by Karen Chance
“Maybe weres haven’t screwed up her life,” I commented, flinching at the sound of glass breaking somewhere above us.
“The point is, he doesn’t allow himself to get close to anyone anymore. It isn’t healthy!” Radu pronounced, as if he were the poster child for mental health himself.
He started pacing, the hem of his elaborate teal dressing gown swirling around his agitated feet. He looked like a man at the end of his rope and I made a brilliant deduction. “There’s more than Louis-Cesare’s issues troubling you.”
Radu shot me a less-than-fond look. “My brother is trying to kill me—again—and in order to prevent that, I’ll likely have to kill him instead. My well-ordered house has been disrupted by some extremely strange, not to mention violent, creatures, and my chef is absolutely livid about—”
“The Pear Incident. Yes, I know.” I looked at him narrowly. Something about that list worried me. “You said you had no problem with killing Drac. You agreed with me that it was the smartest course. You aren’t getting soft on me, are you, ’Du?”
It worried me that he didn’t immediately respond. He had come to rest by the mantel, but wasn’t staring at the fire. The portrait above it seemed to have riveted his attention instead. The new log popped and sparked in the silence, while the old one slowly crumbled to a soft redness beneath.
“I was eight,” he finally said, “when we first became hostages. Vlad was thirteen.”
“Radu! Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental.” I couldn’t believe he was doing this. “He tried to kill you. Repeatedly!”
“It isn’t sentiment,” Radu insisted, gazing at the still-vibrant colors of the portrait. “Nor some rusty conscience stirring to life. I never really had much of one, you know. Even before the change.”
“What, then?”
He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Why do you think I have this painting, Dory?”
“Well, he was your lover. I suppose—”
He laughed, but it was harsh. “We were never lovers. At least, there was no love involved in anything we did.” He fiddled with some of the ornaments along the mantel, as if his hands needed something to do. “As a prince, Mehmed had a map, showing not only the Turkish lands but all of Europe, too. He told me that there was destined to be only one empire in the word, one faith and one king. It was the belief that I could forward his ambitions that attracted him to me. There were dozens of handsome oghlanlari at court—royal pages—who were better-looking than I. They chose them as much for appearance as ability, whatever they said. And none of them ever took a sword to him.”
“You attacked the sultan and lived?” I grinned.
“Sultan’s son, as he was at the time, and yes. He propositioned me and I took a swing at him. Not that I wounded him much—I was never a swordsman. And then I showed my true mettle by running off and hiding up a tree. I only came down when he swore a solemn oath not to kill me.” He smiled bitterly. “I got off lightly because he knew I might be useful. They needed a puppet prince, and Vlad wasn’t cooperating.”
“It surprises me that you’d keep a picture of him. Personally, I’d burn it.” The servant returned and placed a tray in front of me. It was chicken, and thankfully it wasn’t clucking.
Radu dismissed the vamp and joined me on the couch. “I don’t keep it out of fondness, Dory, but as a reminder of how easily I was once molded by another. I became exactly what my captors wanted—I dressed like them, thought like them—I even converted. I swear, for a while, I was more Turkish than they were. I keep the painting to remind me of what I was.”
I snorted. “Give yourself a break. You were a kid. They brainwashed you.”
Radu shook his head. “As much as I would like to claim that, it’s only partially true. I was eleven when he seduced me—a child by today’s standards, but in the world we inhabited, that was not so young. Mehmed had begun ruling a province of the empire at the same age. I was brainwashed because I allowed myself to be. The only alternative was unthinkable, so I took the path of least resistance. It took me a long time to understand: ultimately, we are all responsible for our own actions.”
“As Drac is.”
Radu was quiet for a moment. “I sometimes wonder which of us they molded more, myself or Vlad. My delusion was shed long ago, but he is still trapped in his. They made him a monster, Dory, in those dungeons.”
I bit back a comment out of respect for what Radu had been through, but I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to stay quiet if he elaborated. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard the story before. It went something like this: Drac was a heroic teenager who refused to be cowed by Turkish threats. Whenever he was taunted by his guards, he taunted them right back. Every insult of theirs was met with one of his, usually even more inventive because he’d had enough education to provide inspiration. He cursed them, their ancestors and their Prophet. He was brutally beaten, then thrown back into a solitary cell from which he could see the even-worse punishments visited on others. The execution methods varied depending on the extent of the prisoner’s offense: some were given a plain old hanging, while others were shot full of arrows, beheaded or, worst of all, impaled.
Impalement was reserved for those guilty of the most heinous crimes, but in a time of war, it ended up being used fairly frequently. The teenage Vlad got a ringside seat for one on a weekly basis, and apparently took notes. He watched the crows pick at the carcasses that were left under the hot Turkish sun until they were only blistered meat. Maybe he managed to endure his punishment by dreaming of impaling his torturers one day—I don’t know. But when he finally took the throne of Wallachia, it became his favorite way of scaring away invaders and enforcing his decrees.
Almost any crime, from lying and stealing to killing, could be punished by impalement in Drac’s reign. Mircea once told me that his brother placed a golden cup on display in the central square of the city to be used by thirsty travelers. It was worth more than a lifetime’s wages for a worker, but it was never stolen. I would be willing to bet that nobody even thought about it.
Even more famously, two Turkish ambassadors to Drac’s court failed to remove their turbans in his presence. Drac ordered that the hats be nailed to their heads so they would never have to remove them again. Likewise, he once held a picnic in the middle of a field of impaled bodies just for the hell of it. And, when one of his nobles held his nose to keep from gagging at the smell, Drac had him impaled on a stake higher than all the rest, so that he might be above the odor.
He justified his actions by pointing out the lawlessness of the land before he took over. The problem with that excuse was that Drac’s “law and order” had ended up killing far more of his people than even serious disorder would have done. I looked up some statistics once, out of curiosity, and discovered a chilling fact: in his short, six-year reign, he’d had at least forty thousand victims. No, the expediency excuse had never worked for me.
“But, in the end, it was Vlad who chose to use the tactics they taught him, both against the Turks and his own people.”
I blinked at Radu, surprised to hear my own thoughts echoed back to me. “It’s getting a little hard to follow your logic, ’Du,” I told him honestly. “Are you saying that you are in favor of killing him?”
Radu shot me an irritated look. “I am saying that, while it may be a necessity, I will take no pleasure in it. Not because I have any affection for Vlad—in truth, I don’t believe I ever had any—but because it might have been me. If he had been born with the face to tempt a prince, and I had been left in the dungeons, would our positions be reversed today?”
So that was what was eating him. “I doubt it, ’Du. You said it yourself—you were always very different people.”
“True. I doubt I would have survived the dungeons. I have never been brave.”
“You would have survived.” Louis-Cesare’s harsh tones made me jump. I whipped my neck around, and there he was, less than three feet away, and I hadn’t heard a thing. If I didn’t get s
ome sleep soon, I was going to be completely useless. Caedmon was nowhere in sight, but since Louis-Cesare wasn’t covered in blood, I assumed he was still alive. “There are many forms of courage,” Louis-Cesare said. “You would have done what was necessary. But no more.”
I nodded in agreement and gave Radu a slightly greasy kiss. “The Turks didn’t make Drac a monster, ’Du. They just brought out the one that was already there.”
Louis-Cesare and I exchanged a look. The expression in his eyes said that Drac was suddenly a lot closer to a permanent resting place. I didn’t know what had caused the change of heart, but I wasn’t about to complain. For once, we were in perfect agreement.
Radu escorted me back to my room as soon as I finished eating. I waited until I heard his almost silent footfalls fade, then sneaked off to find Caedmon. Or what was left of him.
After a fruitless half hour of searching, I was starting to wonder if Louis-Cesare had decided to hell with the truce and fed him to Radu’s little pets. Then I heard a car pull up outside. I made it to the entryway in time to see Caedmon walking out the front door, looking his usual perfect self. There didn’t appear to be so much as a hair out of place.
“So you are alive.”
“You seem surprised.”
“A little.”
Caedmon smiled. “Your vampire is overproud of his abilities. It is a weakness. Some would exploit it.”
“But not you.”
“Another time, I might be tempted.”
“And now?”
“Now I am slinking away in shame after assaulting the daughter of the house,” he told me cheerfully. “Walk with me, Dorina. Allow me to humbly beg your pardon for my egregious conduct before I depart.”
I followed him outside, where a car driven by one of Radu’s human servants had pulled up. We skirted it, moving far enough away from the house that, with a little luck, we might avoid being overheard. Caedmon leaned on the fence by the pen where Radu was keeping his esoteric collection. The growls, squeals and shrieks coming from inside provided extra sound camouflage.
“I am likely being watched,” Caedmon informed me, “to ensure that my inherently depraved nature—that is a quote, by the way—does not lead me to further indiscretions whilst I grovel in mortification.”
“So grovel.”
A climbing rose bent in to caress his hand. He stroked its stem affectionately. “You first.”
A tentacle covered in brown fur slammed into the wards in front of us and sizzled for a second before dropping to the ground. The air took on the scent of frying bacon. The new members of Radu’s menagerie appeared to be fighting for dominance with the old ones, and a couple of the wilder hybrids were attempting to tear each other apart. The less dangerous creatures cowered on the sidelines, probably hoping to snack off the losers.
Caedmon regarded the display with distaste. “Out of curiosity, what are your vampires attempting to create?”
“Nothing. They captured these from the Dark Circle. Or so they said.”
“Why would anyone wish to create such obviously useless specimens?” I shook my head. I still didn’t have an answer. “If one was of a suspicious bent of mind,” Caedmon mused, “one might almost think they are creating the more hideous creatures as a distraction, to ensure that their real experiments, should any be found, are lost in the crowd.”
“Maybe. But which are the real ones and which the red herrings?”
“Better to ask why the vampires are so interested in them. They are not known for charity. They become involved with those likely to bring them profit or to pose a threat.”
Long talons slashed the earth and great furrows of turf were ripped up, until a huge creature, birdlike only in its overall shape and leathery wings, leapt down from its perch on a small shed. It landed in the middle of the battling group and began ripping into the other creatures with a gleeful disregard for its own safety. It soon scattered them with cobra-swift strikes from its talons and lethal, pointed beak. When the slaughter was over, instead of pausing to feed, it paced the confines of the pen. A long tail slithered across the ground behind it as it searched for a new victim.
“So which are we looking at here?” I asked, strangely fascinated.
The creature’s frighteningly humanlike eyes locked with mine. Beside me, Caedmon laughed. “If I find out, perhaps I will tell you. We are partners, are we not?”
“Are we?”
“Certainly.” He lowered his voice. “I shall make my ignominious exit, and return tomorrow night as Mircea.”
“I still don’t think it will work.” The bird creature started to feed, ripping great strips off a half-dead furred body that twitched in a vain effort to get away. I was reminded disturbingly of Radu’s dinner party, especially since those too-human eyes were still on me. They looked hungry.
“Because I was interrupted before I could explain my ingenious plan,” Caedmon informed me blithely. “It is simple enough: Dracula will see ‘Mircea’ arrive, and shortly thereafter, the wards will fall. Naturally, he will believe that you are fulfilling your part of the agreement and mount his attack. I will have enough of my supporters stationed around the perimeter of the estate to deal with him, and to rescue the Lady Claire.”
“And if he doesn’t have her with him?”
He sighed happily. “Then we will have to find a way to convince him to tell us where she is.” I got a momentary flash of Drac being tortured by the Fey. It was almost orgasmic.
“Sounds great,” I said sincerely, “except that there are about a thousand things that could go wrong, starting with your disguise.”
“It pains me that you have such little faith,” he reproached.
“You have to be seen being welcomed into the house as Mircea, or Drac won’t buy it. But if anyone sees through your disguise, the game’s up. Louis-Cesare will never let us lower the wards and endanger ’Du’s life. And with them still up, Drac can’t get within a mile of this place. So unless you have enough retainers to cover a perimeter that large, when we don’t even know from which direction he’ll come at us—”
“You should trust me, little one. In comparison to the machinations that occur every day at court, this is a minor intrigue. As I see it, there is only one possible snag—interference by the vampire.”
“Radu doesn’t make a habit of answering his own door. It’s Geoffrey you have to fool, at least long enough to get in, and that won’t be any easier. He’s one of Mircea’s stable. I think he’ll know his own master!”
“Not him. The other. Louis-Cesare.”
I eyed the Fey. I didn’t see any seeping wounds or missing limbs, so it looked like he had been able to handle Louis-Cesare well enough. “He isn’t likely to be hanging around the foyer, either.”
“No, but he may be, as you say, ‘hanging around’ other places, such as the source of the power for your uncle’s wards.”
“Which would be?”
“The first thing you will discover for me. The wards should let me in when I return as they already know me as a friend of the house. I will shut them down after I arrive, but I will not have time to search the house. Second, you will need to ensure that Geoffrey is out of the way and that someone with less knowledge of Mircea answers the door. One of the humans would be best. And third, you must distract Louis-Cesare long enough for me to lower the wards.”
“Is that all?” I asked sarcastically.
“It should suffice.” He smiled with amused tolerance. “I will arrive at nine p.m. tomorrow. That gives you more than twenty hours. I am confident you can manage in that time.”
The only reason I didn’t bite him was the certain knowledge that he’d enjoy it. “And why should I trust you? A strange Fey I only met yesterday?”
Caedmon smiled gently. “I think you know why.”
I thought I did, too. I covered his hand with mine. “As long as we have an understanding about Claire. No forcing her into Faerie against her will.” Caedmon gave me innocent eyes. I pushed hi
s thumb onto one of the rose’s longer thorns, deep enough to hit bone. “If you betray me, I’ll gut you and feed the remains to Radu’s menagerie.”
Caedmon pulled his hand off the rose and brought the bleeding digit to my mouth, smearing blood along my lips. “You say the sweetest things.”
“I mean it, Caedmon.”
He bent his head and gently kissed away the blood. The taste of his lips was an explosion of sweetness, like summer condensed. “I know.”
Chapter Eighteen
Fresh blood at midnight isn’t red. It’s a purplish black that easily blends into the shadows. I plunged my foot ankle-deep into a frost-covered puddle of it and swore softly. The upper crust was only half-frozen, and the sticky sludge beneath oozed around my rag-covered foot sickeningly. I jumped to the side, scrambling for purchase on the icy rocks and slippery dead leaves, leaving a trail of dark gashes in the snow.
When I finally forced my eyes upward, I saw what I’d expected. The naked man impaled on a thick wooden stake above me had skin the color of the snow piled all around, and never moved except when the vicious wind tossed his limbs about. The eyes were frozen over with a thin layer of ice, making them glitter with a parody of life in the moonlight. I looked away, but all I saw was a line of similar corpses bordering the path down the mountain, disappearing into the dark. It looked like my quarry was home.
A flight of crows, startled by my presence, left their perch in the skeleton of a tree and wheeled out over the valley, a score of dark shapes dipping erratically in the wind. The full moon illuminated thick woods glittering with frost, cut through by a silver ribbon of river. It would have been breathtaking, if I’d had any to spare. I didn’t. I hadn’t dared take the main path up the mountain; even on a night like this, it was guarded. I’d had to crawl up a crumbling dirt path engineered by goats and practically impassable by anything not on four feet. The only sight that interested me now was the two cloaked guards standing in the shadow of a nearby stone overhang, the fog of their breath thick as smoke as they stomped their feet, trying to get some circulation going.
