26
FIGHT OR FLIGHT
Vlad slept for three days in the big chair at his father’s old desk, knees drawn up at awkward angles, waking with the dawn with a crick in his neck and an aching back. During the day, he traveled into the city, Malik and heavily armed guards flanking him, to talk with shopkeepers and the heads of households. Hearing stories, asking for loyalty.
One thing became apparent: all but only a small handful of boyars had joined Vladislav’s and Hunyadi’s efforts to depose Vlad Dracul.
“They’ll have to be dealt with,” Vlad told Malik, and earned only a nod in response.
No word came from Hunyadi or Vladislav, nor did Vlad’s scouts see any sign of them.
Under the cloudless autumn sky, Vlad felt the pressure of a thunderstorm, a gathering darkness along the horizon, not seen, but weighing on his bones all the same.
On the fourth night, his eyelids heavy, as he finally pushed aside his half-drunk cup of cow’s blood and prepared to settle down for a fitful nap, a shadowy figure pushed open the door and lingered in the threshold, limned in torchlight from the hallway beyond.
Vlad knew him by scent.
“Come, Cicero,” he called with a gesture, voice heavy with fatigue and dissatisfaction. “You know that you are always welcome counsel.”
The wolf entered, but did not sit. He remained standing opposite Vlad, hands at his sides, face set in lines of resolution. He had shaved since last Vlad had seen him, so the clean, angular lines of his jaw were visible, his hair washed and tied back in the front, left to fall across his shoulders behind. Someone, Helga no doubt, had fashioned a patch of black cloth for his ruined eye. In fresh clothes, with color back in his cheeks, he looked the Dacian warrior that he was again, and no longer a sad prisoner.
It was silent between them at first, candle flames and edges of pages dancing in the breeze from the open window.
“Your father named me after a Roman,” Cicero said, finally.
Vlad managed a faint smile. He’d always liked this story. “Marcus Tullius Cicero. The greatest orator in history.”
“He said it was because I argued my case so prettily.” Alone, half-starved, Remus had been spending his days in a mountain cave, subsisting off rats, berries, and rainwater, in the high hills of what had once been the Dacian territory, but which had been occupied by Roman commanders. A pack of wolves had found him, their initial aggression turning to uncertainty once they’d sniffed out what he was. Three of that pack had been werewolves, and had shifted with seeming difficulty. At the time, only Cicero had been able to speak, a half-garbled language supplemented with gestures and whines. He hadn’t shifted in nearly a decade. An exchange had been made: learning and civilization in exchange for blood to keep strong. It had been years before true trust had grown between them, and by then it had been love, and Cicero had agreed readily to a binding.
“He said that Rome would never have existed as it is remembered today if not for the kindness of a wolf,” Cicero said, eyes downcast, pain writ clear across his face.
“Father always loved wolves. He impressed upon us the importance of that bond. The naturalness of a Familiar’s relationship with his vampire.”
“He was my first and only master. I didn’t expect…” His hands curled to fists. “I didn’t know how badly it would hurt. When the binding was severed.” He reached to touch the side of his head. “It felt like something burst. Here.” Touched his heart. “And here.”
“Grief is a good thing,” Vlad said, and knew he sounded flat. “It means that it was a binding of respect and love, and not one of slavery.”
He took a deep breath. “Your grace…”
Vlad closed his eyes a moment. He knew what was coming.If Cicero offers, don’t dismiss him lightly. He will offer out of love and loyalty, and I believe you’ll need all the allies you can get, his mother had said.
He opened his eyes.
“Your grace,” Cicero said again, sinking down slowly into the chair now, so they were face-to-face across the desk. “If you should want to – if you would allow me to – it would be the highest honor to bind myself to you now.”
The thought terrified him. To have a Familiar was not merely to have a bodyguard. His parents had taught him that. A Familiar was a vampire’s sworn protector, his packmate, his primary source of blood, and his unfailing confidante and best friend. In return, the vampire provided support, comfort, camaraderie, and protection. It was a symbiotic relationship that benefitted both parties. It was like a marriage, one bound by blood and a psychic pull neither side could resist, once established.
A binding could only be broken by the death of one party, as Vlad understood it.
“This is not a light thing you’re asking for,” Vlad said, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on the desk.
Cicero’s shoulders slumped as he exhaled. “I know that I am” – his fingers twitched on the edge of the desk – “disfigured. I–”
“Cicero.”
The wolf lifted his head, eye glimmering.
Vlad said, “You are the most honorable and fearsome man I have ever met. The honor would be mine. But you served my father for centuries. I wouldn’t make a servant of you so soon, not until you’re sure it’s what you want.”
