She was right – of course she was. His joy over a palmful of cool rain was proof of that. But his visit with Vlad had continued to niggle at his conscience.
“It’s very dangerous, what he’s going to attempt,” he said, faintly.
Mia touched his face, and he was grateful that she didn’t offer any empty platitudes.
He tucked her head beneath his chin again, and stared off across the dripping Park. When he felt himself begin to drift, he closed his eyes, and let it happen.
This time, he didn’t appear in Vlad’s study, but in a windowless, brightly-lit room he’d glimpsed only briefly during his first, failed attempt to escape Blackmere Manor. The room where he’d found his weapons stored, where Vlad’s were still kept: a training room. Black mats covered the floor, and racks lined the walls bearing all manor of weapons, from medieval to modern. At the far end, the lights above it dimmed, was a shooting gallery; Val wondered if Vlad had developed a fondness for the guns humans used now, or if he preferred to stick to his old short bow. He remembered a pale, angry-faced boy shooting from horseback, taking hares, and harts, and landed bull’s eyes on targets with effortless grace, brows slanted with perpetual dissatisfaction: he was never pleased with his own talent and performance.
Lost for a moment in the past, Val didn’t notice at first that his brother was here in the flesh at first. But then he blinked, and threw all his mental efforts into the projection of himself, and settled perched on the edge of a table to take in the scene before him.
Vlad, dressed in plain back t-shirt, tac pants, and tightly-laced boots, wore his hair braided back severely, folded under and contained in a knot. Sweat gleamed at his temples and throat, and on the bare, tensed muscles of his arms, brows slanted in the old way Val remembered, his mature face making the whole expression twice as fierce.
He was sparring with the woman he’d turned, the one whose leg had broken so badly on their ride out into the woods. Adela Ramirez, Val remembered; Sergeant Ramirez.
She wore a clinging tank top, and tight black pants (leggings, Mia had told him the other day, when he asked). She was barefoot, and her feet looked the same, now, especially as she moved, her own braid swinging in a wide arc as she dodged a grab from Vlad. He was unarmed, but she held a knife, its edge glinting under the fluorescent lights.
She righted herself, and darted forward, under Vlad’s guard, leading with her free hand, knife held back and ready for a swipe at his ribs on the opposite side. She was quick; lithe and tightly-coiled, lean muscle rippling down her arms. Already a warrior and an athlete, and now a vampire, one born of Vlad’s blood no less, imbued with his strength and speed.
But Vlad was Vlad. He reared back a scant inch, far enough to avoid the intended chop of her hand, but no farther. No wasted effort. When she brought the knife up, he reached out, almost lazily, and batted it out of her grip. She grunted, hand falling open, stunned from the blow to her wrist, and the knife tumbled away across the mats.
“She’s brave to even attempt a match with him,” Val said, conversationally, and beside him, Major Treadwell nearly jumped out of his skin.
The major had been leaning back against the same table where Val now sat, arms folded, watching the match with a deep, troubled frown. He jumped, and let out what must have been an involuntary shout, and whirled to face Val, hand straying to his hip, and the gun there.
Val grinned at him. “You’re welcome to try.”
“Val,” Vlad said, with the barest hint of something like warmth that wouldn’t have meant anything to anyone else, but which Val knew to be a great show of affection for his ferocious brother.
He turned his smile to Vlad, and let it soften, and widen into a truly glad expression. “Good evening, brother. Training your little ducklings?”
Vlad scoffed. “Attempting to.”
“Major,” Val said, “you can let go of your gun, you know. I’m not actually here.”
“I know that,” Treadwell snapped, but it was a long moment of catching his breath before he took his hand off his weapon.
Ramirez blew out a breath and bent to pick up her knife, wiping a sweat-glazed forehead with the back of a hand as she stood. “Pretty bold showing up here again,” she said to Val.
He felt his fangs elongate as he shifted his smile toward her. “Says the woman who wanted to practice hand-to-hand with my brother.”
She looked like she wanted to retort – and like it was a retort she’d toned down from the kneejerk reaction that sent a spike of anger across her face – but Vlad said, “Leave us.” She and Treadwell left without any grumbling; without even a questioning glance.
“They’re afraid of you,” Val said. He didn’t try to sound delighted, but it happened anyway.
Vlad nodded and shrugged, moving toward the table. His hands were wrapped – a nod to sparring propriety, but not a necessity – and he picked the bandages loose as he walked, unwinding them. “Their efforts are genuine but they’re a poor army.” He set one bandage down and loosened the other, cutting a glance up at Val through his lashes. “Your friends–”
“Are not looking to be recruited,” Val said, loftily, though he felt a squirming of uncertainty in his belly.
“Fine.” Vlad reached for a water bottle and didn’t press the issue. “You’re still well?”
“Wonderfully so. Mia sends her regards.” He leaned forward, voice lowering conspiratorially. “She thinks you’re noble, by the way.”
Vlad’s brows lifted momentarily in surprise, which smoothed his forehead, and softened the lines around his mouth. He looked handsome like that, Val didn’t tell him, like even if he wasn’t happy, he at least wasn’t on the cusp of impaling someone.
He couldn’t repress a smile, though.
Vlad’s brows went back down. “She’s surprisingly sensible, your mate.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Val said, and meant it.
Vlad snorted and moved down the table, gaze tracking over the astounding array of knives laid out, gleaming under the lights. He selected one, tested the edge on his thumb, then sealed the cut it left with a flick of his tongue. “Are you sleeping, now?”
“No. This is a purposeful visit this time.”
Vlad set the knife down, and reached for another to repeat the exercise. Val half-wondered if it was some exercise in sharpening oneself through pain, or some such rot. “Because I’m such good company?” The edge of bitterness in his voice, like all of Vlad’s more tender emotions, would have been near impossible for a stranger to detect, but to Val it glittered as sharp as the knife in Vlad’s hand.
“I think you’re excellent company,” Val said.
Vlad stilled, and his gaze snapped over, dark and pointed. “Don’t lie to me.”
Val gazed back, and felt the nakedness of his own expression. “I’m not. We agreed, didn’t we? No more secrets. No more facades. I think you’re excellent company,” he repeated.
Vlad’s brow smoothed again, surprised again, handsome again.
He looks like Father, Val thought, struck suddenly by the idea.
Vlad said, “Why would you possibly think that?” Voice faint, almost – almost frightened.
Vlad Tepes, fighter of sultans, impaler of enemies, shaken by genuine fraternal affection. It would have been adorable if it wasn’t so sad.
“Vlad,” Val said, “you might not be the most – vigorous of conversationalists. Not exactly the optimistic sort – though I will tell you that you should smile more, brother, because it does wonders for your face.”
The brows went down again.
“But you’re also intelligent, learned, and stubbornly honest. I’ve always enjoyed your company.”
“Always,” Vlad said flatly, and Val remembered a moonlit bedroom slatted with the shadows of the silver bars on the window, and the stubborn set of Vlad’s small shoulders, and a gulf beginning to form between them. He remembered whore; the rejection and contempt. Remembered a room in a tower, and Vlad saying he would never
trust him.
“When–” His voice cracked. “When we were boys, you were the one I wanted to spend all my time with.”
Vlad stared at him.
And Val remembered sturdy arms around him, helping him steady and aim his bow. Remembered a hand clasping his, and the smell of street vendors, and the oohs and ahhs of the crowd as acrobats defied gravity. Remembered the warmth of the bed they’d shared when they were so small, soft furs tickling their chins, and the scent of Vlad on the pillows, familiar and comforting.
“You were a good big brother. And I think you were always trying to be, even when things were awful. And I think you’re being one again, now.”
Vlad kept staring. Val wasn’t sure he was even breathing.
“You’ve scared most people.” Val offered a smile. “But you don’t scare me.”
A beat passed. Then Vlad nodded, curtly, and went back to inspecting his knives. “That’s. Well.”
When it became apparent he wouldn’t continue, Val changed the subject. “How goes the war effort, brother? Or should I say Imperator?” He chuckled over the title.
Vlad – as expected – didn’t join in his amusement. “We don’t have to speak of that. You–”
“Vlad.” When his brother glanced over, he said, “I’m worried for you.”
Vlad frowned. “Worried for me?”
“Gods, we don’t have to go through the whole ‘I care about you’ song and dance again, do we? Yes, I’m worried. You vowed to kill him or die trying. And I can’t stop thinking about that.”
“Val, this is what I was bred for. I’m a second son. I’m the one always meant to dedicate his life to battle – to defending my family, even if I’m defending it from other parts of our family. You don’t need to worry. I will gladly–”
“Lay down your life, yes, I’m painfully aware. And that terrifies me.”
Vlad shifted so he faced him, one hand braced on the edge of the table. “Is that why you did it?”
“Did what?” But his pulse skipped, because he knew.
“Why you crippled me and dragged me out of the that tower. Why you put me to sleep.” He didn’t snarl, but his lips curled enough to show the glint of one sharp fang.
Val swallowed. “You know it is. They would have killed you.”
“Then so be it. I was prepared to die. Better at the hands of Matthias Corvinus than Mehmet.”
“I wasn’t going to let that happen.”
“It’s not for you to protect me–”
“You’re my brother!” When Vlad fell silent, teeth clicking together as his jaw shut, Val realized he’d shouted. And then he kept shouting. “I don’t care if you’re older! I don’t care if you’re the fiercest warrior who ever lived! You’re my brother, and if I can protect you, I will. I don’t want you dead, Vlad. Putting you to sleep that night was the worst thing I’ve ever done, but I could live with it because I knew it meant I’d saved your life.
“You – you took on an entire mansion by yourself to set me free. To protect me, because we’re brothers. Don’t tell me you’re off to die and expect me not to worry. Don’t tell me it’s none of my concern what you’re planning. I just – I just got you back. Finally got you back. And now you’re…” His chest was too tight; he couldn’t breathe. “Why is it alright for me to live it up in New York while you go off to war, and don’t you dare give me that older brother shit again!”
He was panting. Felt sweat sliding down the back of his neck, under his hair. Was probably shaking in Mia’s arms, a trembling wreck on a Central Park bench.
Vlad said, “Are you finished?”
He huffed.
“I’ll give you an honest answer, but you won’t like it.”
“Try me.”
“Do you remember what you told me when we fought here?”
Val’s arms weak, shaking as he tried to meet the strike of Vlad’s sword with his own; the glint in Vlad’s eyes – not of hatred, he now knew, but determination.
“You said,” Vlad continued, “that you wanted a chance to live. To be free and not bother anyone. And now you have a mate, and you have friends, and you’re exploring the new world for the first time in nearly six centuries. You have reasons to live.” He met his stare with a steady, relentless one of his own. Not with sadness, nor even resignation, but with an assuredness that sent a chill skittering down Val’s back. “And I don’t.”
Val’s breath caught. “No. You – you do. Vlad, you do.”
But Vlad tucked his chin, expression grave, even pitying. “You’ve always been the one with a head for dreams. Mircea, too. But not me.”
“Vlad–”
“If you’ll admit it to yourself, you’ll know there’s always been a lack in me. I don’t feel the ways that others do. Nothing calls me to the soft pleasures of life. I know what I am – what I’m capable of – and it would be wrong of me to withhold my talents where they’re needed most.”
“Vlad.”
“I have no mate. No friends. There is nothing to keep me from this.”
“You could have a mate. You could make friends.”
“But I don’t care about those things.” Inevitable, sympathetic. Poor Val for caring.
Something tickled Val’s face, and he realized it was a tear sliding down his cheek. Another, another…His eyes burned, and his throat ached. “You think I’m weak for wanting those things.”
“No, brother. I think you have a heart – but I never have.”
Oh, it hurt. It hurt terribly. And it shouldn’t have mattered, because he had his Mia, and his wolves, and he had Sasha, and Nikita, and their pack, and he had a whole queue of movies to watch on Anna’s laptop; cities to visit, and food to taste, and natural wonders to behold.
But before any of that, he’d had his hateful, uncompromising brother, and that would always be the oldest, deepest, most painful love.
“Then you don’t care about me,” he said, voice tear-choked and pathetic.
“Valerian.” Vlad stepped in close, and Val had to tip his head back, tears dripping off his chin and jaw, running hot down his throat. “Even heartless things can love. Uncle loves power. Mehmet loved power. And I love you.”
Val closed his eyes and barely managed to choke back a sob.
“Don’t ever doubt that, dear brother. Never doubt that I want you healthy, and whole, and as far away from this fight as possible.”
You fool, Val thought. You absolute idiot. He sucked in a breath, and opened his eyes, and blinked them clear. Vlad was looking down at him with his own muted brand of tenderness.
“Your mage says you need me,” he said. “That it will take three emperors. That–”
“A theory, at best. And not one that I believe. There’s no precedent for any of the nonsense he spews.”
“But what if he’s right? What if it takes all three Romes? What if – what if you need me, and I’m out – out sightseeing?”
“I’ll manage.”
“After you’ve told me a dozen times you’re ready to die? I should be with you. He’s my uncle, too. We should…what?”
Vlad was smiling. “You remind me of Mother right now.”
“Crying?” he asked with a sneer.
“Ferocious. She would be proud.”
The last time Val had seen her had been in the wild, dancing firelight of Mehmet’s invaded camp, sword in her hand, hair braided, face painted with blue streaks.
“Gods, Mama…” He was exhausted, suddenly. “I never even looked for her. I was too afraid I wouldn’t find her.”
“You should search for her now.” Vlad was still smiling, his expression oddly soft and fond. “Introduce her to Mia. Mother will like her.”
“Just like you?”
Vlad nodded.
Val sucked in a few deep breaths, and blinked away the last of his tears. “I’m being quite serious.” His voice went prim and tight, like it always did when he was ruthlessly checking his emotions. “If you need my help, I want to be there. You’r
e all I’ve got left of our family. And I–” He bit his lip to keep from crying again, so hard he tasted blood.
“I’m serious as well. I want you safe. I can handle Uncle.”
“With your hapless army of two?”
“They’re improving.” He made a face. “Somewhat. And I have the Necromancer, don’t forget.”
“Because he’s so willingly helpful.”
“He’s scared,” Vlad countered, growing serious again. “He’ll help.”
“Gods. See–”
“No. No more of that. I’m tired of talking of war.” He folded his arms. “You said this was a personal visit.”
You look so personable, Val thought, and snorted. “I suppose I did, didn’t I?”
Vlad lifted a hand and made a go on gesture. Tell me something personal.
Val sighed. He felt lighter and heavier at the same time. Better for letting the tears out, for hearing that Vlad loved him – though that proved he was not in fact without a heart. But he hated that he’d heard how little Vlad valued himself. How ready he was to throw his immortal body and soul into another war, without reservation, because he felt there was no reason to keep living.
He sighed again. “Well.” He forced a cheerful note into his voice. “I’m afraid my inexperience with a Familiar of my own is showing. I can’t get Fulk to stop mothering me.”
Vlad snorted, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “I don’t know any better than you. You should have seen Cicero.”
Cicero.
He prayed Vlad never learned the truth of that betrayal. Desperately smoothed his face to keep his reaction hidden.
Not fast enough.
“What?” Vlad asked.
“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Val gave an airy wave, and grinned. “Only tired. These wild New York nights are positively draining.”
Vlad clucked his tongue, but another smile toyed with his mouth.
Val lingered a little while longer, doing most of the talking. Telling Vlad about the interpersonal dramas of his friends. Vlad made a sour face of disapproval when Val spoke of Nikita’s unwillingness to bind Sasha.
“He’s weak,” Vlad said. “And unworthy of that wolf. You should take him on instead.”
Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4) Page 51
