Crooked Shadows--A Vampire Bodyguard Romance

by M. A. Grant

  “Park here,” he told Atlas, pointing to one of the many empty spaces lining the road.

  Atlas parked, shut off the car, and turned to him, waiting expectantly. “Well?”

  Cristian pointed to a storefront a short distance away. The bright lights inside cast wet shadows over the road. Pots with flowering plants hung from the awning, which protected a narrow line of small tables and chairs. The sign on the wall near the doors read Cafe/Bar. “We’ll head in there first. You can—”

  “Stand beside you, look pretty, and not say a word?” Atlas asked, already reaching for his jacket in the backseat.

  “Exactly,” Cristian agreed, exiting the car.

  It was habit to look both ways before crossing the street, despite the peaceful silence of the town. Atlas caught up to him quickly enough, hands stuffed in his pockets and his jacket back on to hide his kukri.

  The building served as a general store and cafe in one, and was still moderately busy for the late hour. The handful of locals watched Cristian wander through the aisles of groceries, gathering a few things here and there, before heading to the counter to pay. He greeted the villagers there with a pleasant smile, and set down his items for the older woman who began to ring him out.

  “Evening,” she said in Romanian, giving him a quick once-over before glancing to Atlas at his back. “Passing through tonight?”

  “Just arrived actually,” he said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s American. Works for some nature journal. His editor saw the reports of the bear attacks in the area and couldn’t figure out why the MPs hadn’t sent anyone here to help yet. I got assigned to translate for him.”

  The group blatantly eavesdropping exchanged calculating looks and the woman took another, slower look at Atlas. “Awfully quiet for a journalist,” she remarked. She gave Cristian the total and began bagging his items.

  “Doesn’t speak a word of Romanian,” Cristian confided. “And he’s jet-lagged. His boss didn’t even make him reservations anywhere.” He shook his head as if his patience had about run dry and rambled on, “Is there anywhere we could stay tonight?”

  “There’s lodging farther down the left fork in the road,” one of the men, a weathered former logger or farmer, said. Cristian nodded, showing he didn’t mind the lack of conversational privacy, and the man went on, “You can tell him he’s in the right spot for his story too.”

  “Oh?” Cristian asked, handing off the bag of groceries to Atlas, who was listening intently despite the language divide.

  “There was another attack yesterday,” a different man said. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and leaned back on his heels. “One of the shepherds up in the hills.”

  “Was he defending the flock?” Cristian asked.

  The man shook his head slowly and rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “Not a creature harmed, other than Stefan. Another shepherd went round and collected up his flock until someone from his family could arrive to get them.”

  His pulse raced, but he turned and calmly relayed the information to Atlas, whose expression grew stony. “Can we talk to this other shepherd?” he asked Cristian in English, unknowingly playing his part of the ignorant American well.

  Cristian turned back to the man and asked in Romanian, “Who’s this other shepherd?”

  “Daria,” the cashier said to Cristian. She at least was polite enough to look past him to Atlas as well. “Her family were shepherds up in the hills before—” She shook her head and the others near the counter murmured a mixture of condolences and prayers. “Well, that’s her business. But you may want to speak to her about Stefan. If anyone is sent to investigate, they won’t arrive before you leave.”

  “Someone should share what’s happening here,” a wizened man said. His wife, equally wrinkled and hunched, nodded, her floral head shawl bobbing under the store’s overhead lights.

  “Where can we find her?” Cristian asked.

  * * *

  Cristian tried to convince Atlas to put off the drive up the narrow, muddy road to Daria’s. It seemed too much, too soon, but Atlas assured him he was fine. Cristian tried to ignore his misgivings as they climbed from the valley floor to the grassy glens above.

  Their car headlights illuminated the tight tunnel of trees and bushes surrounding the lane. The village lights were cheerful twinkles behind them when Atlas abruptly pulled over and threw the car in park. The rancid stench of misery and terror filled the car’s interior without warning.

  “Atlas?” Cristian asked, but the man had already ripped off his seat belt and flung open the door of the car, stumbling outside into the rain.

  Cristian cursed as he struggled to free himself from the car, but quickly joined Atlas outside. There was no thunder, no lightning like there had been at the safe house; there was nothing but the constant deluge soaking his shirt through in a matter of moments. He smeared a hand over his head, pushing his hair out of his face, and focused on what really mattered: Atlas. He stood against the car’s rear panel, head tilted up into the sky, panting as if he couldn’t draw breath.

  “Shit,” Cristian muttered. “Atlas!” He came around the back of the car, and slowed his approach, praying he looked nonthreatening. “Are you okay?”

  For a long, painful moment, Atlas continued to stare up into the storm, his body rigid as he fought for control. And then, clumsily, he shuddered, shivered, and shook his head. No.

  “Can I touch you?” Cristian asked. He sounded desperate, he knew, but he didn’t care. He’d been able to comfort Atlas during his nightmares, but this was completely different. He didn’t want to make things worse.

  “P-please,” Atlas gasped.

  He splashed through puddles on the muddy, pockmarked road and flung his arms around Atlas’s waist, squeezing tightly. Atlas’s arms went around his back and hugged back so strongly Cristian’s shoulders and ribs groaned in protest.

  “We’re okay,” he promised, nuzzling the soft skin behind Atlas’s ear. “It may not feel like it, but we’re okay.”

  “S-saw a fucking sh-shadow out the window,” Atlas got out. “It all c-came back.”

  His fear and embarrassment and frustration twisted the stammering words, and Cristian hummed, offering wordless support. Atlas didn’t want platitudes. He wanted to forget he was at the mercy of his memories.

  Cristian’s suspicions were confirmed a few harsh breaths later when Atlas admitted, “Hate you s-seeing me like this.”

  “Like what?” Cristian whispered. “Like a survivor?” Atlas ground his teeth, until Cristian drew back enough to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Your options were to be a survivor or to be dead. I infinitely prefer the former.”

  “You’re biased,” Atlas mumbled. But his trembling was slowing and he didn’t struggle over the words. Progress.

  “Very,” Cristian agreed.

  This time Atlas turned his head, meeting Cristian’s lips full on. His skin was cold, slick from the water sluicing down both their faces, but the kiss was filled with gratitude and affection, and Cristian reveled in it until Atlas pulled away to catch his breath.

  “We should get back in the car,” Atlas said.

  “Are we turning back?”

  “No. I—I’d like to try to get to her place tonight. If I can.”

  Arguing would seem like he didn’t trust Atlas to know his limitations. And though he may have privately worried about that, Cristian had no intention of bringing it up now, when Atlas was fighting to pull himself together again. So he offered what he hoped would come across as a compromise. “Want me to drive the rest of the way?”

  Atlas was truly shaken; he didn’t immediately reject the idea. Cristian waited while Atlas fought with himself over it before adding, “You can help me decide how we want to approach this Daria while I drive.”

  That did it. Atlas huffed in displeasure, but gav
e a quick, curt nod before untangling himself from Cristian’s grasp and heading for the passenger door. They got resettled in the car, adjusting seats and turning the heater to full blast. As the air grew heavy from their wet, and now warm, clothes, Cristian put the car into drive and continued their way up the hill.

  “No one said what had happened to her family?” Atlas asked.

  “No,” Cristian said, weaving slowly around a large, newly exposed boulder. “Just said it was her business.”

  “Not a town secret then,” Atlas mused, “but something bad enough that people are uncomfortable discussing it.”

  Cristian hummed in agreement.

  “If this Stefan was killed by strigoi, do you think she could have had something to do with it?” Atlas asked.

  Cristian frowned. “I don’t know how,” he admitted. “It sounded like she collected his sheep during the day, which means she couldn’t be their sire. But she may know something we don’t.”

  “We’ll need to be careful. First sign of anything odd and we’re gone, okay?”

  “Okay,” Cristian agreed easily.

  It took them almost a half hour to wind their way up to the turn to Daria’s house. At least the land had opened up around them, so much so that Atlas relaxed a bit. Pastures spread out on either side of the car, giving them a clear line of sight as they drove up the heavily rutted drive. Ahead of them stood an ancient log house, with what must have been a barn behind it. Its windows and door were intact, though the once vibrant paint was long since faded. The interior was dark, but Daria, or whoever was inside, must have heard the approach of their car. The bright glow of a light turning on in one of the windows escaped out through the cracks in the wooden shutters.

  “Someone’s home,” Cristian muttered.

  “Wonderful,” Atlas said.

  Cristian parked the car on a patch of mostly cleared ground out of the way of the drive, and turned off the ignition. The moment the windshield wipers stopped moving, streams of water obscured their sight.

  “Should we go up and knock?” Atlas asked.

  “That would probably be polite,” Cristian said.

  It ended up not being their decision. A square of yellow light wavered through their windshield. They both got partway out of the car, making sure to stay behind the doors. “Hello,” Atlas called to the dark figure in the doorway.

  “Go away,” the woman commanded in accented English. “It’s not safe at night.”

  “We were looking for Daria,” Atlas went on gamely. “Is she here?”

  Nothing but the patter of rain on sodden ground. Cristian considered jumping into the conversation, trying to speak to her in Romanian to see if it helped, but she surprised him by asking, “Who are you?”

  “We’re journalists,” Cristian lied without hesitation. “The people in town said you might be able to help us. We were sent to do a story on the recent attacks.”

  “Please,” Atlas said, lifting his voice so it cut through the rainfall, “we only have a few questions for you and then we’ll leave. I promise.”

  It wasn’t going to work. Her distrust wafted toward them, a sickening aroma of rotting citrus, and Cristian tried not to gag on it. Atlas didn’t notice, thank God.

  Finally, grudgingly, she said, “A few questions. Then you leave.”

  “Thank you,” Atlas said, closing his car door and hurrying to the house. Cristian followed at his heels, resigned to a perpetual sogginess.

  Daria stepped back inside the house, leaving her door partially cracked for them. They were nearly to the rough-cut steps when Cristian slowed and sniffed the air. “Atlas,” he said quietly.

  “What?”

  “Do you smell that?”

  Atlas slowed his pace and must have tried to catch the scent Cristian had found, but shook his head in defeat after a moment. “No. What is it?”

  “Garlic. All over the window frames and doorway.”

  Atlas gave him a curious look. “You love garlic.”

  “I do. But remember when you told me to tell you if there was anything odd?” He waited for Atlas to nod before saying, “It’s an old folk belief here. Keeps out strigoi.”

  “Well, fuck,” Atlas mumbled.

  “Exactly.” Cristian pushed his wet hair out of his eyes again, straightened his shoulders, and eyed the door. “Looks like Daria knows something.”

  “Now to figure out what,” Atlas added.

  Together, they ascended the stairs and pushed open the door, revealing a cozy, somewhat cluttered interior. And a young woman with serious eyes training a beaten-up, probably illegal, Russian side-by-side shotgun on them.

  “Welcome,” she said. The barrels never wavered from them as they stood in shocked silence in the doorway. “Come in and ask your questions.”

  It was remarkable to watch Atlas shift into crisis mode. In a single, smooth motion, he moved himself in front of Cristian, while somehow managing to make himself look smaller than he actually was. “We aren’t here to hurt you,” he promised her.

  Cristian ignored his attempts to create rapport. Instead, he eyed Daria, searching for weaknesses. She was strong, probably from a life spent chasing sheep up and down these hills. Her dark brown hair was cut short and a little unevenly, as if she’d done it herself in a mirror and hadn’t been bothered to fix it. She was still dressed from the day’s work, with worn jeans, a heavy jacket, and mud-encrusted boots. Her grip on the shotgun was steady, and her eyes remained slightly narrowed as she glanced past Atlas to Cristian, holding his gaze without a trace of fear.

  “For your sake, I hope that is true,” she said drily. “Who is he?”

  “His translator,” Cristian said with a smile. Maybe it was a little crueler than he meant it to be, but he didn’t much like having a shotgun pointed at him. He sure as fuck didn’t like having the same shotgun pointed at Atlas, who was doing his level best to play bodyguard without making it too obvious.

  “I speak English,” Daria said, as if that rendered Cristian unnecessary.

  “And well,” Atlas said politely. “But I’m going to have a hard time interviewing you if you shoot me.”

  Daria snorted. “I have no intention of killing you. But polite visitors rarely visit this late at night.”

  “Then why did you let us in?” Cristian asked, glancing around at the room. Braided plaits of garlic hung drying in the various corners or from doorways. It steeped the house in that pungent odor, which he didn’t mind in food, but wasn’t looking forward to trying to wash out of his wet hair and clothes.

  “Because there are worse monsters than you in these mountains,” she said with a twisted smile. “My silver shot is for them.”

  Cristian tensed, grateful Atlas’s body hid his reaction from her. As long as she didn’t blow off his head—which, at this distance wouldn’t be too hard—he could heal from most kinds of shot. The lead balls would eventually be pushed out of his healing skin, or could be removed later by a doctor. But silver shot...he’d never run into that before, and silver exposure to the bloodstream would be lethal. It was an ingenious solution and he bet she was the one who’d come up with it.

  Which meant this unassuming shepherdess was far more dangerous than he’d originally given her credit for.

  Atlas seemed undeterred. “What do you mean?” he pressed. “What monsters?”

  Daria’s attention shifted from Cristian to Atlas, though it was clear she didn’t consider him the true threat in the room. “You wanted to ask about Stefan.”

  “Yes,” Atlas agreed readily, “we did. He was killed last night, wasn’t he?”

  “He was,” Daria said.

  “You found him?”

  “I did.”

  How could she hold the gun up for that long? Surely her arms were getting tired...

  “Can you tell us a bit more about that?” Atlas ask
ed. He glanced toward a wooden bench just inside the open room behind her. He gestured at it carefully. “Could we sit down while you talk to us?”

  She eyed him, then Cristian. Slowly, tentatively, the barrels of the gun lowered. “You can sit there,” she agreed. She waited for them to get settled before taking a seat in a wooden chair across from them. She drew up a foot to rest on the seat, steadied her arm on her knee, and the shotgun went back up. Cristian smiled.

  “How did you know Stefan?” Atlas asked.

  “We helped each other with the flocks,” she said. “He taught me what I needed to know about lambing and how to keep the sheep healthy.”

  “Why didn’t your father or mother teach you that?” Cristian asked, hoping to throw her off.

  “Because they died,” she said with a saccharine smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Atlas said. It was polite, but Cristian could hear the emptiness in his words. He had been through hell himself, and he understood that attempted empathy could easily backfire. Rather than risk that, he continued on, “Is that why you found him first? Because you worked together?”

  “No one else visited Stefan,” Daria said. “I went to ask him about a lame ewe. And when I arrived, I saw that the door to his house was open and his flock still loose in the field. He’d never even gotten the barn open.”

  “You went inside,” Atlas guessed.

  She nodded. “I found him there.”

  “The local papers said it was a bear attack,” Atlas said. He glanced at Cristian, who nodded. Atlas added, “My editor was suspicious over that explanation due to the lack of governmental response.”

  “It wasn’t a bear,” Daria said plainly. She looked from him to Cristian and back again. Whatever she saw made her forehead wrinkle and her mouth tighten to an unpleasant line. “And you’ve asked enough questions. It’s time for you to leave.”

  She rose and gestured them to the door with the shotgun. Atlas frowned, but started to rise. Cristian set a hand on the damp crook of his elbow and prevented him from standing. He channeled every ounce of self-possession and confidence he could and leaned back with the insouciance he knew drove Atlas to fury when they first worked together.