Page 215 of Dragon Slayer

The slave threw himself at Val, wound both thin arms tight around his waist, buried his wet face in Val’s chest. “I want to stay with you,” he choked out. “Please…Val, please. I don’t want to be sent away.”

Val had thought his heart shattered past the point of breaking any further after yesterday, but that proved untrue; those shards were ground now to dust by the boy’s tearful pleas.

“My sweet boy,” he murmured, rubbing Arslan’s back, his own voice threatening to crack. “I would keep you with me always, if I could. But it isn’t safe for you here.”

Would the wider world be safer? For a slender, beautiful eunuch with big brown eyes? No. But being a eunuch wouldn’t matter so much after tonight, after Val was done with him.

“But – but where would we go?” he asked, miserable.

Val lifted his head, and saw that Nestor’s expression had firmed to one of resolve. “Russia,” he said, and his accent thickened, just on one word. “Out deep, in the wilds. Siberia. Where it’s only wolves – real wolves – and reindeer herders.”

“Yes,” Val said, grateful, “that’ll do nicely.”

“But I’m only…” Arslan tipped his head back, looking up at Val with tear-filled eyes, jaw quivering. “I’m only…me.”

Val cupped his face in one hand, gentle and careful. “No, my darling. You aren’t ‘only’ anything. And tonight, when you leave here, you’ll be stronger than any man who would do you harm.”

He stared a moment – and then his eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “Your grace.”

“I would call it a gift,” Val said, “but I don’t honestly know if it is. It hasn’t kept me from my own fate. But,” he rushed to add, “it’s kept me alive. And whole.” Physically. “It will give you the strength and resilience necessary to survive anywhere. In that sense it is a gift. Will you let me give it to you?”

The boy deliberated a long moment – and Val let him. It was no small decision, this. He’d been born to it, and knew nothing else. But forever was a massive weight to lay across someone’s shoulders. There were those he’d seen, had known, for whom death had been a final, welcome escape. Sometimes he thought – no, more than sometimes – that he himself would like to close his eyes and never have to see any of this again. He thought of the day he’d slain Arslan’s rapists; that moment when he’d wanted to put his face in the water and breathe it into his lungs.

He pushed Arslan gently back and sat on the edge of his bed. Folded his hands in his lap. And waited.

Arslan chewed on his lower lip a long moment, gaze trained on the toes of his slippers – gold-embroidered, delicate, meant for household attendance, not riding…not escaping. Val would have to stuff rags into a pair of his own boots to pad the toes to give him.

If he agreed to the plan.

Val would never force either of his young charges to do anything. He knew the taste of forced compliance too well for that.

Eyes still downcast, Arslan said. “Would I have to…drink, as you do, your grace?”

“Yes.”

He let out a shaky breath. “Could I not be what Nestor-Iskander is instead?” His gaze flicked up, desperately hopeful.

Val had never seen a wolf made, but one night, as a boy hungry for ghost stories, Fenrir had told him of his own turning. Of the sharp knife, and the sound a dying wolf made.

He shook his head. “I have not the means to turn you into a wolf. Nor should you like the process, I don’t think.”

Nestor shuddered hard, and shook his head.

“This is the best way,” Val said. “The only way. Meaning no disrespect to Nestor, vampires are the kings of the immortals. I would like that for you – a bit of power.”

Another rattled breath…but Arslan nodded. “Alright. I’ll do it.” His face creased, as if with pain. “But I don’t want to leave you.”

Val made himself smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Arslan and Nestor traded a look, knowing it was a lie.

“When the sultan finds out you’ve helped us escape…” Nestor said, and left the rest dangling.

Val’s breath hitched in his lungs, painfully sharp fear. But he frowned and said, “The sultan isn’t the conqueror he thinks he is. One day, he will learn that.”

~*~

Turning required an exchange of blood. Back and forth, and back again, recycling it, strengthening the power of the process. It was intimate. Val had never done it before, though he’d been told what to expect. But hearing and doing were never the same thing.

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