“Wha…what?” Shock gave Vlad enough strength to stagger to his feet, though he had to clutch the pew for balance. “Are you insane? Why the hell would you offer to do that?”
George sat forward, and dropped his voice. “Remember how I told you I’m playing the long game? I’m also realistic: when I’m released, I’ll go home to Albania, and no matter the willingness and might of the army I plan to raise, I am only one man, and we will be but one vassal state. I’ll need allies, Vlad. And I think maybe you hate these men more than I do.” He smiled, a wicked line like a knife slice across his face. “I want to help you, yes, but believe me, it’s in my own best interest to keep you alive and well.”
He stuck out a hand, the same one Vlad had declined to clasp before. “This is what happens behind enemy lines. Hostages with a common purpose make alliances. There’s no reason we can’t help each other.”
Vlad stared at his hand – the hangnails, the sword calluses – and slumped a little more into the pew. He felt the blood draining out of his face, receding from the healing crack in his skull that needed it so badly. Felt the floor tilt; felt his knees threaten to give. His voice shook. “You don’t – you don’t k-kn-know what you’re offering.”
“No, I do.” George reached up and began unbuttoning his kaftan, andoh, that wasbad. “I’m offering you a drink.”
Vlad slammed his eyes shut, and swayed where he stood, gripping the pew so tight he heard his knuckles crack. “You don’t – yourthroat? Are you insane?” Even though his eyes were shut, he could hear the shifting of fabric, the faint low thump of a healthy pulse. Could smell skin, and sweat, and blood, blood, blood,freely offeredblood. “I’ve never fed from a human before. What if I can’t stop? What if I kill you?”
“I’m trusting you not to.”
“Butwhy?” He opened his eyes and found George watching him calmly, his kaftan unbuttoned all down the throat.
“I already told you: I need an ally.” He pulled the collar down, exposed the tempting column of his throat. The vein pulsed there. “And I’m trusting you because no matter how thirsty you are for blood, you’rehungrierfor release. For returning to your homeland. If you kill me, they’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life – at the very least. They might even kill you. They certainly won’t educate you, and arm you, and make you an officer, and eventually send you back home as their intended puppet.”
“They–” Vlad gasped. “But they–” His mind reeled; he was too tired to make sense of what the Albanian boy had just said. “But they won’t…”
“They will. That’s what they plan to do with me, and it’s what they plan to do with you. Sway you to their cause, and send you back to Wallachia to rule according to their wishes.”
He couldn’t – he couldn’tthink. And there was a throatright there,being offered, and he…
“Vlad,” George said, gently this time. He patted the bench beside him. “You can barely stand. Just–” and here came the first sign of hesitance, doubt flickering through his eyes “–don’t take too much, okay? I have to be able to walk out of here.”
Vlad fought it – really he did. But there were some fights that could not be won by will alone, and this was one of them. One time, Vlad told himself, and sank slowly, shakily down onto the pew. His fangs descended, and saliva gathered at the back of his mouth, and gooseflesh broke out down his arms and back. Anticipation. Bloodlust.
His vision had already gone hazy, George just a blurred shape in front of him, but he managed to say, “My ribs.”
“What?”
“If I try to take too much – if I won’t stop – then hit my ribs. Here.” He ghosted a hand over his side to demonstrate. “And push me away.”
Sound of George swallowing. “Alright.”
And then Vlad couldn’t wait anymore.
He shifted forward, hands finding the boy’s shoulders, and hauled himself up into his lap, gracelessly. He pressed his face down, seeking with nose and lips, and found the pulse point on his throat.
He breathed there a moment, open-mouthed, and felt the skin beneath his lips flicker, like a horse twitching beneath a fly.
“Vlad–”
He bit. It had been a long time since he put his teeth in something – someone– but he remembered the punch of fangs through flesh, the way blood boiled up into his mouth. Wolf blood was the best, the strongest, and its richness had always filled him with comfort. This, though, this human blood, tasted exotic and thrilling, like flower nectar.
Vlad closed his eyes, dimly aware of the obscene growl that rumbled in his throat, and drank.
It was a tide on which he floated. He didn’t know for how long. All his hurts faded into the blurred edges of his consciousness, along with rational thought and restraint, leaving only the blood, and his suddenly-empty stomach, and the building pressure down low in his hips, the tingling in his spine.
But something broke through the haze, finally; a hand touched his neck, and awareness came tumbling back, almost painful. Vlad opened his mouth, retracted his fangs, and let the hand ease him away from his source of nourishment.
He blinked, and George slid into focus. Even in his haste, Vlad had been careful, and the wound was neatly done: tidy punctures. It would bruise, but that was inevitable. As he watched, a few pulses of blood seeped out and trickled down George’s throat toward his as-of-yet-untouched kaftan.
Vlad braced a hand on his thigh, pitched forward and caught the rivulets with his tongue. Chased them back up to the bite and then began to lick the mark with methodical steadiness. He already felt better, his head clearer, his limbs stronger. The thirst was slaked enough that he could tamp it down and focus now on healing, rather than harming.
Still, George jerked beneath him at the first swipe of Vlad’s tongue. His voice was steady, though, when he said, “What are you doing?”
“I have to seal it,” Vlad explained between licks. “Or the blood will ruin your clothes.”
