Page 81 of Dragon Slayer

18

LIVING BLOOD

It was three days before Vlad was able to be up and about on his own, bandages wound round his head and chest.

Three days without lessons.

Three days without any contact with Val.

When he shuffled into the schoolroom, he saw Val’s narrow shoulders stiffen; saw his nostrils flare and knew that, though he gritted his teeth and stared resolutely ahead, he’d sensed Vlad’s entrance.

He was angry, then. Good.

Vlad recalled the sound of his own name ringing across the training yard three days ago, a terrified cry from his brother.Vlad!Like the world was ending. Maybe it had been selfish to allow Val to see him injured like that – it was – but he told himself it was to spare what would have happened if he hadn’t intervened. The heir looked on Val with open lust, and Val, innocent as a lamb, didn’t recognize that particular craving, not even when it picked up a sword and offered to spar with him.

He’d been going to keep his distance, Vlad decided. But then came Mehmet, with his boldly showcased fangs, and his open want, and Vlad couldn’tbeanything but an enraged big brother. So enraged that he’d fought blindly, and allowed an opening.

It had been three days since he’d taken blows that would have killed a mortal boy, and now Val was the one turning away and ignoring, feigning hate.

He supposed that was the plan all along. But not…

In the front row, Mehmet turned a fraction to glance back over his shoulder, expression closed-off, one green eye gleaming. He had glass eyes: they reflected, but they projected nothing of their own light.

…now this wasn’t just about surviving as hostages.

Vlad slipped into the back row, settling gingerly on crossed legs, teeth gritted against the jostling of his ribs.

Beside him, George spoke quietly, eyes trained ahead, lips barely moving. “Didn’t expect you up and about so soon.”

Vlad opened the book in front of him with one hand – the side that wouldn’t pull at his healing fractures. “I heal quickly.”

“I can see that.”

Vlad didn’t want to cooperate, but he found, as the morning ticked slowly into afternoon, and Mullah Sinan’s voice droned onward, that he didn’t have the strength to be rebellious today. One lick from the crop would send him back to the infirmary – or make him pass out, something that seemed more and more a possibility the longer he sat swaying on his mat.

In the last three days, Vlad had come to realize something. Either the heir had never been seriously injured after his turning, or the Ottomans didn’t care that he was weak; maybe they even wanted him that way. Because they’d given him his daily cup of sheep’s blood, but when his bones knit themselves back together this quickly, it required a massive amount of energy. Ordinarily, a vampire in his shape would need to either drop into a deep sleep, or feed round the clock. And feed on something stronger than sheep’s blood.

When he was four, he broke his arm falling off his horse. A bad break; he’d come to and found the bone had split the skin, a jagged, red-streaked stump of white protruding just beneath his elbow. Cicero had reset the bone, and then fed him straight from his own vein. Regular doses of wolf blood had left him fully-healed within a week’s time.

But right now, the room spun lazy circles around him.

“You’re pale,” George said, once.

“I’m fine,” Vlad said, and swallowed down his rising gorge.

He pushed through the day, forcing food down his throat, mumbling answers to questions during his lessons. The mullahs lifted their brows in surprise when he offered none of his usual vitriol, but every answer given was correct, so they didn’t lift the crop to him. The sword master excused him from sparring, and the archery master took one look at his pale face and sent him away.

When he was free, finally, he dragged himself to the chapel and fell into a pew. It was the only place he could think to go where he might be alone. And he had to be alone, because he couldn’t fall to bits in front of anyone – not his brother, and certainly not his enemy.

He finally let go of the tension that was all that held him together and slumped forward, arms braced on the back of the pew in front of him. Sweat slid down his face, and down his spine, and he breathed in ragged gulps. Black spots crowded his vision. What would happen if he passed out here? Would anyone come find him? How badly would he be beaten?

“…Vlad?”

Awash in his own weakness and pity, he hadn’t sensed anyone approach, and now there was a voice in his ear, and breath against the side of his face.

Vlad tried to leap to his feet, to turn, brace himself for a fight. But he ended up sprawled across the flagstone floor, one arm held up as a useless shield, a pained shout catching between his teeth as his ribs pulled.

But it was only George, hands held out in a gesture intended to calm. “I said your name several times,” he said apologetically. “You didn’t seem to hear.”

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