Page 154 of Dragon Slayer

“Mother.” Acknowledgement and recrimination in one.

She’d laced her leather corset on over her nightgown, the scalloped white hem of which fluttered around her booted calves. She lifted her brows. “You get up in the middle of the night to fight invading wolves and you don’t tell me?”

“Ha!” Fenrir exclaimed, drawing their attention.

His opponent lay at his feet, destroyed by the axe.

“Cicero,” Vlad said, and went to his Familiar.

Cicero, still in wolf form, struggled to his feet, limping on his back left, the limb the other wolf had bit. But his opponent was down – was gutted, Vlad saw, just as promised – and Cicero greeted him with a lupine smile and a lick when Vlad scratched at his ears.

“It’s alright,” he soothed, voice shaky. His hand came away wet with blood. “Shift back so we can see to you,” he said, a gentle order.

Cicero ducked his head, as if to comply.

And then Vlad smelled smoke.

He looked up.

Fire bloomed a half dozen yards ahead of him.

“Fuck,” he murmured. The wolves had been a distraction. This was the real threat.

She stepped out of a tall column of flames, the fire skirting all around her, skimming over pale skin, and rich blue dress, but never touching her, never burning.

Young, pretty, smirking. Ageless.

When she spoke, it was with an accent he couldn’t place, though her Romanian was flawless in a technical sense.

“Now, now, down, boys,” she said, and the two wolves froze. Vlad could hear their hearts beating, but they didn’t move, didn’t twitch.

Mages could do this, Father had told him once. Command humans, wolves, sometimes even vampires. They could control them.

The woman walked forward, flame sweeping out behind her like a cape. Past Cicero and Fenrir, who in their right minds would have torn her to pieces. “You too, Mother-dear.” She snapped her fingers, and Eira went oddly placid and still, arms falling to her sides.

She smiled, flashing teeth, as she strolled up to Vlad, unhurried. “And here he is,” she drawled. “The Prince of Wallachia.” She stopped a pace away from him and folded her arms, cocked her head. “Bit scrawnier than I anticipated. Not as handsome as I’d hoped.”

He’d never met a mage, and her scent repulsed him. Ash, and death, and unnatural things; fire, and the scent of the air just before a thunderstorm.

He growled, and showed her his teeth in kind – fangs extended. If she wanted to compare, then let her see what she was dealing with.

She laughed. “Just a little boy after all.” She raised her hand in an unmistakable gesture; he didn’t have any experience with women, but he recognizedcome hitherfor what it was.

Vlad stood his ground; lifted his sword in a two-handed grip.

She frowned. Repeated the gesture, more forcefully.

Vlad lowered his head and rolled his shoulders; made ready for an attack. “Who is your master?” he asked.

She stepped in closer with a huffy sigh. “Oh, honestly, this is just–”

Vlad touched the very tip of his sword to her breastbone, the froth of laces and silk that covered her heart. The red of the blood on his blade glimmered in the moonlight. He said, “Who sent you?”

Her lashes fluttered, and her mouth worked. Beneath the ash-and-fire stink of her, he caught the first notes of fear, of sweat gathering across her skin. She was afraid. Wolves, vampires, humans – she could control others at will, and obviously did. But she couldn’t control him.

“Magic not working?” he asked.

Her gaze narrowed. “You shouldn’t be able to do this.”

---