His eyes narrow again suspiciously.
“I’ve got this little parasite I need help subduing.” I turn around casually and point to the back of my head where Romulus sleeps.
Vlad makes a surprised, disturbed noise, and when I look back at him, he’s taken several steps backward. It looks like again, I’ve actually managed to unsettle him.
Perfect.
Not wanting to get Layden in trouble—he’s useful, after all—I say carefully, “I heard that vampire blood could help me with this problem.”
It’s not entirely a lie. Layden told me vampire blood was an ingredient in some of his potions, though he was only ever able to get blood from the youngest vampires. How much morepowerful would blood from someone as old and ancient as Vlad be?
Vlad looks immediately pissed, face darkening. “Our blood is sacrosanct! None of us would spill it for?—”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Then I guess our negotiations are over.” I start walking toward the door, counting in my head. Three... two... one...
“Wait,” he finally snaps right as I’m reaching for the doorknob.
I suppress my triumphant grin and turn back slowly.
He lifts his hands and snaps several times sharply, glaring up toward the ceiling. Ah, so we weren’t as alone as I thought. It makes sense. No true leader would leave himself completely defenseless.
And yet, for whatever is about to happen, he won’t allow any eyes at all. Not even his most trusted.
I walk back toward him confidently. “We both have something the other wants,” I say quietly, appealing to his deepest desires. “My family and I are immensely powerful beings. And what I ask would not only make me more powerful still but put us further in your debt.”
Hook him with the power, reel him in with the debt.
“I do not know that our blood would do what you seek,” he says, but I can hear the calculation in his voice.
“But you’re the oldest of your kind,” I press. “Surely your blood is the most powerful.”
A growl rumbles from his throat, and I know I’ve asked for more than he’s comfortable giving. Time to sweeten the pot.
“My brothers and I are known as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” I let that sink in for a beat. “For millennia, we have been the power behind the powers that shape nations and empires. I am the angel of War. Layden is Famine. Abaddon is Pestilence. And Kharon is the angel of Death.”
Vlad’s eyes grow wider with each of my words—widest of all at Kharon’s designation.
“What does that mean?” he breathes. “What are your powers?”
“All I ask is a small price for any question you might have,” I say meekly, playing the humble supplicant.
Vlad looks frustrated—torn between curiosity and caution. But I can see the exact moment he makes the decision.
Greed wins. It always does.
He yanks a small ornate dagger from his waistcoat, then leans over to snatch a crystal goblet from a nearby table.
His movements are so quick even my superior senses struggle to follow as he slices a neat slit along his wrist. Dark red—almost black—liquid gushes into the goblet. Thick. Rich. Powerful.
It fills halfway before he winces and lifts his wrist to his mouth, licking the slash. The wound closes neatly, seamlessly.
I eye the goblet greedily, but he holds it away from me—still cautious.
“My father met one of your kind once,” he says slowly. “On the battlefield. He warned me, should I ever come upon your kind again, to run and never stop.” His voice drops. “He said you were the only thing on Heaven or Earth that could challenge us.”
Ah ha. So it was his father I met that day. Small world.
I decide not to inform him of this particular detail.
