Page 253 of Dragon Slayer

“I left her at Tîrgoviste when I came here.”

“She was gone when I arrived. She left this.” He fished the bell out of his shirt, and let it dangle outside of his clothing.

“Your bell,” Vlad said, expression smoothing again.

“I think she left it for me. I hope, wherever she is, that she’s somewhere safe.”

Vlad growled. “You’re lying.”

“No.” He was tired. So tired. “I’m not. I never do, really, except to stay alive, sometimes, when Mehmet’s fucking me into the mattress and trying to choke me to death. I lie then, so he doesn’t kill me.”

Cicero turned his face away. An opening.

“You know,” Val continued, “the worst part is that I still love you. You will always be my big brother, and I’ll always want to please you.” He offered a smile. “But you won’t let me help you, will you?”

Vlad stared at him a long moment. Val thought he almost – but, no. There was no love there. He supposed there never had been. “No,” Vlad said, finally. “I won’t accept help from a sultan’s whore.”

“As I thought.”

Val sighed.

And flicked a dagger free from his belt, and drove it between Vlad’s ribs.

He made a gasping, punched-out sound, and went to his knees.

Cicero turned alarmed, already snarling, scenting blood, eye glowing.

Val was ready. Cicero shifted as he leaped, springing over his fallen master, and Val caught him with both hands, by the ruff and by jaw. He forced his mouth shut, and threw him, hard as he could, toward the fireplace. His head cracked against the mantle, and he fell to the floor, unconscious.

Vlad had been shut up here for too long, without exercise, without practice, and though he’d been doubtless feeding from Cicero, he’d gone soft in his captivity. Just soft enough.

Val drew his sword, the blade he’d named Mercy, for that’s what this was. “I’m sorry, Vlad. I love you.” And he buried his blade in his brother’s shoulder, slicing down to his ribs, just shy of his heart.

~*~

The blood loss was immediate and devastating. No less than a mortal wound could have done it. Vlad slipped into a coma, the deep, restorative vampire sleep that would heal him – but keep him under until a wolf used blood and old Latin words to wake him.

Val worked quickly. He bundled his sleeping brother in cloaks, and, with some effort, hefted him up over his shoulder. Fled the way that he’d come.

In the months that followed, his flight would be a blur in his memory. Heart beating wildly, hands slippery with Vlad’s blood, the stink of it deep in his nose. Somehow, he got off the grounds, and got back to his horse.

He heard a long, horrible, mournful howl go up, when he was miles away. Cicero.

He rode through the night, and as the warmth of morning drew perspiration from his skin, he tamped the last shovelful in place. An island grave, in the shadow of a church.

He swam back across the lake, and lay, dripping and exhausted, on the bank, until the sun had dried his clothes. When he could manage, he dragged himself back into the saddle, and set off through the swaying shadows of the trees.

He was done, now. With ruling, and with serving, and with being a creature alive on this earth.

He had only one thing left to do, and then he would crawl deep into a dark cave, and stop eating, and give himself over to the endless peace of an unending sleep.

One thing. And then he could die.

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