Page 207 of Dragon Slayer

Mehmet’s thumb pressed into the soft place just beneath the point of his chin. “No. It sounded like you were having a conversation. You said ‘Constantine.’”

Oh no. Val took a few shallow breaths through his mouth, terribly conscious of the stares fixed on him, and the thumb digging into tender skin. “We’re at war with him, no? It would make sense that I had nightmares about the man.” He attempted a laugh.

Mehmet shifted his hand to Val’s throat and that forceful thumb landed on his Adam’s apple, and applied pressure. His laugh choked off.

“You were talking with him,” Mehmet said, voice hardening a fraction. “Pleadingwith him. ‘Please, I have to talk to you,’ you said. ‘I have to tell you about Mehmet.’” He leaned in close, hot, wine-sour breath wafting across Val’s face.

“It’s funny,” he said, corner of his mouth hitching up in a smile that didn’t begin to touch his eyes. “We’ve had so many hopeful soldiers make their way to our camp here, wanting to lend me their assistance, to work themselves into my good graces. Craftsmen, and artisans, and warriors. Scribes, and monks, and mullahs, and prophets. And one man, who’s just come this past week, who is a mage.”

Every muscle in Val’s body seized. He tried to sit upright, a surge of adrenaline burning through his exhaustion, but Mehemet’s hand tightened, and held him fast, right above the tight silver collar that marked him as property.

Amage. Val had never met one; they were the rarest of Familiars, and Father had always spoken ill of them – manipulative and twisty, he’d called them, untrustworthy – but he knew that they had a smell. “Like a forest on fire,” Mother had said, lips pressed. He hadn’t scented fire – well, but maybe he wouldn’t, between the campfires, and cookfires, and the greasy, rancid funeral pyres they’d been forced to use, because the stinking corpses kept piling up, drawing flies, rats, and foxes. Perhaps he’d scented one, and hadn’t known; perhaps one had walked right past him, knowing exactly what he was, and that he’d been subjugated by a master, smirking at his circumstances.

“This mage,” Mehmet continued, “has proved an excellent source of information on those like us. Like you and me.” He shifted his hand side to side, a gentle shake that left Val grinding his teeth. “For instance: did you know that some of us have mental abilities? Psychic, really, beyond human comprehension.” He dropped his voice at the last, a whisper, just for the two of them.

Dread opened up like a chasm in Val’s belly.

“Did you know that some vampires are capable of projecting their consciousness and an image of themselves across vast distances? That they can converse with others, have entire conversations, across oceans, and over city walls?” Something dangerous flared in his eyes. “They call itdream-walking.”

No. No, no, no.

“Your Majesty–” Val began.

Mehmet’s hand tightened. Hard, hard, cutting off his air, and then eased back. “Are you a dream-walker, Radu?”

He didn’t dare swallow. Blink. Flinch. Croaking through a dry throat, he said, “No.” And then waited, forcibly blank-faced, for the slap to come.

Instead, Mehmet released him, and turned to face his entourage. “Leave us.”

They did so, with quick bows, even Halil Pasha, who bit his lip as it to keep from saying something. When they were gone, and the tent flap had fallen in place, the rain a steady hiss like a great serpent above and around them, Mehmet turned to Arslan.

“Come here.”

Val had known fear moments before, but the sight of Mehmet’s gaze trained on Arslan – that was terror.

“Wait!” He scrambled up onto his knees, and reached out.

Mehmet turned back to him, his gaze a warning, but one Val ignored.

“You promised never to touch him. Youpromised,” Val said, and growled.

Mehmet’s brows flew up to the edge of his soaked turban, and his mouth opened, agape for one long moment. And then he composed himself. “I did, didn’t I? And what would you do if I went back on that promise?” he drawled.

Val’s hands curled into fists. He let the growl bleed in heavier, a low, angry purr that pulsed through the tent. “I would stop you.” He could do it, too; he was faster, leaner, stronger these days. He was purebred, and fueled by hate, and he could overpower this pitiful, glutted, turned creature before him.

And Mehmetknew it. Val caught a faint whiff of unease before he chuckled and said, “How much damage do you think you could do before my guards came rushing in here? Is it worth the risk?”

“Do not lay afingeron Arslan.”

Mehmet kept his gaze trained on Val. “Come here, boy,” he called, beckoning.

Arslan came, quiet and shaken as a mouse. When he got close enough, Mehmet rested a hand on his shoulder.

Val started to rise from the bed, one foot planted on the rug, fists hovering at his sides, growling, teeth bared.

“Arslan,” Mehmet said, voice warm, in the way that it so often could be, “don’t be worried.” He never looked away from Val. “Tell me, child. What is it your master does when he lies down and sleeps for long stretches? It’s funny: I always seem to find him half-awake, groggy, and sluggish. He rests sovery much. What is he doing?”

“I…I, he…”

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