after burying his brother. He’d felt a hint of it then, and in the moments he’d fought with Vlad and Cicero, a tantalizing caress of it, but now it was solidified. Had had time to galvanize, diamond-bright, and just as hard. It was a cold clear-headedness that allowed him to think quickly, and feel little. Perhaps this was how it had been for Vlad, sometimes.
“I’ve heard,” Mehmet began, with that particular air of someone trying to break an awkward silence, “that Vlad’s own people killed him. Spurned boyars armed with torches and pitchforks – a regular mob. But there are rumors, too, that you killed him. Something about a vengeful wolf combing the countryside, calling for your blood, Radu.”
“Valerian.”
“What?”
“My real name is Valerian. I would hear you use it before I kill you.”
A high, thin laugh. “What?” he repeated.
Val lunged.
Mehmet tried to lift his hands, tried to heave his ponderous bulk from the berth, tried to shout for one of his men. But he was, in fact, old, and fat, and slow. And Val was lean, and strong, and looked no more than twenty-some-odd, and was the grandson of Mars, God of War, besides.
Val batted his hand away, clapped his own hand over his mouth, and toppled him back to the bed, straddling his bulky hips and pinning him in place. “Hold still,” he ordered, and reached for the vial he’d tucked into his belt. He uncorked it with his teeth, and pulled his hand off Mehmet’s mouth – only to grip his jaw, force it open, and pour the vial’s contents down the sultan’s throat.
Mehmet spluttered, and Val felt the quick burn of a few droplets against his wrist. But it was nothing. Pain, shame, fear – all of it had abandoned him, and there was only certainty, and only his own strength, as he held the choking sultan down.
Mehmet finally swallowed, and heaved a deep, gasping breath. Eyes bugging, hands scrabbling ineffectually at the one Val pressed to his throat.
“Burns, doesn’t it?” Val said, conversational. “That’s silver shavings, mixed into wine. Give it a moment to take affect: you’ll grow sleepy, and heavy, and want nothing more than to take a nap. You’ll feel very disconnected from all your strength – from the things that make you a vampire. That’s how I felt, wearing your collar, and chains every day.”
Mehmet wheezed, and bucked feebly beneath him.
“Here’s something that should spark memory, though. Remember our first night together?” Val ripped the silver dagger free from his hip, and drove it into Mehmet’s heart.
The sultan lurched, and made an awful, breathless sound of pain. Blood spilled out of his mouth, a trickle that ran down toward the coverlet. But he was still alive. Could still feel.
“Stay there,” Val said, and got to his feet.
Mehmet stayed – of course. He didn’t move, save to breathe in short, sharp jerks, panting, groaning.
“Now,” Val continued. He pushed up Mehmet’s kaftan, bunched it up around his waist. “This is just like old times. Like our first time. Remember, lover? Remember how I stabbed you with your own sword? I spent the whole night in the garden after that.” He undid the laces of Mehmet’s şalvar – white silk stretched to their limit by his bulk – and tugged them roughly down. “And then you found me, and you took me back to your chamber, and you fucked me dry. I bled, remember? Just as you’re bleeding now.”
He unsheathed his sword.
“Ra-Ra-Ra-du–”
“Nuh-uh,” Val sang. “What did I tell you my name was?” He lined up the tip of his sword.
Mehmet’s face – colorless, bathed in sweat – was a mask of terror, mouth working, eyes white-rimmed.
“Say it,” Val said, almost sweetly.
He wheezed a moment. Then, finally, “Valerian.” And then: “Please.”
Val took a moment to look at him, sprawled out, half-naked, pitiful. Whatever gifts Romulus had given him decaying, leaving him aging, and ruined, and in pain. This was the man who’d tormented him. Broken him.
He gathered himself. “That’s right,” he said. “My name is Valerian. And today is the day I fuck you.”
He slammed his sword home.
~*~
An hour later, he dragged himself up into the little boat he’d left anchored just off shore, a wet satchel weighted with a heart slung over his shoulders. Mehmet would steal no more boys’ innocence. Never again.
He lay there a long moment, staring up at the blue cloudless sky, the boat rocking gently beneath him, the lap of the water echoing the pulse that drummed steadily inside his ears.
“It’s over,” he murmured.
There was no peace. But a quiet emptiness that was almost as good.
Three days later, Cicero ran him down in a patch of sun-dappled forest. Val was underfed, and tired, and he didn’t bother fighting. The wolf had a human with him, the man Malik with the Asian eyes, who’d been servant of Vlad. They’d raised a small army. Humans loyal to Vlad.
“Kill me,” he said, and offered his throat. “I’m done.”
They put silver chains on him instead.
46
I PROMISE YOU, BROTHER
Blackmere Manor
Present Day
First there was nothing, and then there was black. Stars wheeling. The cool touch of wind on his face.
He’d fallen out of the vision – out of the past – and this was the astral plane in its pure form. He’d tried to explain it to Vlad once, when they were boys, but then there had been no describing the endless, echoing dark, and its constellations, its orange pinpricks like torches, trying to guide him to others with supernatural abilities. Then, in 1439, he’d had no frame of reference for how vast it was. But now, after centuries spent stalking others, after sort-of watching the new Star Wars movie while he projected himself onto Mia’s couch while he really watched her, the television’s blue light playing across her beautiful face…now he knew that the other plane was like the vastness of space. This was what astronauts saw, he supposed.
And then he felt his body tugging, calling him back, and he returned to it with a sense of grimacing, because this was going to hurt.
And it did. Physical awareness returned, and he felt like he’d drank bottle after bottle of wine, shaking and weak as a new foal, short of breath, aching all over. He cracked sleep-crusted eyes and saw that night had fallen; it had taken hours, showing Vlad. Seeing Vlad. Because he hadn’t known before what it had been like in his brother’s head back then, but he knew now, and he didn’t think his world would ever be the same.
A lamp had been left burning, before, because Vlad must have known it would take hours, this dream-walk. Val saw that his palm, too-white, shaking, was still pressed Vlad’s forehead and he pulled it off with difficulty.
Vlad’s eyes opened. That was all he did for a moment, while Val tucked his trembling hand into his own chest and took several unsteady breaths, fighting a swoon. He needed food, and sleep.
Vlad blinked at him.
“So,” Val said, voice a rough scrape. “Now you know. Now I know.”
Silence lay between them a moment, heavy.
And then Vlad lunged.
Val tried to shrink away, or s
hield himself, but he was too weak.
And then it didn’t matter, because Vlad caught him by the neck with one strong hand and reeled him in, pressed their foreheads together.
“Valerian,” he said, voice choked, and oh, Val wasn’t ready for that. For the weight and acknowledgement in his name. The way Vlad was saying that he knew him. Tears filled his eyes, and he closed them.
“I promise you, brother,” Vlad said, “that nothing like that will ever happen again. Believe me.”
Oh no. A strangled sound tried to claw its way up Val’s throat, and he gritted his teeth against it. He couldn’t stop the tears, though. “I – you don’t–”
Vlad gathered him close, into his heat, and strength, and his implacable resolution. “I will make it right,” he said. From anyone else, that would have been a stupid boast.
But from Vlad…
Val almost let himself believe it.
“It’s alright,” Vlad said, softer, and stroked his back.
Val gave up all pretense and slumped forward, allowing himself the comfort he craved. They were men now, instead of boys, but he still fit under Vlad’s chin, and it was still a safe place there.
~*~
About five minutes after Val fell into an exhausted sleep, Vlad sensed someone coming down the hall toward his quarters. Several someones, in fact, and as these modern humans said: just no.
He climbed out of bed as quickly and carefully as possible. Val clutched at the blankets, but didn’t wake, hiding his face in a pillow. He didn’t look grown to Vlad in that moment; he looked four, tear-stained and fresh from a nightmare.
He went to the door and had it open just as the man on the other side was lifting his hand to knock.
It was a black-clad military officer of some sort, one of the ones with a radio and a gun on his belt, his hair shaved close on the sides of his head. He was a large, mean-looking man, and he was flanked by two others of his kind, but he shrank back from Vlad, face paling.
“Sir,” he said, and his throat jumped as he swallowed. “Your grace.”
“What?” Vlad snapped.
“Oh. Um. Well. Sir…your grace, I mean–”
“What?”
“Your brother,” the man said in a rush. “He’s not in his cell. And Dr. Talbot said you took him out. That he’s with you.”
Vlad folded his arms and propped his shoulder against the doorjamb. “And what of it?”
His expression clearly said please don’t make me say it. “Dr. Talbot said…Dr. Talbot said he can’t be allowed loose in the house. He has to go back, sir.” The poor man shivered. “Right away, he said, sir.”
“Hmm. Is that an order?”
The man darted glances to his companions, who refused to make eye contact with either him or Vlad, wanting to stay out of it. “Um,” he finally said. “Yes, I believe so, sir.” He winced. “I’m sorry. But yes, it is.”
Vlad started at him a long moment. “My brother,” he said, pronouncing carefully, “was filthy. He hadn’t seen a bar of soap in months.”
The man looked confused.
“He’s half-starved. I can count all of his ribs.”
“S-sir?” The man’s brows were climbing. What he wouldn’t say was this: you electrocuted him. Why do you care?
“If I return my brother to his cell, then I expect him to be afforded all the best meals and chances to bathe and properly groom himself.” It wasn’t a request.
The man studied his face, trying to be sure. Then jerked a nod. “Yes, sir, of course.”
“I will return him there in the morning. Tonight he sleeps in a real bed. Send someone with a dinner tray.”
If the man intended to protest, he didn’t get the chance before Vlad shut the door in his face.
When he turned back to the bed, he saw that Val was still lying down, pillow clutched to his chest, but that his eyes were open. Because the soldier at the door had awakened him with his idiotic insistence that Val be put back in his cell. Dr. Talbot’s orders…let Dr. Talbot see how well he liked “his grace” when Vlad was–
“Brother,” Val said, and Vlad realized he was growling, a constant low rumble deep in his throat. “Are you thinking violent thoughts?” His tone was joking, but his voice was a jagged ruin, as if he’d been screaming. As if the things he’d relived through memory while dream-walking had manifested themselves physically.
Vlad cut off his growl forcibly and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he admitted. “Some.”
“Well take a break from it. Violence is exhausting.”
“Hmph,” Vlad muttered, but he went to sit on the edge of the bed. He made a conscious effort to soften his voice. “You should get some more sleep. I told that idiot to bring up food.”
“If he doesn’t, will you impale him?”
Vlad growled again – but it was only for show, because Val laughed at his own joke, and even weak and hoarse, it was the best sound Vlad had heard since he’d been awakened.
Val quieted, settling into the pillows with a soft hum, eyes closing.
A thought occurred. “When you escaped your cell,” Vlad said, frowning to himself. “You were in Talbot’s office – you broke Treadwell’s jaw. You could have killed Talbot.”
Val hummed again.
“Why didn’t you? Did you spare him for his daughter’s sake?”
“Mostly.” His eyes opened to slits. “No one deserves to have their father killed. And also…”
“What?”
His eyes opened a little wider, very blue, very young-looking. “Uncle,” he said, just a haunted whisper. “He’s really awake?”
“No, not yet. We would know. But his curse is awake. And I think someone’s looking for him. Someone wants him awake.” He felt the stirrings of old rage, still hot under his skin.
For the world, it had been nearly six-hundred years.
For him, it had been less than a month.
“Who would want to wake him up?” Val whispered.
“Someone stupid. Or someone ambitious. Someone who wants him to take over the world…or wants to use him to do it for himself.”
“That’s…terrifying.” Then his eyes sprang wide open and he pushed himself up unsteadily on one arm. Vlad made a reflexive reach to steady him. “Vlad,” he said, voice shaking. “The mage – the Necromancer – is it him? Is he the one starting all this?”
Vlad had wondered as much. “If he is, he’ll regret it.”
~*~
A dinner tray did indeed arrive, and it wasn’t the prepackaged, microwaved fare Val usually enjoyed in his cell. No, this was freshly prepared by hand in the manor’s kitchen, the same food that Vlad, and Talbot, and Treadwell, and all the mortals in the mansion ate. Roasted chicken, and rice, and steamed vegetables, and a cup of pig’s blood alongside a dish of something soft, and chocolate-smelling.
“What is this?” he asked, prodding it with his spoon. It wiggled.
“Pudding,” Vlad said, like the idea of such a thing was beneath him. Sour enough to have Val biting back a laugh. “It’s dessert.”
It was delicious, is what it was. Val ate every bite of it first thing, and then licked the dish before taking a more civilized approach with his chicken.
When his belly wasn’t so empty, he slumped back against the headboard and ate more slowly, sipping blood in between. “Alright, oh patient one, tell me of your elaborate plan.”
Vlad stood at the window, arms folded across his chest, staring out through the parted curtains at the moonlight lying across the lawn. It shouldn’t have, considering all that had happened since their reunion – Val set down his cup and reached to gently touch the wound that lay beneath his shirt, still angry-red in the mirror and healing slowly from the inside out – but the sight of him there, immovable as ever, was a comfort.
As if he sensed these thoughts, Vlad’s gaze slid over to him. “What?”
Val smiled. “You’re a warrior in every century, aren’t you?”
His brows lifted.
&
nbsp; Val explained: “Now. In this century: they have no shortage of soldiers. Weapons – weapons we never could have dreamed of. Don’t take this the wrong way, brother, but they don’t need you. They want you, yes. But. But you could…you could be something different. You could” – he thought of Nikita Baskin and Sasha Kashnikov, holed up in a rundown New York apartment, working mundane, mortal jobs – “be whatever you wanted to be. But you are a warrior.”
Vlad stared at him, outwardly unimpressed with his logic. “It’s what I was born for.”
Val sighed. “Of course it is.”
“And I’m the one who buried Romulus. I stand the greatest chance of killing him.”
“You couldn’t kill him then,” Val reasoned, but not unkindly.
“I didn’t kill him. There’s a distinction.” Vlad’s lip curled. It could have been a snarl, but Val knew it to be a smirk. “And, as you said: they have weapons we never could have dreamed of.”
“Ah. Going to drop a bomb on him, are you?”
“Among other things.”
Val couldn’t help but smile. He was the same as always, and he was glad for it. “Tell me your plan,” he prompted for the second time.
So Vlad did. In usual Vlad Dracula fashion, it wasn’t a bad plan at all.
47
ARRIVAL
Fulk took a sequence of deep breaths which did nothing to calm the rage boiling inside him. He hadn’t snapped at anyone in a very long time. He’d always found it a bit shameful – losing his composure in front of others. In front of mortals, especially. It damaged his credibility as a man. See, he’s just an animal after all, the darted glances suggested.
But right now, he was dangerously close to erupting in the middle of Dr. Talbot’s office.
He chose not to address the terror coursing through his veins and instead focused on the blistering fury. He planted both hands on Talbot’s desk and leaned low over it, growling in the back of his throat. “You did what?”
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