Page 82 of Dragon Slayer

Vlad warred with himself a moment. He wanted to get to his feet and walk away. To say something cruel. To give in to his constant, simmering anger…

But he was exhausted, and shaking, and…

He slowly lowered his arm and just…slumped sideways. Rested his face against the back of the pew in front of him.

George’s brows pinched together in a look of sad concern. “You’re like Mehmet, aren’t you?”

Vlad growled. It was a pathetic little sound, but inhuman all the same. “I amnothinglike Mehmet.”

George tipped his head. “I meant that you’re not – not mortal, are you? You’re something else.”

Vlad tried to rally his scattered thoughts and studied the other hostage a moment. This could be a trap – a way for the Ottomans to get him to give up his secrets; send in the friendly face to tease secrets out of him. But his vampirism wasn’t a secret, was it?

He sighed. “I’m a vampire.”

To his credit, George only blinked a few times, and then finally gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

“Alright? That’s all you have to say to that?”

George seemed to consider his next words. He sat back in his pew, hands folded together in his lap. His gaze was shrewd. “There was a time,” he said, finally, “when the heir hoped to make a friend of me. He didn’t come to Edirne until he was eleven – he spent his boyhood in Amaysa. When he arrived, the moment we met, there was something about him that…troubled me. It’s true that princes are spoiled, and tend to grow up both too fast and too slow all at once. They have women too early, and a sense of maturity too late. But Mehmet was like no eleven-year-old I’d ever met. Composed, cold, always guarded. But also lustful, and malicious.”

He shuddered. “I didn’t dare push him away outright. And because of that, I got to see a side of him that – well, let’s say his behavior isn’t boyish.

“He never told me what he was exactly, but he feeds from the women in the seraglio. Puts fangs in their throat and drinks their blood and ruts against them.” He tipped his head the other way, gaze narrow. “But I don’t get that sense from you or your brother.”

Vlad’s skin crawled. He took a few shallow breaths through his mouth. He shouldn’t say more. But he’d already come this far…

“My brother and I are born vampires. Purebred. Natural. The sultan is human, which means Mehmet was turned as a child. That never ends well. Turned adults are one thing. But.”

George stared at him a long moment, and then nodded. “Can you tell who turned him?”

“No. Not without tasting his blood, and that only works if I recognize the blood.”

“Barbaric,” George said, but not with any heat or disgust. “You really do need blood to survive.”

Vlad didn’t answer.

“And I’m willing to bet that human blood is more potent than animal.”

“Hmm,” Vlad murmured. He might be spilling his guts, but he hadsomesense of self-preservation left. Werewolf blood was the strongest, the best, part of the ancient symbiotic relationship that had begun on the banks of the Tiber.

“They aren’t letting you feed from the women, I know. What do they give you instead? Chickens? Goats?”

“Sheep,” Vlad bit out.

“Is that enough?”

“When you’re healthy it is.”

“So that’s why you’re so sickly right now.”

Vlad glared at him. “It takes a lot of energy to heal broken bones.”

George glanced away, up toward the cross on the wall. “When you feed,” he said, the words drawn out. “Do you kill the – thing – you’re feeding from?”

“Some do. I never have.” Vlad growled again. “What the hell does that even matter? Why do you care?”

George didn’t answer right away. He stared into the middle distance a long moment. Then, finally, nodded and turned back, jaw set at a resolute angle. “If it’ll help, you can feed from me.”

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