Page 108 of Dragon Slayer

21

WORSE THAN DEATH

Dawn found Vlad on the back of a horse. A rangy gelding built for speed rather than battle. In the dim glow of a lantern, Vlad tilted at the practice dummies in the stable yard until a host of sleepy grooms arrived for the morning feeding, the animals whickering and stamping. The gelding swiveled his ears, interested in the prospect of food. Vlad steered him away from the barn, out to the open field where they took the hawks hunting. There he leaned low over an already-sweat-damp neck and dug his heels into fleet sides; pushed his mount into a gallop, the wind snatching tears from his eyes.

When the sun unfurled above the tree tops, blood orange, he finally pulled up. Let his tired horse walk with his neck stretched low, catching his breath and occasionally stripping the seeds off a tall stalk of grass with nimble lips.

Vlad was sore from tilting, all his muscles pleasantly exhausted. Sweat glued his shirt to his body, and his breath came deep and labored. But he still carried so much pent up energy that his bones seemed to vibrate.

He was, without question, the worst brother in existence. Worse even than his uncle: Romulus had killed Remus, or at least tried to, and there was some dignity in death. It was clean, at least. What Vlad had allowed to happen to Val, though…

He closed his eyes tight and let the horse’s movements sway him side to side in the saddle.

Why couldn’t it have been me?If only he’d been the one with the fine features, the soft little face, the sweet, doe-eyed look of innocence. Then perhaps Mehmet would have wanted Vlad, have reached for him across a table. And then, when he was in the sultan’s bed, he could have slit his throat and cut the awful immortal heart from his chest.

But Val was sweet. And innocent. Val would never defend himself. Val would cooperate to stay alive.

And now Val had to know that some things were worse than death.

The gelding tossed his head. Vlad’s hands had clenched to fists on the reins, and he forced them to relax. He wanted tokill. With sword and dagger, but with his fangs and bare hands, too. Wanted to drink deep of his enemy’s blood in a visceral urge stronger than lust, or hunger, or homesickness.

His horse came to a halt, ears flicking back and forth, questioning his rider’s agitation. Vlad tipped his head back and stared up at the lightening sky. The moon was still out, a wide cheery smile.

He snarled at it. “Iwillkill him,” he murmured, a promise to himself, to his family, to God. “I will.”

When he returned to the stable, the day had begun in earnest: riders coming and going. Messengers, troops moving between outposts, nobles off hunting, hooded hawks on their gloves. A boisterous group of merchants had arrived with laden wagons of merchandise, shouting directives at harried stable boys. No one paid Vlad any mind. He unsaddled and rubbed down his mount himself; paused afterward to cup water from the fountain in his hands and splash his face and neck, letting it pour down inside his shirt. He stood a moment, after, hands braced on the stone lip, staring down at his wavering reflection, water dripping off his nose, and lashes, and hair. How young he looked, still, though he felt he’d lived a lifetime already.

Just a boy, still. A hostage boy, helpless in the face of everything.

He straightened, turned…and there was Mehmet.

The sultan was dressed for riding in dark leathers and a simple turban, sword belted to his hip. His Grand Vizier, Halil Pasha, flanked him, along with a scribe and a noble whose name Vlad had never bothered to learn.

A growl built in Vlad’s chest before he could check the impulse. Hehatedhim.

Mehmet turned to him, his grin slow and mocking. “Ah,” he said, and Vlad realized he’d taken three long strides toward him, hands balled into fists. “There he is: the prince who can’t control his temper.”

Vlad let his growl swell; it drew startled glances from the merchants. A pair of stable boys ducked around a wagon.

Mehmet moved toward him, unhurried, unbothered. He clasped his hands behind his back, and let his shoulders fall at a casual angle. Four guards had materialized behind him, lances at the ready to defend their sultan. “Been out riding?” Mehmet asked. “Enjoying my horses? They’re exceptional, aren’t they?”

“Enjoying my baby brother?” Vlad snapped. Mehmet smelled like oil, and soap, and clean clothes, yes…but he also smelled of spend, and blood, and fear-sweat. And of Val. He hadn’t washedeverywhere. He’d kept the scent of rape on himself, so he could linger over it…or maybe to taunt Vlad.

Eyes widened around them. Halil laid a hand on Mehmet’s arm. “Your Majesty–”

Mehmet waved him off and stepped in closer to Vlad, eyes glittering like gems: bright but cold. His voice was a low murmur, just for the two of them. “Can you smell him?” He inhaled, breathing in the scent that lingered on his own body. Showed Vlad his fangs. “He isexquisite. Gentle.Tight. More beautiful than any girl.”

Vlad growled again.

Mehmet chuckled. “Hit me. And see what happens.”

He almost did. It was more tempting than anything had ever been in his life. But he checked his swing. Striking the sultan would get him clapped in irons, and beaten to within an inch of his life…probably killed. And of the two of them, he was determined not to die first.

So instead, he said, in low Greek, “I’m going to kill you.”

Mehmet laughed in his face. “Lofty aspirations, Wallachian.”

“I will,” he insisted.

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