“But they did, and if our information is correct, his followers strayed very far from Imhotep’s example,” Vlad said, sounding impatient now. “Do you know any who are still living?”
“None.” Mencheres’s expression darkened. “Aside from Patra, the only other one I knew of died in the fifteenth century.”
“Who’s Patra?” I’d never heard that name before.
“Mencheres’s former wife,” Vlad said shortly. “Thankfully dead, so the bitch has no part in this.”
“Hey, harsh,” I muttered.
Vlad gave me a jaded look. “Had you known Patra, you would have considered ‘bitch’ a charitable descriptor.”
Mencheres looked understandably ill at ease over the topic, so I seized on the other pertinent point. “The other guy died in the fifteenth century, huh?” I cast a slanted look at Vlad. “That’s the same time period that Szilagyi recruited Mircea and had someone teach him a whole bunch of super-powerful magic that even Mencheres doesn’t know about. Coincidence?”
“Maybe not,” Vlad replied, green starting to fill his eyes. “We’ve been tricked more than once by someone pretending to be dead who wasn’t. Who was this person, Mencheres? More importantly, what kind of special magical abilities or powers did he have?”
“She,” Mencheres said, his expression darkening again. “And she only had one, yet it was more than enough.”
Tonight, we were going up against three members of Imhotep’s secret cult of necromancers, one of whom might be the sorceress that Mencheres used to know. But first, we had to fly more than twelve hours to reach Belarus, the country in Eastern Europe where Mircea said the other necromancers were. I didn’t mind the long flight, in truth. After several futile attempts to link to Leotie or Gretchen—Leotie hadn’t been lying; I found myself blocked each time—I used the rest of our flight to grab a few hours’ sleep. That’s how tired I was. Even prebattle nerves and all my worries couldn’t keep me awake the whole time.
Mencheres came with us. Vlad had argued over this, saying something about needing to fight his own battles, but Mencheres had insisted. Almost no one was able to get Vlad to change his mind once he’d made it up, so I could only guess that Vlad’s love for Mencheres combined with his “honorary sire” status in Vlad’s life had been the cause of his unusual relenting.
Whatever the reason, I was glad. Mencheres’s telekinesis would come in very handy against the necromancers, if they were as tough as Mircea warned me about. Combine that with Vlad’s firepower, Maximus’s brute strength, Marty’s bravery, my own electrical abilities, and whatever Ian could do, and I felt a lot more hopeful about our chances, even if one of the necromancers did turn out to be Mencheres’s former acquaintance.
We landed in Minsk, Belarus, at a little after noon, their time. The bright sunlight was intensified by all the snow on the ground, and the instant blast of freezing air when we exited the plane had me molding my coat tighter around me. Winter was fully here in this part of Eastern Europe. Still, Belarus wasn’t that far from Romania, and seeing the snow reminded me that it had also been winter when Vlad and I first met. How was that less than a year ago? Some days, it felt like several lifetimes ago.
We needed two cars to fit all of us and our luggage, which consisted mostly of weapons. Even with everyone’s supernatural abilities, Vlad didn’t want to take any chances, and I was all for the extra caution. Marty and I rode in the first car with Vlad while Ian and Maximus rode behind us with Mencheres. Vlad spoke Russian to the driver of our vehicle, which meant I didn’t understand a word that he was saying.
I assumed we were going to a hotel or someone’s residence since those places were Vlad’s norm when we traveled. Instead, a little over an hour later, we pulled up to a ramshackle farm complete with a barn that looked like it would buckle from the weight of the icicles hanging off its roof.
“Is this where we’re staying?” I asked, surprised. I could literally see through to the other side of the farmhouse, there were so many holes in the building’s frame.
Vlad’s lips curled. “I know, it’s far beneath my usual standard, but that’s the point. My expensive tastes are well-known, so few would expect to find me here, even if word of our arrival in Minsk did manage to make the rounds.”
“Few indeed,” I said, suppressing a smile. I’d lived on the street for a little while before I met Marty, so this didn’t faze me, but Vlad was used to living in an actual castle. I couldn’t wait to see his expression if we had to sit on piles of hay versus actual furniture.
“I have to get a picture of you next to that barn,” I went on, stifling a laugh at the glower he gave me. “If you could find a pitchfork and hold it up, too—”
“Not in this lifetime,” he cut me off.
“Princes,” I said to Marty, with an exaggerated eye roll. He only grunted in reply, but the side of his mouth turned up. He might not be Vlad’s biggest fan, but he wasn’t immune to being amused by my playful needling of Vlad.
We could all use something to smile about right now. In a few hours, we’d be in a life-or-death fight, and we didn’t know if our advantages would be enough since magic was the ultimate wild card. Some of us might not make it through tonight. I hoped we would, but in case these were the last hours of our lives, I didn’t intend for them to pass under a cloud of worry or regret.