“You’re acting as if I’ve invited him,” the doctor countered, adjusting his glasses. “I merely told him that his visit would be appreciated after he insisted on dropping by personally. We do need him to recast his tracking spell on Prince Valerian, after all.”
“Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want him here.”
“He’s already been here.”
“When?” Fulk’s voice was more growl than pronunciation now.
“Before you and the baroness arrived. Give me some credit, my lord. I knew there was bad blood between you and Mr. Price. I knew better than to have the two of you in the same room.”
Fulk could imagine it: letting the wolf peek through; leaning across the desk, too fast for the doctor to duck away; taking Talbot by the throat and digging in with nails, with claws; the blood, the scream, the–
He snarled and spun away, chest heaving.
Talbot said something, but it was muffled by the blood roaring in Fulk’s ears. Whatever it was, it wasn’t important.
He remembered a moment, centuries before, before Annabel, before he’d betrayed his vampire master. A moment in the evening, in the duke’s study, opening and reading aloud his master’s daily correspondence by the light of a few candles and the fire in the grate.
One letter stood out from the rest, sealed with red wax pressed with the dragon and cross signet ring that belonged to Vlad Tepes of Wallachia. It had come a long way, and bore the scuffs and rips of travel; a smear or two of what Fulk could tell was blood.
It was written in painstaking Latin. It smelled of an alpha male wolf.
I send this missive to the few powerful Western vampire lords of which I know, at the suggestion of what remains of my pack. It is with much grief that I tell you that my master – Vladimir by his mother’s tongue, and Vladislav by his father’s, Vlad Dracula, Prince of Wallachia, is given over to the immortal sleep. Though he is not dead, I am ashamed to admit that I cannot find his resting place. His brother, the traitor Valerian, also called Radu, is responsible for the grievous injury done to my master. I have captured Valerian, bound him with silver, and sought answers to my questions as to his brother’s whereabouts. He will not answer, even under torture. I have entrusted the care of the prisoner now to a group of monks, and taken my leave of civilized life. The enemy is nigh, and I must go. Should any brave crusaders remain who wish to take up my master’s mantle, I leave evidence of Valerian’s whereabouts. You may contact my mortal companion Malik Bey should you wish to assist my search for Vlad.
A hand-drawn map accompanied the letter. All of it was signed by a wolf named Cicero of Wallachia.
Fulk stared at it a long moment. Finally, he said, “We had word that Dracula was indeed dead. Killed by his brother.”
Over by the fire, Liam swirled the wine in his cup and chuckled. “Come now. Brother killing brother? Who would do such a thing?”
Fulk heaved a sigh. “Their uncle, for one.”
“Yes,” Liam said, smile stretching. “That was the joke. Thank you for explaining and taking all the fun out of it, my dear idiot.”
“Quiet, both of you,” the duke said, waving a dismissive hand. “Throw that nonsense on the fire, Strange. I have no use for it.”
“But, your grace–”
“Vlad Dracula is an overeager fool. He tried to take on the might of the Ottoman Empire – Mehmet the Conqueror! Who sacked Constantinople! What sort of half-wit attempts such a thing?”
A brave one, Fulk thought to himself. Or a furious one. He said, “He won, though.”
“Won? Pah! He turned back one march. And now he’s asleep. How is that winning? On the fire it goes, I don’t care.”
Fulk did cross the room to the fire, and he did throw in the letter…but he crumpled the map in his hand and pocketed it.
When he turned his head, Liam grinned at him with all his teeth, but the mage said nothing to give him away.
It was one of thousands of moments that Fulk wanted to pull out of his head and play on a screen for the good doctor. He wanted to show him Liam’s quiet cunning, his insincere smiles. Fulk had long since decided that Dr. Talbot was an idiot, and possibly a madman, and definitely more egotistical than was healthy…but he didn’t believe the man evil.
Liam, though…
He took another sequence of deep breaths and turned back around, features schooled into a mask that was almost polite. “The girl. The one who escaped. She’s his daughter.”
Talbot didn’t blink. “Yes, I know. Mr. Price and his wife donated sperm and eggs respectively, and the children were incubated by surrogates, and raised in our New York lab.”
Of course. Because mage mothers had a hard time carrying children to term. Using their powers drained valuable nutrients from the fetus – and the reverse could be true as well.
And also…
“What the fuck,” Fulk deadpanned. “You bred your own mages.”
“We’ve tried to, yes.”
“How many?”
“A dozen survived past birth.” His expression clouded. “The Russian vampire killed one at the New York lab. A boy. Only ten-years-old.”
Fulk couldn’t say he blamed Nikita Baskin one bit, child or no.
He shook his head to clear it. “None of this explains why Liam is coming here.”
“Haven’t you figured that out yet? Our crusader will need a mage, and the girl escaped.”
Oh.
Oh.
~*~
It was the middle of the night, and there was nothing to see beyond the helicopter’s windows save layered shadows and the occasional pinging red light of a cell tower.
Mia had spent the day in a private jet flying across the country, meeting the oncoming night. From the tarmac, she’d been none-too-gently bundled into a dark-green military helicopter and told it would only be “about ten minutes” until they reached their destination.
Treadwell had tried to make small talk on the plane. She’d asked about Val, and he’d clammed right up, scowling. That was fine; she would get answers from her father, then.
She had a list of things to be angry about: the fact that she hadn’t had a chance to tell her mother goodbye, or pack a bag, or give her horse one last big hug. The idea of being taken in and of itself; abducted by people who weren’t acting according to any sort of law. The fact that she was about to be forced into her father’s presence again, when he was the last person on earth she wanted to see right now.
But clothes could be bought, phone calls to Mom could be made, and who knew, maybe it would prove cathartic to shout at her dad in person.
The untenable thing, for her, was Val’s situation.
After all, she was a girl living on borrowed time; why not go out with a bang doing something for someone who had a chance to live a better life – or several lives, as it were.
A net of yellow lights appeared just ahead, and Mia hitched herself up against the seat, straining to see out the window. A city, she thought; that was the only thing that would explain that many lights all clustered together.
The helicopter slowed, and she clutched at the hard-plastic edge of her seat as the machine tipped sideways and swept out in a wide turn. The beginning of their descent, then.
“We’re here,” Treadwell shouted at her over the constant thump of the rotors.
No shit. And then every other thought flew out of her head, because it wasn’t a city…it was a single house.
Not a celebrity mansion. Not a new-construction nightmare of clashing styles. This, its thousand windows blazing, its glass-walled conservatory lit up like an incandescent bulb, belonged to an age of landed gentry that had never existed in this country. The palatial estate of royalty. It had wings, and peaks, and leaded glass, and gas lampposts illuminating pathways and soaring stone staircases that led to gardens, and fountains, and a stable built to match.
In her awe, she forgot a little of her hatred for Major Treadwell. “What is this place?”
“Blackmere
Manor, home of the Baron Strange of Blackmere. Unofficially. Officially: the Virginia branch of the Ingraham Institute of Medical Technology.”
~*~
Fulk left the meeting with Talbot feeling like a shaken can of soda. Faintly, far above the manor, through layers of stone and steel, he heard the chop of helo blades – Talbot’s daughter arriving, then. He and Anna had discussed it, and they’d agreed that Anna be on hand to welcome her. To sniff out her intentions…and offer her a friendly face if necessary. If Valerian could be believed –
So lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t see Dracula until he’d nearly run smack into him. He pulled up short at the last minute.
Vlad, of course, didn’t move. Merely drew to a halt, one unimpressed eyebrow raised. “You’ve come from Talbot,” he said.
Fulk took a deep, somewhat steadying breath, and noted that Vlad smelled of his brother, and of soap, and that he was on his way up from the dungeon. “And you’ve come from your brother. I heard you took him upstairs.”
Vlad grunted and headed for the elevator.
Fulk fell into step alongside him.
When they were safely in the car, and the doors had closed – two nervous interns waved them off and insisted they could catch the next ride; Fulk didn’t blame them – Vlad said, “I need to ask you about the Necromancer.”
Fulk growled.
Vlad chuckled.
Fulk was a half-head taller than the vampire, so he had to look down and not just over as he checked with sudden fascination to see what his face was doing. Vlad’s smile wasn’t exactly friendly or comforting, but it was a smile nonetheless.
“You still hate him after all this time?”
Fulk said, “If I put Mehmet the Conqueror in front of you right now, would you still hate him?”
It was Vlad’s turn to growl.
“So now we understand one another,” Fulk said. “Liam Price is, to put it bluntly, a motherfucker. He’s never helped anyone willingly in his life – everything he’s ever done has been self-serving. He will exploit a person’s every weakness to get exactly what he wants.” He swallowed hard, trying to choke down the grief and rage that rose in his throat. “His wife is Annabel’s sister.”
“Hmm.” Fulk detected one quick vibration of interest from him. “Can he really raise the dead?”
“I’ve seen him do it. And I wish I hadn’t.” He turned his head so he could gauge the vampire’s next reaction. “Talbot and his crew expect Liam to become your mage. To go into battle with you.”
Vlad’s lip curled. “I don’t want or need a mage. I’ve never liked them.”
Fulk felt an answering smirk tug at his mouth. “On that we are agreed. But you might not have a choice in the matter.”
“Let me ask you something, le Strange.” He turned his head, so they faced one another, his eyes very dark and flat under the overhead elevator lights. “This place, and these people, need me. Do you think for one second that I need them?”
He…hadn’t thought of it that way before. “Huh.”
“I would ask you to trust me,” Vlad continued, “but I know that you won’t. One thing, though.”
The elevator slowed.
“Your wife seems to bear some affection for my brother. Do you share that affection?”
“…I’m not sure.”
“Think on it.” Then the doors opened and he stepped out into the library.
~*~
From a rooftop landing pad, Mia traveled with her escort in an elevator that dropped them three floors down and opened onto a long hallway lit with wall sconces, tiled with black and white checks. Tall, mullioned windows let in the night, bracketed by clusters of toile-printed armchairs. Light glowed at either end of the hall; in one direction lay the warm, exotic environs of the conservatory. In the other, the rest of the manor house.
Even this, just a place to pass through, to maybe stop and read a book beside a rain-streaked window, was awash in simple splendor.
“You get used to it,” Treadwell said at her side, but she didn’t believe that at all. He was an artless man, after all.
“This way.” He took her elbow in a gentle grip and attempted to steer her toward the main house.
She pulled away – quietly, but firmly – and walked at his side without touching. She thought the woman, Ramirez, smirked.
The hall fed into another, this one floored with polished hardwoods. Doors opened along one wall, leading into dim parlors with dainty furniture. It turned out to be a sequence of connected hallways, each larger than the last, until they finally reached a soaring entryway. Galleries for the two floors above looked down on the tile floors, a massive skylight at the top of the atrium softly lit by electric light.
Mia came to a stop, head tipped all the way back as she stared. She probably looked like an idiot, but she didn’t care. She’d never been inside something like this before. It was like the Biltmore Estate, but bigger. And that she’d only ever seen in photos.
“It’s crazy, right?”
Mia dropped her head and saw a young woman in cutoffs and biker boots walking down the grand staircase toward her. Everything about her seemed incongruous with their surroundings. And yet…not.
“It’s beautiful,” she countered.
“I think it is,” the girl said, arriving at the foot of the stairs with a clack of bootheels. “My husband hates it, but that’s just the bad memories talking, I’m convinced.”
“Your husband – you live here?”
“Kinda sorta.” The girl reached Mia and stuck out her hand. “I’m Annabel le Strange. Your welcome wagon.”
Mia accepted her shake with some hesitation. This girl seemed friendly, and her smile was wide, and her accent was hopelessly Southern. But Mia had been brought here against her will. And somehow, Annabel must know and work with her father. “Mia Talbot.”
“I know.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Annabel chuckled. But then she leaned in. Close. Closer than was comfortable. When Mia tried to draw back, a hand darted out and landed on her shoulder, much stronger than it looked.
“Your man’s downstairs,” she whispered. “Play along during dinner and I’ll see if I can get you down to see him.”
Annabel squeezed her shoulder and pulled back with a smile that said, Work with me.
And then Dad called, “Mia!” across the cavernous expanse, voice echoing, and she didn’t have a chance to respond.
Annabel stepped back, and Mia resisted the urge to grab for her hand and pull her back in. Whether to beg more information of her, or use her as a shield against her father, she wasn’t sure.
As it was, Edwin had a clear line to her, as he came hustling over the patterned tiles, wringing his hands together in outward excitement of some kind. He wore a dress shirt and slacks under a white lab coat; various ID badges and keycards hung from lanyards and retractable spools. His hair was grayer than she remembered, his glasses of a new style; his face more lined, pale from being cooped up indoors.
His smile was edged with hesitation, and at least she had that; at least he was nervous to come face-to-face with her.
Mia drew herself upright and folded her arms. Let him come all the way up to her and open his arms in a clear invitation for a hug.
She stared at him. “Would you like,” she said, slow and clear, “to explain to me why these two thugs showed up at my place of business and kidnapped me? Dragged me here? Would you like to tell me what sort of crime I’ve committed that things like jurisdiction don’t matter?”
His face fell. He dropped his arms. “Mia, please, let’s not do this–”
“Oh, we are so doing this.”
He sighed. “As I explained to you over the phone, there is an experimental drug–”
“I don’t want to hear about your drug,” she hissed. “I told you I didn’t want to take it, and you sent military people to collect me! Do you understand that that isn’t a normal reaction?”
Slowly, his expression harden
ed. “Very well. I was going to try to appeal to your higher sense of reasoning, but given your current emotional state, I see that won’t work. Let me put it to you bluntly, Mia: you are my daughter. You might not believe it – in fact, I’m sure you don’t – but I do love you.”
She made a disbelieving sound in her throat, and he spoke over her.
“I love you,” he repeated, “and I would do anything to see you safe and healthy. Anything. You’re sick – you’re dying–” His voice wavered with emotion. “And I have the means to make you well. You can dig in your heels out of some sense of misplaced pride. Maybe you need to. But I will do whatever it takes to give you this injection. It’s going to save your life.”
A pretty speech. An astounding possibility.
If she let herself, she could fall into the fantasy: a miracle cure that could make her strong, and healthy. One that could save the world. No one need ever suffer from an incurable disease again.
But she said, “What about side effects?”
“What?”
“Side effects. You know: those things they list off on drug commercials? May cause migraines, rashes, face swelling, suicidal thoughts, explosive diarrhea, and death?”
He sighed again, but something sparked in his eyes. Hope, maybe. “If it will ease your mind, I’d be happy to take you to my lab and walk you through the process. You might also like to speak to drug recipients. Both Major Treadwell and Sergeant Ramirez take the serum daily.”
She hadn’t expected that. She glanced toward both of them in turn, searching for outward signs of injury and illness. They still looked cool, capable, and unfriendly as before – though Treadwell had a little notch pressed between his brows. Some kind of stress.
But she remembered Val’s warning. Screamed at her, tight with panic. She couldn’t lose sight of what was really happening here.
She took a deep breath. “I don’t care about the injections. I want to talk about Val.”
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 64
