But emotion surged. Adrenaline flooded his veins in a sudden, warm rush.
He stood, and crossed to the window. “This alley?” he asked as he opened the shutters and looked out through the frost-rimed glass. He could feel the cold coming in through the cracks, sharp enough to make his teeth ache.
That emotion – it was anticipation. He sought his own reflection in the glass, and realized he was smiling, fangs long and sharp.
Five man-shaped shadows slunk along the wall of the alley down below.
“Well,” Vlad said, turning the window latch, his voice more beast than man. “I wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”
“Vlad, what are you…”
He pushed up the window, letting in a blast of frigid air.
“Vlad, no!” Stephen made a grab at his arm that he avoided.
He thought he heard Cicero sigh somewhere behind him, but he climbed up onto the sill and leapt out into the night before the wolf could protest.
It was a short fall, but long enough for the wind to whip at his clothes and hair, for the cold to make his eyes tear, for the bottom to drop out of his stomach in that way that meant he was about to do something wild and dangerous.
Then he landed, light on the balls of his feet, like a housecat, perfectly balanced and ready to strike. And then he smelled men – smelled flesh, and blood. And he roared.
The would-be assassins whirled to face him, gasping. He could see well enough, with vampire eyes, to make out their shocked expressions.
A light thump beside him announced Cicero’s arrival, already shifted into wolf form. He gave a lupine snort of disapproval.
“You know you want to kill something, too,” Vlad said, and attacked.
To their credit, the assassins recovered quickly from their surprise. Knives flashed, and Vlad heard the rasp of a sword leaving a scabbard; the moonlight glinted down its length. A short sword, designed for one-handed use. This wasn’t a battle, but a dead-of-night killing.
Well. They thought it wasn’t a battle.
Vlad was weaponless, but he didn’t care. A part of him relished the fact.
There were five opponents, and they split up, two moving around on Cicero’s side, three on Vlad’s. Confident his wolf could handle himself, Vlad put his back to Cicero and turned to meet the man with the sword.
That was doubtless what the enemy wanted him to do: focus on the largest, most obvious threat, leaving his sides exposed to the other two – and their knives. He had no idea if they knew what he was, but that didn’t matter. Vampire-savvy or not, they weren’t prepared for him.
The swordsman moved in quick and close, a short jab; a killer and not a showy knight, aiming at Vlad’s arm with a blow meant to disable. Vlad ducked down low. A curse above him. He felt the other two closing in, meaning to hem him in from above. They’d fall on him then, all together.
He tucked and rolled to the right, fast, and used his shoulder to ram one of the knife-wielding assassins in the knee. The man grunted and flailed out with his blade, trying to catch Vlad with it even as he fell. Vlad dodged the blow – clumsy as it was – and elbowed the man in the groin. Kept rolling, and popped back up to his feet in a lithe flex of back and hips.
The man he’d tripped regained his feet – but not as quickly as Vlad. Vlad kicked him in the back, hard, high, right in the kidney. He felt something give beneath the sole of his boot, and the man collapsed with a choked-off shout.
Vlad registered a flash – the short sword coming at his face – and put his hand up. He caught the blade. It bit deep, deep into his palm. It hit bone. The pain was bright, and sudden, and he gritted his teeth against it – but knowledge helped him contain it. Knowledge that he could live through this kind of injury, heal from it, fight with it. He was immortal, and these people weren’t. They could hack him to pieces, and he could still throttle them.
Blood poured down his arm, into his sleeve, hot and thick. But he grinned. And he reached up with his other hand, and yanked the sword out of the man’s grip.
The assassin cursed, but reached for the knife at his belt.
The second one closed in as well.
Vlad moved his hands down to the pommel, blood making his grip slippery and inexpert. His hand felt on fire. He needed to get his mouth on the wound to staunch the blood flow, but there was no time for that now.
The third assassin dragged himself to his feet, limping, teeth gritted – shiny in the gloaming. A rib or two was broken, but he would attempt to finish the job he’d been hired to do.
Vlad braced his feet, and met them.
His first swing, with all his strength behind it, severed an arm. The shock of blade-on-bone moved up his arms like a thunderclap, one he absorbed as he prepared for another swing, ears filled with screams.
Another strike. Sharp smell of blood that wasn’t his own.
He was aware of other sounds beyond his personal fight: Cicero snarling, men grunting, cursing. A door opened, flung back on his hinges, and he smelled his people: Fen, and Mother, and Malik, and Stephen.
He took off the last assassin’s head with two forceful strikes, and the thump of it hitting the cobbles was the last note of the fight.
Vlad shifted his pilfered sword to his good hand and brought the wounded one up to his face. In the moonlight, he could see shiny blood glimmering over bone. He put his tongue to the wound and lapped it thoroughly.
Cicero shifted back to his two-legged form, clothes settling around him with the customary puff of vapor; it was old magic, stuff Vlad didn’t really understand, but had accepted all his life.
Stephen, white-faced in the moonlight, jumped and yelped, still not used to the sight of a wolf becoming a man.
Malik knelt and pulled the hood back from the face of one of the assassins. “Not Turks,” he said, frowning.
“No,” Vlad agreed, swallowing a last mouthful of his own blood. “Hunyadi’s this time.”
Eira went from corpse to corpse, searching through their pockets for letters, coins, anything of value to them.
Helga lingered at the open door, hand worrying the neckline of her dress.
Fen bent down and picked up the decapitated head by its dark hair, standing to hold it up to the moon, scowling at it. “You should have left one alive so we could question him.”
“I was trying to stay alive, Fen,” Vlad said, breathless. Damn, he was tired, the exhaustion only now setting in. He hadn’t fed in two days, and he needed to rectify that, as Cicero was always insisting.
As if summoned, his Familiar stepped in front of him, scowling, the effect no less sinister with only one eye.
Vlad turned away–
And Cicero caught his chin in his hand.
“Bold,” Vlad said.
“You’re tired,” his wolf said. “You need to drink, Vlad.”
Fenrir threw the head at the wall, and it bounced off with a nasty, meaty splat. “Bah!” he shouted. “Let them come! I’ll kill them all!”
“Fen!” Mother and Helga said together.
“What?” he demanded, turning to them with open arms.
“Vlad–” Cicero started again.
He inhaled. Smell of more men. Many more.
The immortals turned as a unit, facing the mouth of the alley. Faint lick of torchlight against the wall, moving closer. Many torches.
“More,” Vlad said, and licked his lips. Why feed from his Familiar when he could feast on men?
But Cicero grabbed his arm.
Mother said, “We have to leave. Now.”
And still he fled. Always fleeing.
30
AN ACCORD
The estate belonged to a man who was an ally – but grudgingly so. Someone loyal to Stephen’s father, but who knew better than to share such opinions publicly. He had given them momentary shelter, a chance to rest a moment behind the safety of his high estate walls and screens of planted cypress trees. But Vlad had never seen him wear an expression like the one he wore now, as he rushed acro
ss the pebbled courtyard where he and Stephen sparred.
Vlad stepped back, lowering his blade. Stephen did likewise, but slowly. Sweat streamed down his face, cheeks flushed from exertion. Vlad had been pushing him harder lately, using more of his real strength, pressing his advantages. It was no time for gentle lessons; time for learning how to be brutal and unforgiving.
Stephen lifted his brows in question, and Vlad nodded toward the boyar rushing toward him, the graying man puffing from the effort. Why hadn’t he sent a servant after them? Why did he look chalk-pale with obvious nerves?
“Your grace,” the man said breathlessly when he finally reached them. He addressed Vlad. He winced and grabbed at his side, panting. “Your grace – John Hunyadi is here.”
Vlad lifted his sword with a snarl.
The boyar’s eyes went wide and he stumbled back a step. “No, no. He wants to talk to you. Your grace, he wants peace.”
~*~
“Your grace,” the boyar puffed beside him, jogging in his attempt to keep up with the long walking strides Vlad took down the gallery toward the man’s study. “Perhaps – perhaps you would like – to freshen up?”
He’d gone charging off straight from the practice field, Stephen right at his heels. He wore only the sweat-damp, open-throated shirt, breeches, and boots he’d taken to wearing while sparring. He still carried his sword – though, that wasn’t an accident.
“No,” he snapped. He wanted to meet Hunyadi while his blood was up, while his muscles were warm and primed for fighting. He didn’t want to have a civil breaking of bread with this man. He wanted his head.
As they neared the closed door of the study, Cicero peeled away from the wall and fell in at Vlad’s side, jaw locked, brow furrowed.
“You’ve seen him?” Vlad asked.
“Yes. He doesn’t look it, but he’s nervous.”
Vlad growled softly under his breath. “He should be.”
“Your grace,” the boyar pleaded behind him. “Please don’t do anything rash. Peace for Romania would be a blessing from God himself.”
Vlad whirled on the man, and he stumbled to a halt, nearly cowering. “God isn’t here though, is he? Only me. And the man who killed my family. I shall do with him as I like.”
Stephen looked shocked, but said nothing.
Vlad turned back to the door. Cicero opened it for him, and he stepped inside.
The study, like the entirety of the estate, was practical, but comfortable, and crafted of fine materials. A large room, with a polished desk positioned in front of the mullioned windows, natural light spilling in diamonds across its surface, and the Turkish rugs that covered the floor.
The governor of Transylvania sat in a padded leather chair with a high back like a throne, a place for a guest of honor directly across from the desk. He held a cup of wine, and several of his own servants stood ranged behind him, two soldiers, and one a steward, his clothes rich, his air scholarly.
Hunyadi himself looked to have changed little since Vlad had last seen him, as a boy. Thick through the shoulders and middle, but strong, solid. A warrior’s body, even if not a very tall one. He wore his hair long and curled on his shoulders, the points of his thick mustache tipped up at the ends with a smoothing of oil. He held his cup carelessly, his appearance casual. Unconcerned.
But Vlad could sense the restless nerves buzzing under his skin. It tainted the air; human skin smelled different when its wearer was afraid of something, and that scent filled the study now.
Vlad stood a moment, once he was inside the room, breathing in that odor, feeling the weight of its advantage.
Hunyadi’s gaze moved down him and then back up, catching on the sword. He lifted his brows. “Did my arrival interrupt your training?” he asked mildly.
Vlad moved to the desk and sat down behind it, laid his sword on its polished surface, right hand still curled around the grip. Stephen and Cicero moved to stand to either side of him, flanking him. “No,” he said, and met the man’s stare with a relentless one of his own. “But it seemed wasteful to bathe before subjecting myself to the company of pigs.”
A grin tugged at Hunyadi’s mouth. “I heard you had a temper. It seems the rumors were true.”
“This is not my temper.”
“That’s true,” Stephen chimed in. Vlad could sense his anxiety, but his voice came calm and airy. “This is Vlad in a happy mood, your grace.”
Vlad bit down on the impulse to smile. Instead, he enjoyed Hunyadi’s baffled expression and said, tone icy, “My gracious host tells me you want to talk of peace.”
“He’s correct. Yes, that’s why I’m here.”
“Peace on what terms?”
Hunyadi cast a discreet glance around the room, touching on all of its inhabitants.
Vlad turned to their boyar host. “Leave us.”
The man looked glad to do so, closing the door behind him.
Hunyadi took a bolder glance. At Stephen. At Cicero. Pointed.
“Doubtless you know of Stephen, son of the late Prince Bogdan of Moldavia,” Vlad said. “My cousin and ally. Cicero is my chief advisor. He goes where I go, and hears what I hear. Make your case, governor.”
“My case? You’re wise to listen, but I admit that I’m surprised you would. Considering.”
Vlad slid his free hand down the length of his sword. It was his father’s Toledo blade, rather than a blunted practice sword. Sharp enough to split a hair, gleaming in the sunlight like the scales of a serpent. Ready to strike.
“Hmm. Considering,” he said. “Considering the fact that you murdered my father? My brother? Backed Prince Bogdan’s killer? Sent assassins after us again and again?”
“I’m sure you understand–” Hunyadi started.
“My brother,” Vlad continued, voice getting colder, darker, louder. “Was beaten, and dragged, and stabbed, and buried face-down while he was still breathing. I found his grave. I dug his bones up myself, by hand.
“My father fled on foot. Cut down by a mob of men. And wolves.” He stressed the word and watched Hunyadi’s eyes widen. Did he know that werewolves had been employed? Or had that been part of Romulus’s machinations? “They butchered him. Cut his heart from his body.”
Vlad felt Cicero’s hand land on his shoulder and squeeze, bracing and loving.
“And that sniveling coward Vladislav. Who had not a single legitimate claim to the princedom. Your puppet. You backed him because he was spineless. Because he would do your bidding. Because he would act out your butchery and pave the way for you in Wallachia. The people of Romania faced the same threat, and yet, rather than unite them, you chose to pit them against one another, to slaughter them, so that you could take these three principalities for Hungary. You styled yourself a crusader, someone fighting against the Ottoman invasion of the west. And all you wanted was power for yourself. Explain to me, your grace, why I should listen to a fucking word you have to say.”
Cicero’s fingers tightened again, still supportive, grieving, caring.
Hunyadi took a breath and let it out slowly through his nose, nostrils flaring. He dipped his head. “That’s…fair.”
“You’re damn right it is,” Stephen said, to Vlad’s surprise. “How dare you show your face here, after you tried to kill us?”
Hunyadi sighed. He put his hands on the edge of the desk, fingers spread wide, the gemstones in his rings winking in the light. “Son…”
Vlad growled. Not in a human sense – a proper vampire growl.
Hunyadi’s people stepped forward, the soldiers reaching for the daggers at their hips. The man himself gaped, open-mouthed.
“Do not,” Vlad said, the growl pulsing through his voice, “call me son.”
Hunyadi stared at him…and then looked away. “Alright.”
“I hate you,” Vlad said. “I’ve fantasized about killing you for a long time now.”
But Hunyadi wasn’t the only one he hated.
“So plead your case,” Vlad continued. “Tell me
why I should make peace with the man who murdered my family.”
Silence.
Hunyadi’s attendants looked worried.
The governor studied Vlad a long moment, jaw working side to side. “You’re honest,” he finally said.
“Apparently, that’s not fashionable among the nobility.”
“No, it’s not.” Another pause, this one thoughtful. Hunyadi’s anxiety seemed to lessen, his scent settling. “Flattery clearly won’t work, so I think I’ll have to be frank with you, Dracula.”
Hunyadi’s steward leaned in, as if to whisper advice, and the governor waved him back.
Vlad felt his anger boiling inside him, churning in his gut like a sour dinner. Fantasies came to him, one after the next: lifting his blade and sweeping the governor’s head from his neck; launching himself across the desk and sinking his fangs into the man’s throat, drinking and drinking until he was a desiccated husk, and Vlad had taken every drop of life from his body; stabbing him, again and again, until the blood ran out of him, spilling all over the fine carpet like wine from a ruptured skin. His hand began to ache from gripping the sword; the blade vibrated, faintly, rattling against the wood.
Hunyadi’s brows pinched together, and his jaw worked a moment before he spoke. “I didn’t wield the blade myself, but I suspect that makes no difference here. Yes, I’m responsible for your father’s death. And your brother’s. They were not crimes of passion, but calculated political moves. I needed Dracul’s troops, and free access to the Danube for my campaigns. Time and again I gave your father the chance to join me in my fight against the Ottomans, but he either refused, or delayed, or contributed a mere handful of men to the cause. Vlad was impeding my war efforts, and so I had him removed, and replaced him with a dull-witted lackey whom I knew I could control.”
When Vlad spoke, his voice vibrated with the catlike harmonics of a vampire. Everyone in the room save Cicero and Stephen visibly recoiled from the sound. “My father had a treaty with the Ottomans. If he’d broken it, my brother and I would have been killed for his disobedience.”
Hunyadi cocked his head. “The leader of a people must always make sacrifices. Your father chose you – and sacrificed his people. I made a different choice.”
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 44
