Page 124 of Dragon Slayer

They circled one another, gravel crunching, feinting and feeling one another out. Val had never sparred with Mehmet before, and he moved differently than Vlad and the boys back home, more like the other hostages.

Then Mehmet moved in, one long step, and moved to strike. It was slow, almost gentle. Like he was aiming at a child. He laughed as Val blocked it with his new blade, the steel chiming like bells.

“Good. Now you move into me,” Mehmet said, backing away, giving Val leave to advance.

Val hesitated, worrying his lip with his teeth, sword held suspended in a defensive position, still. Swing at the sultan? That seemed…ill-advised. Shit, this was a terrible idea. He should have found a pair of practice swords and begged Arslan to go to the training yard with him.

(He hadn’t because he’d feared that the sight of a eunuch slave holding a sword might result in one more impaled body on the palace walls.)

“You wanted to spar,” Mehmet prodded. “So come on.”

So he did. A timid swing that Mehmet batted away without effort.

“That was pathetic. Put your weight behind it next time.”

He tried again, more forcefully, and Mehmet laughed when he met his blade with a block. “Better! We’ll work on it.”

It wasn’t like any lesson he’d had from a swordmaster back home, nor the ones he’d had here, in previous years, before his irrevocable change of status. Mehmet was relaxed and cheerful, not barking orders and smacking at Val’s shoulders and shins with the flat of his blade the way he was used to. In that sense, it was almost…fun. He began to feel lighter; found himself smiling. For a few precious minutes, they were no longer master and slave, not sultan and hostage, but two boys playing.

Val knew something like joy.

For a time.

But then.

Tired, sweating, his blood thrumming, Val lost himself. He lunged in, too close, too wild, his tiredness making him sluggish, clumsy. He went a half-step too far, and when he tried to correct, he reached too far. His brand new sword, sharp-edged, struck Mehmet’s arm. Tore cloth, drew blood.

For a breathless second, all was still. Val gaped, sword still extended, wavering.

An accident. But.

A fun afternoon of practice between two young men. But.

Valfeltthe growl that built in Mehmet’s chest, the leashed thunder of it reverberating through the air between them. When he looked to Mehmet’s face, he saw slitted pupils and lowered brows, extended fangs.

An automatic reaction, his instincts told him. A vampire, especially a dominant one, a leader of men, would react with immediate violence if his blood was drawn.

But Val remembered that first night, the heft of the unfamiliar sword in his hand, the blooming of bright blood on Mehmet’s rich feastday kaftan. Remembered the growl, remembered running, remembered the rough bark of the tree he clung to all night. And then he finally relented, and his face was pressed into the pillow, and rough hands shoved his legs apart, and, and–

Terror unfolded inside him, a spark to powder. Violent, painful. And with it, anger.

Mehmet lifted his sword and took a retaliatory swing at him – clumsy, something Val was meant to duck and roll away from, come up stammering an apology.

But Val braced his feet and parried. Steel met steel not with the soft chime of bells, but with the clang and screech of a true battle.

Mehmet growled again, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What are – are you – do youdefy me?”

Val felt his own fangs grow long in his mouth; felt something come alive inside him, some well of strength previously untapped. He was slender, and golden – but he was Vlad’s brother, and Remus’s son, and he was destined for something besides whoredom.

He growled back. “Yes.”

And then, suddenly, they were fighting for real. Wild swings that crashed together with shrill sounds; panting, growling, lunging, sliding on the gravel when they tried to brace their feet.

In the back of his mind, Val knew they were making too much noise. Someone would hear, even if it was just a pair of curious gardeners, and come to see what was happening. Once they realized that the sultan’s pet had lost his mind, guards would be called, and the best Val could hope for would be a good clubbing on the back of the head from a spear butt.

But Val had never felt like this. Had never been rippling with energy and aggression, bloodlust roaring like a second pulse in his ears. He wanted to set his teeth in Mehmet’s neck, anddestroyhim. His growl was low and constant, a rippling echo like thunder.

Am I beautiful now?he thought wildly.Your pet has fangs after all.

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