“Sultan’s son, as he was at the time, and yes. He propositioned me and I took a swing at him. Not that I wounded him much—I was never a swordsman. And then I showed my true mettle by running off and hiding up a tree. I only came down when he swore a solemn oath not to kill me.” He smiled bitterly. “I got off lightly because he knew I might be useful. They needed a puppet prince, and Vlad wasn’t cooperating.”

“It surprises me that you’d keep a picture of him. Personally, I’d burn it.” The servant returned and placed a tray in front of me. It was chicken, and thankfully it wasn’t clucking.

Radu dismissed the vamp and joined me on the couch. “I don’t keep it out of fondness, Dory, but as a reminder of how easily I was once molded by another. I became exactly what my captors wanted—I dressed like them, thought like them—I even converted. I swear, for a while, I was more Turkish than they were. I keep the painting to remind me of what I was.”

I snorted. “Give yourself a break. You were a kid. They brainwashed you.”

Radu shook his head. “As much as I would like to claim that, it’s only partially true. I was eleven when he seduced me—a child by today’s standards, but in the world we inhabited, that was not so young. Mehmed had begun ruling a province of the empire at the same age. I was brainwashed because I allowed myself to be. The only alternative was unthinkable, so I took the path of least resistance. It took me a long time to understand: ultimately, we are all responsible for our own actions.”

“As Drac is.”

Radu was quiet for a moment. “I sometimes wonder which of us they molded more, myself or Vlad. My delusion was shed long ago, but he is still trapped in his. They made him a monster, Dory, in those dungeons.”

I bit back a comment out of respect for what Radu had been through, but I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to stay quiet if he elaborated. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard the story before. It went something like this: Drac was a heroic teenager who refused to be cowed by Turkish threats. Whenever he was taunted by his guards, he taunted them right back. Every insult of theirs was met with one of his, usually even more inventive because he’d had enough education to provide inspiration. He cursed them, their ancestors and their Prophet. He was brutally beaten, then thrown back into a solitary cell from which he could see the even-worse punishments visited on others. The execution methods varied depending on the extent of the prisoner’s offense: some were given a plain old hanging, while others were shot full of arrows, beheaded or, worst of all, impaled.

Impalement was reserved for those guilty of the most heinous crimes, but in a time of war, it ended up being used fairly frequently. The teenage Vlad got a ringside seat for one on a weekly basis, and apparently took notes. He watched the crows pick at the carcasses that were left under the hot Turkish sun until they were only blistered meat. Maybe he managed to endure his punishment by dreaming of impaling his torturers one day—I don’t know. But when he finally took the throne of Wallachia, it became his favorite way of scaring away invaders and enforcing his decrees.

Almost any crime, from lying and stealing to killing, could be punished by impalement in Drac’s reign. Mircea once told me that his brother placed a golden cup on display in the central square of the city to be used by thirsty travelers. It was worth more than a lifetime’s wages for a worker, but it was never stolen. I would be willing to bet that nobody even thought about it.

Even more famously, two Turkish ambassadors to Drac’s court failed to remove their turbans in his presence. Drac ordered that the hats be nailed to their heads so they would never have to remove them again. Likewise, he once held a picnic in the middle of a field of impaled bodies just for the hell of it. And, when one of his nobles held his nose to keep from gagging at the smell, Drac had him impaled on a stake higher than all the rest, so that he might be above the odor.

He justified his actions by pointing out the lawlessness of the land before he took over. The problem with that excuse was that Drac’s “law and order” had ended up killing far more of his people than even serious disorder would have done. I looked up some statistics once, out of curiosity, and discovered a chilling fact: in his short, six-year reign, he’d had at least forty thousand victims. No, the expediency excuse had never worked for me.

“But, in the end, it was Vlad who chose to use the tactics they taught him, both against the Turks and his own people.”

I blinked at Radu, surprised to hear my own thoughts echoed back to me. “It’s getting a little hard to follow your logic, ’Du,” I told him honestly. “Are you saying that you are in favor of killing him?”

Radu shot me an irritated look. “I am saying that, while it may be a necessity, I will take no pleasure in it. Not because I have any affection for Vlad—in truth, I don’t believe I ever had any—but because it might have been me. If he had been born with the face to tempt a prince, and I had been left in the dungeons, would our positions be reversed today?”

So that was what was eating him. “I doubt it, ’Du. You said it yourself—you were always very different people.”

“True. I doubt I would have survived the dungeons. I have never been brave.”

“You would have survived.” Louis-Cesare’s harsh tones made me jump. I whipped my neck around, and there he was, less than three feet away, and I hadn’t heard a thing. If I didn’t get some sleep soon, I was going to be completely useless. Caedmon was nowhere in sight, but since Louis-Cesare wasn’t covered in blood, I assumed he was still alive. “There are many forms of courage,” Louis-Cesare said. “You would have done what was necessary. But no more.”

I nodded in agreement and gave Radu a slightly greasy kiss. “The Turks didn’t make Drac a monster, ’Du. They just brought out the one that was already there.”

Louis-Cesare and I exchanged a look. The expression in his eyes said that Drac was suddenly a lot closer to a permanent resting place. I didn’t know what had caused the change of heart, but I wasn’t about to complain. For once, we were in perfect agreement.

Radu escorted me back to my room as soon as I finished eating. I waited until I heard his almost silent footfalls fade, then sneaked off to find Caedmon. Or what was left of him.

After a fruitless half hour of searching, I was starting to wonder if Louis-Cesare had decided to hell with the truce and fed him to Radu’s little pets. Then I heard a car pull up outside. I made it to the entryway in time to see Caedmon walking out the front door, looking his usual perfect self. There didn’t appear to be so much as a hair out of place.

“So you are alive.”

“You seem surprised.”

“A little.”

Caedmon smiled. “Your vampire is overproud of his abilities. It is a weakness. Some would exploit it.”

“But not you.”

“Another time, I might be tempted.”

“And now?”

“Now I am slinking away in shame after assaulting the daughter of the house,” he told me cheerfully. “Walk with me, Dorina. Allow me to humbly beg your pardon for my egregious conduct before I depart.”

I followed him outside, where a car driven by one of Radu’s human servants had pulled up. We skirted it, moving far enough away from the house that, with a little luck, we might avoid being overheard. Caedmon leaned on the fence by the pen where Radu was keeping his esoteric collection. The growls, squeals and shrieks coming from inside provided extra sound camouflage.

“I am likely being watched,” Caedmon informed me, “to ensure that my inherently depraved nature—that is a quote, by the way—does not lead me to further indiscretions whilst I grovel in mortification.”

“So grovel.”

A climbing rose bent in to caress his hand. He stroked its stem affectionately. “You first.”

A tentacle covered in brown fur slammed into the wards in front of us and sizzled for a second before dropping to the ground. The air took on the scent of frying bacon. The new members of Radu’s menagerie appeared to be fighting for dominance with the old ones, and a couple of the wilder hybrids were attempting to tear each other apart. The less dangerous creatures cowered on the sidelines, probably hoping to snack off the losers.

Caedmon regarded the display with distaste. “Out of curiosity, what are your vampires attempting to create?”

“Nothing. They captured these from the Dark Circle. Or so they said.”

“Why would anyone wish to create such obviously useless specimens?” I shook my head. I still didn’t have an answer. “If one was of a suspicious bent of mind,” Caedmon mused, “one might almost think they are creating the more hideous creatures as a distraction, to ensure that their real experiments, should any be found, are lost in the crowd.”

“Maybe. But which are the real ones and which the red herrings?”

“Better to ask why the vampires are so interested in them. They are not known for charity. They become involved with those likely to bring them profit or to pose a threat.”

Long talons slashed the earth and great furrows of turf were ripped up, until a huge creature, birdlike only in its overall shape and leathery wings, leapt down from its perch on a small shed. It landed in the middle of the battling group and began ripping into the other creatures with a gleeful disregard for its own safety. It soon scattered them with cobra-swift strikes from its talons and lethal, pointed beak. When the slaughter was over, instead of pausing to feed, it paced the confines of the pen. A long tail slithered across the ground behind it as it searched for a new victim.

“So which are we looking at here?” I asked, strangely fascinated.

The creature’s frighteningly humanlike eyes locked with mine. Beside me, Caedmon laughed. “If I find out, perhaps I will tell you. We are partners, are we not?”

“Are we?”

“Certainly.” He lowered his voice. “I shall make my ignominious exit, and return tomorrow night as Mircea.”