“Thank you for inviting me,” Vivi said.
Mustafa signaled Fadime. “I am sure Vivienne is hungry.”
Fadime lifted a plate and moved around the table, spooning food from china bowls. He stopped beside a long platter where dozens of skewered meat kabobs jutted straight up from a bed of parsley, as if they’d been impaled. Here and there, the garnish didn’t quite cover the platter, and white foam was visible through the green.
Fadime returned to Vivi and set down her plate.
“Smells good,” she said, blinking at pitas and garlicky hummus and stuffed eggplants and meat pies and cucumbers. A lone kabob lay across the cucumbers like a sacrificial offering.
Mustafa smiled. “Save room for tiramisu and baklava. When I was human, I ate baklava every day.”
Vivi remembered what Dr. Barrett had told her: Keep Mustafa talking about himself. “Sir, may I ask a personal question?”
“You may ask, but I might not reply.” He lifted his hand and unfurled his long fingers. “Go on.”
“How long have you been a vampire?”
“I left my human life when I was a man of thirty-two years,” he said. “Until then, I served under Sultan Mehmed II. I was a sipahi in the Ottoman Army.”
“A what?”
“Sipahis were the cavalry division. Not every Turk could be a sipahi. I was the son of a Bey, an elite Ottoman. We were the early commandos. Quite tough and brave. We went ahead of the Ottoman army and plundered before the janissaries arrived.”
“What were they?”
He sneered. “The infantry. Some were bodyguards. All from peasant stock.”
Like that meant something to Vivi. She took a breath. The air was pungent with a musky smell, one that she didn’t associate with vampires. Was she smelling the ferret?
“I was with the sultan when we crossed the Danube and marched to Târgovis¸te,” Mustafa said. “So many soldiers. Sipahis, silahtars, janissaries.”
Vivi had crossed the Danube a few times herself, mainly when she visited Uncle Nigel in Prague. He was technically her mom’s third cousin, a stocky man with a wide chest and blunt fingertips—probably from digging up pot sherds. His hair glistened like silver wires, framing a face that was round as a pizza pan. He collected famous quotations, and the last time she’d seen him, he’d said, “I’m not a fan of Napoleon Bonaparte, but I rather like this quote. ‘Take time to deliberate; but when the time for action arrives, stop thinking and go in.’”
She felt a hotness behind the bridge of her nose, a sure sign that she was going to cry. Uncle Nigel would not want her to show any emotions to a Turkish solder. Let him wonder.
Mustafa had stopped talking. One of his eyes had gotten smaller and meaner. The ferret was watching her, too. “Am I boring you, Vivienne?”
What had he been talking about? The Danube. Romania. “No, sir. I was wondering why you went to Târgovis¸te?” she said, pronouncing the town’s name just the way her mom had taught her.
Mustafa’s face darkened, as if a hawk had passed over him, casting a long shadow. “We went to Wallachia to put an end to Kaziklu Bey,” he said. “The Impaler. You probably know him by another name. Vlad T¸epes¸.”
A quiver ran up Vivi’s spine, and she struggled to keep her face from showing any emotion. Was he talking about Vlad the Impaler? If so, Mustafa wasn’t near as old as she’d thought. But that didn’t matter. She leaned forward, fixing an attentive expression on her face.
“When we passed through Târgovis¸te, the streets were empty,” Mustafa said. “The people had gone. But the smell…”
He broke off and reached for the platter of kabobs. “In the distance we saw thousands of poles, too many to count. As we got closer, the stench was unbearable. Thousands of Turkish soldiers had been impaled. Our general was among them, staked higher than the others.”
“So you’d be sure to notice?” Vivi asked.
“Men were staked according to rank,” Mustafa said.
Vivi mulled over that a moment. Long ago, when she’d found out that Raphael was immortal, she’d watched every vampire movie she could find on Netflix. She’d read about Vlad III—the real Dracula hadn’t even been a vampire. Where was Mustafa going with this story?
“So, did you fight this Vlad guy?” she asked.
“History is divided, but the truth is, the sultan retreated,” he said. “Mehmed II was a brave, hard man. His temper was legendary. He understood the science of war and the science of the mind. But so did Vlad T¸epes¸.”
“I thought Vlad was just cruel,” Vivi said. “He was smart, too?”
“No, no. You see, Vivienne, when Vlad and his brother were young, their father sent them to live with Sultan Murad II. Vlad and Radu grew up with the sultan’s son. Mehmed bin Murad Khan. Better known as Mehmed II.” Mustafa lifted a skewered kabob. “Prince Vlad was jealous. Such a twisted mind.”
Vivi cupped her hand over her mouth. Not because she was shocked or ill, but to keep from blurting what her mom had taught her. Mehmed II had brought down Constantinople in 1453. Vivi had not been interested in the Ottoman empire, but she’d been wild about Vlad T¸epes¸. She’d studied him with the care and attention that the fictional Renfield had given his bugs. The real Dracula had died at the end of 1475 or early 1476. No one knew how. But his head had ended up in Constantinople.
She dragged a pita wedge through the hummus, waiting to see if Mustafa would continue.
He looked up from the kabob tray. “Am I scaring you?”
Vivi lowered her hand. “No, sir. Were you actually in a battle with the real Dracula?”
“The sultan sent my cavalry to Bucharest. Our instructions were to bring Vlad’s head back to Istanbul. But his men attacked at night, as was Vlad’s custom. I was captured that December and taken to Palatul Curtea Veche, the dungeon fortress. The air stank of human waste and blood. Dogs fought over bones. I was put in chains, and Vlad kept me as a pet. I was dragged to his torture chamber.”
Mustafa broke off, his chin shaking. “He committed unspeakable acts upon my flesh. Then he let his men persecute me. I barely noticed the bite wounds. They were nothing. When Vlad could not abide my stench, his men staked me. They put ropes on my ankles and tied me to horses. The blunt end of a pole was greased with hog renderings and shoved into my rectum. When the men led the horses forward, the pole went into the air. And I went with it.”
Vivi looked at the skewered kabobs, then up at Mustafa.
“The blunt pole slowly worked its way through my body, ripping through my internal organs,” he said. “The sharp end would have killed me too quickly.”
“How did you get off the pole?”
“I wasn’t the only man who’d been impaled. There were twenty of us. Sipahis, janissaries, some peasants. Vlad’s executioner went down the row, decapitating men—they knew we would become immortal, and Vlad could not allow an immortal sipahis to walk in the dark. Before the executioner reached me, he went to work on a man with a large, bull neck. The blade broke—Allah’s guiding hand. So my head remained attached to my body.”
“And you became immortal?” Vivi asked.
“I was still transforming. But I appeared dead. The soldiers threw me and the other men into a wagon. Headless corpses were stacked on top of me, so I was somewhat protected from the sun. I was dumped in the Vlasiei Woods. I crawled to water and drank. It came right back up. Yet I burned with thirst. I drank more. Again, I vomited. I do not remember dying. I only remember waking in sunlight, and my skin was covered with blisters. I longed for water. I had never felt such powerful thirst. At night my flesh healed, and when the sun came up, I burned. I was like Prometheus.”
“You poor thing,” Vivi said. “How did you manage?”
“I learned to hide in the shade. I did not know what was wrong with me. But I could move around. I found a bird’s nest. I had hoped for eggs, but I found three fledglings. Oh, I can still see their wide-open beaks. I bit off one’s head. I had never tasted such sweetness.”
Vivi drew back, her breath coming in hot spurts.
Mustafa didn’t seem to notice. His eyes blazed at a spot just over Vivi’s head.
“When I became stronger, I hunted more birds and drank their blood,” he said. “One night I walked to a village. I was like a wolf, attacking goats and sheep. When my full strength returned, I set out to find Vlad. I still did not know what I was. I only knew that I could not tolerate daylight, and blood was the only liquid that stayed in my stomach. I craved blood and revenge. I caught up with the Turkish army south of Bucharest. Vlad was somewhere in the hills. The Wallachians struck at night, killing hundreds, always retreating before dawn. So I waited for him. I was darkness layered in front of darkness. A memory of jagged teeth. It was a cold night, and snow blew over the hills in great drifts. I wore a white turban and a caftan, and I followed the smell of blood. Vlad could not hide. I brought his head to the sultan.”
Vivi blinked, her head swimming with the words I, me, and my.
“Vlad made you immortal?” she asked.
“I do not know. So many men bit me. Including the Impaler.”
“What happened to Dracula’s body?”
“It is not a story for a banquet,” Mustafa’s said.
And the other stuff was? Vivi thought. “I’m not a scaredy-cat,” she said. “I can take it.”
“So can Bram.” He gave an approving nod. “We like girls with strong stomachs. Perhaps we shall become friends. So I will tell you a secret. Before I severed Vlad’s head, he told me what I had become and what I would have to do to stay immortal. I went blind with rage. I did something to him that history never recorded. His torso was not buried at Snagov. There was no torso. I butchered him and fed his quivering muscles to his own dogs. The bones were chewed. Scattered into the night wind.”
His brow furrowed. He broke off and gazed behind Vivi. “Tatiana,” he said. “How long have you been eavesdropping?”
Vivi turned. Standing beside her was a blond woman, her black dress rustling like crow feathers. Her eyes were blue and glacial. In her hand was a toy gun, yellow-and-black plastic, like a giant wasp. I’ve seen you before, Vivi thought.
“Long enough,” the woman said. “You told this mutant things that you never told me. What makes her special?”
Now Vivi recognized the voice. This woman had kidnapped her in Provence.
She hit my face, but I made her bleed, Vivi thought.
A buzzing noise came out of the gun, and two prongs flew into her chest. She barely had time to whimper before her jaw clenched and all the pain in the world swarmed into her body.
CHAPTER 47
Tatiana
MAIN FLOOR—LEVEL 1
BANQUET HALL III
AL-DÎN COMPOUND
Tatiana dropped to the rug, looped her arm around Vivi’s throat, and mashed the Taser gun against it. Then she scanned the banquet hall. Fadime circled her, his diamond earring sparking in the red light. Mustafa hadn’t moved from his chair. “Stand down, Fadime, or I’ll break her neck,” she said.
The guard fell back, his mustache quaking, as if whispering a secret. Tatiana lowered the gun, bent over the girl’s chest, and removed the metal prongs. Tears ran down Vivi’s cheeks, over her mouth, and slid down her chin; her carotid artery leaped against her flesh.
“Quit scaring her,” Mustafa called from his chair. “She can see and hear.”
“For now.” Tatiana scooted closer to the girl, and cut her gaze around the room. Fadime leaned against the wall. No other guards had arrived.
“How did you get out of detention?” Mustafa asked.
“I transformed myself into fog. Like Dracula.” Tatiana pinned her knee against the girl’s chest, then reloaded the Taser.
“No, Tatiana!” Mustafa slid his hands across the dining table, then twisted out of his chair. A long, furry torso glided across his shoulder, claws biting into the silk. Now that Mustafa was on his feet, she could imagine him as a sipahi, his pointy helmet tucked under his arm, the clicking of his armour as he strode toward his war horse.
“I would have enjoyed hearing how Vlad rewired your chivalry,” she said.
“Let Vivienne go,” Mustafa said.
Tatiana smiled. The pleading tone in his voice confirmed her power over him. She straddled Vivi’s stomach and fired the Taser again. The girl stiffened.
“The Chosen One is an impaling instrument,” Tatiana said, removing the prongs from Vivi’s scrub shirt. “Who wants to be first? Fadime? Get over here and drop your pants. Don’t forget the butter.”
“You have come undone,” Mustafa said.
“You made me what I am. You never told me who made you. Yet you told her.”
“This performance is beneath you.” Mustafa’s head tilted like a blade.
“Maybe you’ll enjoy the encore,” she said, reloading the Taser. A cold eddy shifted behind her, then a hard object pushed against the base of her skull. Fadime’s blood-and-curry smell waffled around her.
“Release Vivienne,” Mustafa said, his voice rising. The ferret scampered down his sleeve, and then he disappeared under the table.
“How?” Tatiana said. “I can’t move. A gun is pointed at my head. Tell your little asswipe to back off.”
“Your profanity is offensive to Vivienne and Bram,” Mustafa said.
“Get another fucking ferret.”
“Fadime, when I give the order, you will count to five. Shoot Tatiana if she refuses to obey.”
“Yes, sir,” Fadime said.
Heat scattered behind Tatiana’s eyes. “The Prophecy Girl can witness a murder, but no one can curse?”
“Start the countdown,” Mustafa said.
“One,” Fadime said. “Two.”
“Fine.” She set the Taser on the floor, then climbed off Vivi.
But Fadime pushed the gun harder against the back of Tatiana’s neck.
Her eyes began to water. What was wrong? She’d followed orders. Fadime hadn’t. Yet she was being punished? She slid her gaze toward the table, trying to see Mustafa. His face was serene. Why was he still standing? How was that even possible?
“Samin, get rid of the weapon. Move Vivienne away from Miss Kaskov.”
A thin, red-haired vampire rushed out of the shadows. He put the Taser in his waistband, then dragged the girl off to the side.
“Good boy, Samin. Now find Dr. Hazan. Bring him to Vivienne.”
The red-haired vampire ran through the archway, his footsteps pattering. Fadime backed away from Tatiana. She let out a breath. Wiped her eyes. Forced herself to smile at Mustafa. “You look tired. Sit down before you fall.”
His eyes were sharp, yet unemotional, like a hawk studying prey. He stood taller, pulling the IV tubing taut behind him. “You have not heard my good news? I am in remission.”
Tatiana felt something crash inside her chest. “When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I have not seen you in weeks.” His gaze was unreadable. “My blood tests were wrong. The machine had not been properly calibrated. Dr. Hazan believes Yang had tampered with it. My white blood count is now eleven thousand, not one hundred and eleven thousand.”
“What makes you think the remission will last?”
“What makes you think that you will last?”
“Don’t threaten me,” she said, nostrils flaring.
“You have ruined my dinner.”
Right. The real problem was Jude’s daughter.
“I’m not your enemy,” she said. “But this girl is a miscreation. She will kill you. She is hemakinetic. So is that French dwarf who was keeping her. She bewitched Maury’s guys—tough, paramilitary men. She made them hallucinate. She killed some of your best soldiers. I was injured.”
“Yes, Maury told me. Did you catch the dwarf?”
“I was incapacitated.”
“This is your excuse?”
“Did Maury tell you how he botched the Paris job?”
“Jealousy has torn your mind apa
rt.” Mustafa gestured at Fadime. “She looks unwell. Make her sit.”
“I am not jealous,” Tatiana cried. She felt her arm twist painfully behind her back, then a force shoved her into a gilt chair, and her arms fell to her sides. She knew Mustafa’s strategy. He was showing Fadime that her rank had dropped. She was below eye-level. Now everyone would look down at her.
Footsteps pounded in the outer dining hall, then Dr. Hazan hurried into the room and knelt beside the girl. He gently pulled back her eyelids and checked her pulse.
“Vivienne, can you hear me?” he said. “This is Dr. Hazan, my dear. You will be fine.” He caught Tatiana’s gaze. “Torturing this child is most unwise. You are shameful.”
Tatiana felt the balance of power shifting in the room, moving away from her. Would it go to Hazan or the mutant girl? No, it was the girl. If Mustafa was in remission, he could live another decade. Had he replaced her with Vivi? His next protégée? Out with the old, in with the new. And Jude loved the girl—that hurt most of all.
She shifted in the chair, watching Hazan fuss over the brat, dabbing a napkin over her face, telling her not to weep, she’d be fine, just fine. Tears swarmed behind Tatiana’s lashes. Next chance she got, she wouldn’t use a Taser, and someone would be washing the girl’s brains from the wall.
“Dr. Hazan, take Vivienne to her quarters,” Mustafa said.
Tatiana’s vision blurred. “Why are you fussing over this girl? She is a danger to us all.”
“She is courageous.”
“So am I.”
“But you possess great cruelty.”
Why has he turned against me? Tatiana brushed the water from her eyes. He was a military genius, skilled at mind games. But once he’d formed an opinion, he never changed it. She must find another way to appeal to him. Quickly. The last time she’d been this afraid, the Berlin Wall had fallen. Or maybe before that, when she was a girl, and her father had walked out into the snowy night in a black tuxedo, and her mother had raced after him. The back of his head had splashed into the snow, like the borscht Babushka had made that morning.
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