Page 148 of Dragon Slayer

For his own part, he felt jittery. At night, Cicero had taken to bedding down with him, most often in his wolf shape, spread lengthwise across the foot of the bed, or tucked into a deceptively small knot at the small of Vlad’s back. Sometimes in his man shape, his deep, even breaths and the familiar smell of him lulling Vlad to sleep. He never stayed asleep, though; woke often in the small hours, drenched in sweat, launched from a nightmare. The dreams were always different, but one theme carried throughout: he wasn’t the one in danger, and was instead made to watch, helpless, as his family was killed, tortured, raped. Mircea screaming through a mouthful of grave dirt. Father watching his own heart cut from his body. And Val, always Val, with his pretty blue eyes burned to gaping holes, or hanged by a heavy gold chain studded with sapphires, or with Mehmet looming behind him, taking him, grinning at Vlad with a bloody mouth over the boy’s shoulder.

Last night he’d awakened to the light of the full moon spilling through the window, through the shutters he’d left open. Shirt glued to his skin, hair clinging to his damp face, covers twisted around his waist. Cicero, in human form, had rolled toward him, and flung an arm across his chest at some point, doubtless trying to keep him still. He was awake, eyes wide and dark in the moonlight, watching, wolfish.

Vlad had rolled away and climbed out of bed; gone to the window and leaned on the ledge, letting the chill night breeze rush across his skin, and cool it. Behind him, he heard Cicero slip from beneath the covers and come to stand a pace behind him. He didn’t press, and his scent was calm; he let Vlad mull it over, ready to come closer if it was asked of him, or away, too, if that was what Vlad wanted. He knew that; he’d known it before, watching Cicero with Father, but now he knew it with certainty, bone-deep.

The moon-gilded hills of home glowed silver below, the city’s tile rooftops gleaming. One of those clear, crystalline nights, cold enough that, had they been mortal, they would have already caught their death sleeping without a fire and with the window open like this.

Vlad had admitted, quietly, “It was never supposed to be me here. I was the second son. I was supposed to be the warrior, not the leader. And now I have to be both.”

Cicero was silent a moment, then said, “I bore great affection for your half-brother, and he was both brave and intelligent. But truth told, I think you’re better suited for the job, Vlad.” It was alwaysyour gracein the daylight, in front of the others. He liked hearing his name in the dark, when he felt uncertain.

“But I’m soangry.” He folded his hands into fists and rested his chin on them. “I’m furious. All the time.”

A little quaver in Cicero’s breathing. A show of nerves. “Your father was kind, and tried always, even when it was difficult, to be cheerful. And now he is dead. I think – I think maybe anger is the right way to feel now.”

Vlad glanced back over his shoulder; Cicero looked almost a ghost, in his white shirt, skin washed pale by the moon. “And you. You’re angry?”

“I amenraged.”

“Good. Now we just have to keep our wits about us.”

Now, their boots crunching over stone and winter-ready grass, Vlad chewed at his lip and thought over the contents of Brankovic’s letter.

Cicero touched him on the arm, and he lifted his head to find Malik Bey striding toward them, expression one of subdued determination. Too soft for the mortal to hear, Cicero said, “Do you trust this man, your grace?”

“Doyou?” Vlad asked.

“He seems earnest,” Cicero said. “He doesn’t smell nervous, the way treacherous men always do. But heishuman.”

“Yes,” Vlad sighed. “But he’s all we have, I’m afraid.” Malik was near, and Vlad drew to a halt to wait, letting the janissary take the last steps to close the distance. “Captain,” he greeted.

Malik bowed. “Your grace. I saw that a messenger had come.”

“And you, what, rushed over here to interrogate me about it?”

The man blinked, and looked almost startled. “I thought there might be important news.”

“As it happens, there is.” Then he waited.

A long moment.

“Your grace. If I am to be of service to you in your fight to hold Wallachia, then keeping me informed can only be helpful to you.”

Vlad showed his teeth; it wasn’t a smile. “Yes, well. That would be helpful, wouldn’t it?”

The breeze stirred up a handful of errant leaves, and dust.

Malik’s brows lowered, a sign of real emotion. He’d been so calm, so unflappable throughout, and Vlad had to know what lay beneath that façade. Murat might have sent him here, and he might have the empire’s goodwill for the moment, but Vlad had seen curiosity in Malik; the curiosity of a traitor? Or someone who wanted to get out from under the sultan’s thumb just as badly as Vlad?

“Is that what you want?” he pressed. “To be of service to me?”

Malik frowned. “That is my duty, your grace.”

“Yes. Duty. Always important.”

Cicero cleared his throat, a polite,get on with it, your grace.

Vlad sighed, but it was just as well. Malik plainly wasn’t going to step wrong now, here, and for a moment there, he’d been – almost – having fun. He wasn’t sure he was ready to examine that.

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