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lip curled in skeptical appraisal. Radu Tepes? Supporting someone else? Not possible.
    Valerie shook the rain off her coat and watched the car nose into downtown traffic.
    The only person Radu Tepes wanted in the press was himself. His vanity demanded that no one share his glory.
    Swallowing her disappointment, she slithered her way along the roof, tracking the limo.
    Logic cooled her anger. Radu was scrambling in Lance’s wake. When he scrambled, he got sloppy. Sloppy meant she would get another chance.
    All she had to do was wait for the younger Tepes to make a mistake. He would fail at whatever he was hastily planning. After all, she knew Dracula’s brother better than anyone else.
    Radu was her brother.
    Valerie was Dracula.
    Since her birth, she had been raised a man. She had dressed like a man, fought like a man, loved as a man, and taken revenge as a man. Earned unending notoriety as a man. For centuries, she had hidden her body, kept her secrets close, closer than even her wife and brothers.
    Every action in Vlad’s life had been in the name of order, chastity, stability, regulation. Everything from war against the Ottomans to enforcing her rule of law in Transylvania to supporting Napoleon and Hitler stemmed from her drive to bend the world to her vision of peace.
    Vlad Tepes, the Impaler. Dracula. Valerie Tate. Once her brother was dust, her past would no longer control her.

Chapter 7
    Berlin
April 1945
    Â 
    A woman’s scream pierced the hallway.
    â€œIn here! Over here!” Sergeant Andrei Okopnik yelled. The echo of the scream still vibrated the Reich Chancellery walls as the Soviet squad skidded to a halt in front of a heavy wooden door. The sergeant spared a quick glance over his shoulder as the men got into formation. The photography crew, lugging their bulky equipment, followed gamely after the soldiers through the dust and gunsmoke-filled air.
    The largest corporal kicked the door off its hinges. Battle-hardened troops ran in. Rifles cocked, they covered every inch of the devastated room.
    At one time, this space had been cozy. A small fire still crackled in the oversized fireplace and a perfectly faded red Persian carpet graced the cold floor. But now, the long overturned table and knocked-down bookshelves offered too many places for an enemy to hide.
    The steady, quiet drip of blood warned the squad’s war-weary nerves.
    â€œWho’s in here?” Okopnik barked.
    A low gasp answered him first. Then a young woman with an old-fashioned cloche hat peeked from behind the table. “Was?” she whispered. “You speak German?”
    He’d picked up some in their advance. “Ein bisschen.” A bit.
    She grabbed one edge of the table. The soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons. Everyone watched her with narrowed eyes as she struggled to her feet. Unspeakable horrors had taught them even a pale woman alone could threaten an entire squad.
    She stood. As the highest rank there, Andrei looked her over, missing nothing. The misbuttoned shirt, the skirt twisted to one side, her stockings hanging from a garter strap. Wobbling in her scuffed heels around the obstacle course of the room, the woman swallowed as she saw all the guns trained on her. Her gaze focused on the sergeant and sharpened at his uniform. Caution squeezed Andrei’s shoulders. Something cunning lived behind those dark eyes.
    â€œI killed one of the monsters.” Her hand steady, she pointed toward the table. Blood tattooed her arms and one side of her face.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œV-V-Valerie,” she whispered. “What will you do to me?”
    Okopnik jerked his head at a private. The boy, with a cautious tread, flanked her to look where she pointed. His eyebrows rose.
    â€œHe’s very dead,” the youngster reported.
    Indicating the rest should watch the woman, Andrei walked over, his weapon at the ready.
    A man’s body sprawled on the faded carpet.