Page 266 of Dragon Slayer

48

DINNER

When Annabel left her alone, she went to explore the decadent bathroom. It was all sparkling and new, designed after historically lavish bathing rooms from a century ago. Someone – Annabel? Dad? – had laid out everything she could need on the marble countertop: lavender-scented soap, shampoo, a hairbrush and toothbrush, hair ties, disposable women’s razors, and a stack of fluffy towels. A basket offered moisturizers and lip balm.

“It’s like a hotel,” she murmured, quietly horrified. And then she noticed the terrycloth robe hung up on the back of the door.

Someone wanted her to be comfortable. To feel welcome.

That was how hostages grew content with their situation, she thought.

But for the moment, she would take advantage of the hospitality. She took her time showering, and then blew out her hair with the dryer she found under the sink. She lingered in front of the mirror a moment, smoothing a fingertip along one freshly-moisturized cheek.

She looked tired – that was unavoidable. But she didn’t think she looked sick…did she? Her skin was clear, bridge of her nose dusted with a few pale freckles from the sun. She had lines branching out from the corners of her eyes, faint, but present; souvenirs from too many horse show days in the blazing sun.

She wondered what Val thought of her. What he’d think of her in person, close enough to touch. That sort of thing had never mattered to her before, but now, stomach sinking, she realized that it did. A little, anyway. He was beautiful, and she loved him, and she wanted him to think she was beautiful too.

She turned away from her reflection with a sigh and pulled on the borrowed clothes.

Annabel came to collect her for dinner a few minutes later. “I’m sorry in advance,” she said as they headed for the grand staircase. “This is going to beawkward.”

Downstairs, scientists in sneakers and white lab coats still moved about, but the candles in the heavy standing candelabras had been lit; the juxtaposition of modern science and historic grandeur was jarring.

“I can’t get over this place,” she murmured.

Annabel said, “Just wait.” And then they reached the dining room.

As she had in the bedroom, Mia felt herself grinding to a halt.

Three crystal chandeliers hung suspended over a table that could have comfortably seated the entire court of a small nation. Light reflected off its polished surface – and the wealth of white china, cut crystal, and gleaming silver of flatware. Candles flickered on silver sticks. White roses floated in big glass bowls. A tablescape fit for a king.

Or…a prince. The Prince of Wallachia, who stood at the head of the table, hand resting on the back of an ornate, carved chair.

Mia took a deep breath and continued into the room.

Vlad wasn’t the only occupant. Her father was there, and a forgettable man in a suit. And a man whose eyes went straight to Annabel – her husband, Mia figured.

He was worth a second look. Tall and lean, pale, his face all sharp lines and bright blue eyes. Regal, like Val, but harsher, more withdrawn. He wore his hair in a thick black braid that hung over one shoulder and reached nearly the center of his chest. His clothes, she noted, red leather and black cotton, belonged on a mannequin at Hot Topic. He pulled it off, though.

Annabel leaned in to whisper, “That’s Fulk.” The warmth in her tone left no question as to their relationship.

“He’s hot,” Mia whispered back, and felt herself smile for the first time in hours.

Annabel smothered a giggle with her hand.

“You’re here, wonderful,” Dad said, and Mia felt her smile drop away. “Here, Mia.” He pulled out a chair for her. “You can sit–”

“She will sit by me,” Vlad said.

Mia hadn’t realized there was noise in the room: side conversations, the movement of staff as they rolled in carts loaded with food, a bartender preparing drinks at a sideboard. But everything went dead silent after Vlad spoke. Everyone froze. Everyone stared.

“I…” Dad started, and trailed off.

Solemn and deliberate, Vlad stepped around the corner of the table and pulled out the chair beside his own. He waited behind it, expectant, hands on its carved back.

For a moment, she was terrified. She’d read just enough about Vlad Tepes online to know that she should be frightened of him. The rumors, passed down from Italian monks, and other leaders of the time, like Matthias Corvinus, linked him with everything from baby eating to by-proxy rape. The sight of him in the flesh only furthered that impression.

But she took a deep breath and recalled the image Val had shown her, of Vlad as a boy, with dark circles under his eyes and copper highlights in his sun-bronzed hair. Whatever else he was, Vlad was Val’s brother, and for that link alone, she owed him the benefit of the doubt. At least a little.

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