Page 180 of Dragon Slayer

“Apparently, that’s not fashionable among the nobility.”

“No, it’s not.” Another pause, this one thoughtful. Hunyadi’s anxiety seemed to lessen, his scent settling. “Flattery clearly won’t work, so I think I’ll have to be frank with you, Dracula.”

Hunyadi’s steward leaned in, as if to whisper advice, and the governor waved him back.

Vlad felt his anger boiling inside him, churning in his gut like a sour dinner. Fantasies came to him, one after the next: lifting his blade and sweeping the governor’s head from his neck; launching himself across the desk and sinking his fangs into the man’s throat, drinking and drinking until he was a desiccated husk, and Vlad had taken every drop of life from his body; stabbing him, again and again, until the blood ran out of him, spilling all over the fine carpet like wine from a ruptured skin. His hand began to ache from gripping the sword; the blade vibrated, faintly, rattling against the wood.

Hunyadi’s brows pinched together, and his jaw worked a moment before he spoke. “I didn’t wield the blade myself, but I suspect that makes no difference here. Yes, I’m responsible for your father’s death. And your brother’s. They were not crimes of passion, but calculated political moves. I needed Dracul’s troops, and free access to the Danube for my campaigns. Time and again I gave your father the chance to join me in my fight against the Ottomans, but he either refused, or delayed, or contributed a mere handful of men to the cause. Vlad was impeding my war efforts, and so I had him removed, and replaced him with a dull-witted lackey whom I knew I could control.”

When Vlad spoke, his voice vibrated with the catlike harmonics of a vampire. Everyone in the room save Cicero and Stephen visibly recoiled from the sound. “My father had a treaty with the Ottomans. If he’d broken it, my brother and I would have been killed for his disobedience.”

Hunyadi cocked his head. “The leader of a people must always make sacrifices. Your father chose you – and sacrificed his people. I made a different choice.”

“Of course you did, because we were someone else’s sons. Where wasyour son? Your Matthias? Home safe in Hungary? In Transylvania?” He didn’t realize he’d risen from his chair until Cicero gently pressed him back down into it. He breathed in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving.

He had to be calm. Had to be.

He closed his eyes a moment, and took a sequence of deep, measured breaths. Slowly, the adrenaline bled out of him. The rage stayed, though, cold, and hard, and relentless.

When Vlad opened his eyes again, he was met with Hunyadi’s patient gaze – though he could hear the rabbit-fast kicking of the man’s heart.

“Fine,” Vlad said, and his voice was normal again. “It was political. Am I to assume that’s why you’re here now?”

A chagrined little smile that twitched his mustache. “Vladislav is no longer…amenable to our original plan.”

“How sad for you.”

Hunyadi sighed. “Vladislav has been growing friendlier with the Turks over the past year. Now he’s being vocal about it. He says he sees wisdom in allying ourselves with them. Stop all this constant warring, and just agree to their terms. He wants to be a good little vassal.”

“It’s a smart move, really. The Ottomans are far superior in number, arms, and wealth. Standing against them is a hopeless cause. Even a ‘dull-witted puppet’ can see that.”

“All true,” Hunyadi said. “But is that whatyouwould do?”

“What does that matter? I’m nothing but a refugee.”

“I’m curious. Indulge me.”

Cicero’s fingertips danced against Vlad’s collarbone. A warning to be careful.

Vlad didn’t need it. He knew exactly where Hunyadi was going with this. This whole scenario had begun, alarmingly, to resemble the day Murat had given him his father’s blade and told him to take his rightful place as prince. Hunyadi was no different from the old sultan. Just another powerful, heartless man who’d butchered families and made use of marionettes to get what he wanted. He meant to use Vlad, appealing to his unrelenting hatred, dangling an empty promise of power.

Whatever the man proposed, agreeing to it would be seen as a sign of acceptance for what had been done to Father and Mircea.

Vlad stared fixedly at the sword in front of him, eyes tracing its familiar lines again and again. “What would I do?” he asked, just a whisper. “I would very much like to kill you now, leap out of this window behind me, and run off into the forest never to be seen again.”

Hunyadi’s men laid hands on their weapons, and Cicero growled. They paused, surprised all over again.

“But,” Vlad continued, “nothing would give me more satisfaction in this world that cleaving Sultan Mehmet’s head from his neck. And so you can see that I have a difficult choice between the two.”

Mildly, Hunyadi said, “I have these men here, and more in the chamber beyond. You couldn’t kill me now.”

“You haveno ideawhat I’m capable of,” Vlad said, and for the first time he saw the gleam of true fear in the man’s eyes.

Cicero growled again, a deep rumble in his chest, to drive the point home.

Vlad looked at the governor across from him, the Hungarian devil who’d manipulated and badgered his family since before Vlad himself was born. He saw a brutal, loveless man hellbent on battle, damn the consequences. He could talk of “people” all he wanted, but Hunyadi wanted glory, influence, and wealth.

But when he blinked, he saw his brother. The skin of Val’s throat marred by bruises and fang prints. His neck weighed down by jeweled chains. His skin musky with a rapist’s spent passion.

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