Page 211 of Golden Eagle

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Deprive a being of simple, everyday occurrences long enough, and all of them, no matter how mundane, become wondrous when they return. At some point in the past, Val probably hadn’t cared either way about rain; at some point in the future, it would doubtless lose its splendor. But for now, he reached out beyond the shelter of his umbrella to catch a handful of cool raindrops in his palm, smiling helplessly, delighted by nothing more than a cool autumn shower.

Evening approached, and the lamps along the path flickered on, warm yellow light haloed by shifting tides of mist. The Park wasn’t empty – it didn’t strike Val as the sort of place to ever be empty – but its traffic had slowed. He and Mia walked alone down the trail, Fulk and Anna trailing, far enough back not to overhear if they whispered.

Val turned his hand over, and watched the collected water pour out, and said, “I went to see Vlad.”

Mia paused. Only a fraction of a second, it didn’t interrupt her stride. But Val felt the shiver of hesitation move through her. “How is he?” she asked, and he read something like genuine affection for his brother in her tone – and the fear that they were being pursued.

“Single-minded,” Val said, and felt himself smile. “Focused, and restless, and absolutely dominating all those poor fools in Virginia. We’re quite safe from them, don’t worry,” he said, patting the back of her hand where it rested in the crook of his arm. “He’s preparing an expedition to find our uncle.”

Up ahead, a rain-slick bench sat beneath the bare limbs of a tree. Mia towed him toward it, fished a bit of clean newspaper from the trash can and wiped down the metal seat. They sat down together, snuggled close to fit beneath the umbrella. “You’re worried about him,” she guessed, and rightly so.

He turned his head far enough to see her face, soft and lovely with concern in the silvery light. He kissed her forehead, on sudden impulse, and felt her settle even more fully against his side, under his arm. “I am,” he admitted, resting his temple against the top of her head. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of touching her, of the pressure of her warm body against his. “All he’s ever cared about is revenge. I thought he hated me for so long…” he said, voice going faint. “Finding out that he didn’t was one of the happiest moments of my life. And I hoped – foolishly – that he would bury all the old hatchets and just live. There’s nothing of our old existence left: no palaces to hold, no lineages to uphold. A chance to start over. But he’s ready to pick up the sword again.”

She hummed – lips vibrating faintly against his throat – and said, “Maybe he’s too noble for his own good.”

He pulled back so he could see her face, heart thumping with surprise, delight. And she wasn’t lying, he could tell. “Nobody calls him noble, you know.”

She smiled. “Please note I’m not approving of some of his – uh, methods. But helping us leave was pretty darn noble. So is going after your uncle.”

He smiled back…but it dimmed when a thought struck. “I supposed it’s been terribly ignoble of me to run away–”

Her forefinger landed on his lips, silencing him. “No. Nope, we’re not doing that. You didn’t run away, Val. You finally got the hell out of your prison cell. Leaving was the best, healthiest thing you could have done.”

She was right – of course she was. His joy over a palmful of cool rain was proof of that. But his visit with Vlad had continued to niggle at his conscience.

“It’s very dangerous, what he’s going to attempt,” he said, faintly.

Mia touched his face, and he was grateful that she didn’t offer any empty platitudes.

He tucked her head beneath his chin again, and stared off across the dripping Park. When he felt himself begin to drift, he closed his eyes, and let it happen.

This time, he didn’t appear in Vlad’s study, but in a windowless, brightly-lit room he’d glimpsed only briefly during his first, failed attempt to escape Blackmere Manor. The room where he’d found his weapons stored, where Vlad’s were still kept: a training room. Black mats covered the floor, and racks lined the walls bearing all manor of weapons, from medieval to modern. At the far end, the lights above it dimmed, was a shooting gallery; Val wondered if Vlad had developed a fondness for the guns humans used now, or if he preferred to stick to his old short bow. He remembered a pale, angry-faced boy shooting from horseback, taking hares, and harts, and landed bull’s eyes on targets with effortless grace, brows slanted with perpetual dissatisfaction: he was never pleased with his own talent and performance.

Lost for a moment in the past, Val didn’t notice at first that his brother was here in the flesh at first. But then he blinked, and threw all his mental efforts into the projection of himself, and settled perched on the edge of a table to take in the scene before him.

Vlad, dressed in plain back t-shirt, tac pants, and tightly-laced boots, wore his hair braided back severely, folded under and contained in a knot. Sweat gleamed at his temples and throat, and on the bare, tensed muscles of his arms, brows slanted in the old way Val remembered, his mature face making the whole expression twice as fierce.

He was sparring with the woman he’d turned, the one whose leg had broken so badly on their ride out into the woods. Adela Ramirez, Val remembered;SergeantRamirez.

She wore a clinging tank top, and tight black pants (leggings, Mia had told him the other day, when he asked). She was barefoot, and her feet looked the same, now, especially as she moved, her own braid swinging in a wide arc as she dodged a grab from Vlad. He was unarmed, but she held a knife, its edge glinting under the fluorescent lights.

She righted herself, and darted forward, under Vlad’s guard, leading with her free hand, knife held back and ready for a swipe at his ribs on the opposite side. She was quick; lithe and tightly-coiled, lean muscle rippling down her arms. Already a warrior and an athlete, and now a vampire, one born of Vlad’s blood no less, imbued with his strength and speed.

But Vlad was Vlad. He reared back a scant inch, far enough to avoid the intended chop of her hand, but no farther. No wasted effort. When she brought the knife up, he reached out, almost lazily, and batted it out of her grip. She grunted, hand falling open, stunned from the blow to her wrist, and the knife tumbled away across the mats.

“She’s brave to even attempt a match with him,” Val said, conversationally, and beside him, Major Treadwell nearly jumped out of his skin.

The major had been leaning back against the same table where Val now sat, arms folded, watching the match with a deep, troubled frown. He jumped, and let out what must have been an involuntary shout, and whirled to face Val, hand straying to his hip, and the gun there.

Val grinned at him. “You’re welcome to try.”

“Val,” Vlad said, with the barest hint of something like warmth that wouldn’t have meant anything to anyone else, but which Val knew to be a great show of affection for his ferocious brother.

He turned his smile to Vlad, and let it soften, and widen into a truly glad expression. “Good evening, brother. Training your little ducklings?”

Vlad scoffed. “Attempting to.”

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