Page 215 of Golden Eagle

“I’m serious as well. I want you safe. I can handle Uncle.”

“With your hapless army of two?”

“They’re improving.” He made a face. “Somewhat. And I have the Necromancer, don’t forget.”

“Because he’s so willingly helpful.”

“He’s scared,” Vlad countered, growing serious again. “He’ll help.”

“Gods. See–”

“No. No more of that. I’m tired of talking of war.” He folded his arms. “You said this was a personal visit.”

You look so personable, Val thought, and snorted. “I suppose I did, didn’t I?”

Vlad lifted a hand and made ago ongesture.Tell me something personal.

Val sighed. He felt lighter and heavier at the same time. Better for letting the tears out, for hearing that Vlad loved him – though that proved he was not in fact without a heart. But he hated that he’d heard how little Vlad valued himself. How ready he was to throw his immortal body and soul into another war, without reservation, because he felt there was no reason to keep living.

He sighed again. “Well.” He forced a cheerful note into his voice. “I’m afraid my inexperience with a Familiar of my own is showing. I can’t get Fulk to stop mothering me.”

Vlad snorted, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “I don’t know any better than you. You should have seen Cicero.”

Cicero.

He prayed Vlad never learned the truth of that betrayal. Desperately smoothed his face to keep his reaction hidden.

Not fast enough.

“What?” Vlad asked.

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Val gave an airy wave, and grinned. “Only tired. These wild New York nights are positively draining.”

Vlad clucked his tongue, but another smile toyed with his mouth.

Val lingered a little while longer, doing most of the talking. Telling Vlad about the interpersonal dramas of his friends. Vlad made a sour face of disapproval when Val spoke of Nikita’s unwillingness to bind Sasha.

“He’s weak,” Vlad said. “And unworthy of that wolf. You should take him on instead.”

“And stand in the way of true love?” Val asked, scandalized.

“True love does what’s necessary.” A very Vlad-like sentiment, if ever there was one, Val thought ruefully.

He finally bid his brother goodbye when Ramirez and Treadwell returned, creeping into the room, standing at the edges, but clearly impatient.

“I shall sayadieufor now, brother,” Val said, standing. He gave a lavish bow to the sergeant. “Lady Adela. Don’t be too discouraged. I imagine sparring is Vlad’s only means of flirting.” He stood, and grinned, and saw color flood her cheeks in the instant before he vanished; heard Vlad’s sigh of “Valerian.”

Then he was gone.

But not back to his body. To Mia and the bench and the sweet October rain. He had another visit to make, first.

He found Liam Price in one of the manor’s second floor bedroom, a spacious room with soaring, painted ceilings and a monstrous four-poster bed draped in gold-trimmed green velvet. The same fabric covered the bench of a settee, and a small bench in front of a gilt-edged vanity. The mural on the ceiling was a woodland scene, done in greens from hunter, to emerald, to soft moss, and palest chartreuse: a doe and fawn drinking from a silver pool.

The mage lay on a low couch beneath the window, as underdressed as Val had ever seen him in a rumpled white shirt and soft black sleep pants. His head rested on his wife’s lap, and she touched the first two fingertips of both hands to his temples. A soft golden glow emanated from the point of contact; it seemed to pulse, swelling and shrinking: an echo of a heartbeat.

“Am I intruding?” Val asked with intentional, saccharine politeness.

Liam’s eyes snapped open.

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