by M. A. Grant
“You believe the strigoi will attack again?” Daria asked him.
“They only know hunger,” Atlas said. He reached up and brushed a hand over his scars, a movement so tentative Cristian couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or subconscious. “They won’t stop until we kill them, or there is nothing left to feed on.”
It was a masterstroke. Daria’s expression shifted from contemplative to committed. “I’ll take you to Stefan’s house,” she declared, standing from her chair. “I’ll wait outside while you finish dressing. We’ll take my truck.”
* * *
Cristian was grateful Daria was driving, even if it meant he wouldn’t have the safety net of specialized glass if they were out too late. He sat in the farthest passenger seat from her, separated by Atlas, and ignored her in favor of watching their darkened surroundings.
The road up the mountain had grown worse from the storm, with large potholes the truck galumphed through with teeth-rattling efficiency. He was about to ask her how much longer she was going to torture them when she made a sharp turn toward a narrow passage in the thick trees surrounding a curve in the dirt road. They climbed up a hill of what would have been green pastures in daylight. At the top of the hill, Daria threw her truck in park and got out to open the remnant of what must have once been a masterpiece of a carved wooden gate. Only one of its doors remained; it was weathered and worn from the march of time, and as Daria pushed it open, Cristian wondered if it would snap off its hinges.
It withstood the abuse and Daria returned, driving them past the gate without stopping to close it again. They continued their way up the short drive to a plateaued bit of land where Stefan’s house stood. Where Daria’s house had still looked reasonably habitable, Stefan’s was a shadow of its former self. The traditional log home had fallen into disrepair, listing to the side as if the wood-shingled roof wanted to bow in tribute to the mountains behind it. The only illumination came from Daria’s headlights when she parked facing the front door. Even from a distance, Cristian could see the shattered wooden remnants of that door lying scattered over the floor inside. There was no police tape this time, no sign of an investigation, and it lent an eerie, unfinished air to the entire thing.
“Do you want to stay here?” Atlas asked Daria, squinting out through the windshield.
In lieu of an answer, she got out of the truck and slammed the door on them.
“Guess not,” Cristian muttered, and opened his door. He and Atlas clambered out less gracefully and took a moment to gather their bearings and adapt to the headlights’ illumination of the scene.
It would have better fit the mood if the world maintained an unnatural stillness, a solemn recognition of the slaughter that had happened at the house. Instead, the usual night sounds greeted them. It made it worse, somehow, as if Stefan’s death was insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
He didn’t get to waste much time musing over the philosophical implications of a shepherd’s murder. Atlas took a deep breath and strode forward, looking at the ground as he neared the house. Cristian glanced over to Daria, who remained unmoving on her side of the truck. She wouldn’t look at him, so with a sigh, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and trudged in Atlas’s wake.
“The police probably ruined any prints,” he remarked as he drew nearer.
“Oh, they did,” Atlas agreed. He’d crouched beside the muddy slop by the steps leading up to the house’s entry landing. “If there were any prints, they’ve been destroyed by the cops or by the storm that rolled through last night.”
“Inside it is then,” Cristian remarked, stretching his legs to make the wide step needed to hop over the mud and onto the stairs. It worked, and he looked over his shoulder at Atlas. “Coming?”
“Right behind you,” Atlas said.
Cristian slowed as he climbed the three stairs, which were fashioned from heavy squares of log likely left over from the original build. The rain had lashed whatever muddy prints remained into useless smudges on the wood, so he focused on looking for any other details. Even with the headlights behind him, he could see well in the dark. He stepped carefully amidst the shards of door. A few larger chunks had been scattered inward, and he paused near one.
“Atlas,” he murmured, and the man was at his side in an instant. He pointed at the larger chunk lying before them. “See it?”
“Claw marks,” Atlas said. He held the wood up so the headlights fell on it.
Cristian reached out and ran his finger along some of the deep gouges marring the wood. Not one set of claw marks, like they’d seen at the warehouse in Scarsdale. This piece was scarred with them, as if multiple strigoi had been clawing at the door from different angles before breaking through it. An odd shiver ran up Cristian’s spine. He and Atlas had barely survived a run-in with one strigoi. This was an entire nest, a ravening pack, and even if he wanted to, he couldn’t imagine how terrifying it would be to face such numbers.
Atlas’s sudden pallor and shut-off expression warned he was probably spiraling from a similar realization. Cristian plucked the wood from Atlas’s hand and tossed it casually to the side. It clattered against the wooden floor, a loud, jarring sound that snapped Atlas from his reverie, and Cristian flicked a hand forward. “Come on.”
It was easy to read the progression of the story in the claw marks over the floor. The strigoi broke down the door and surged inside. A stool lay knocked over beside the fireplace in the main living space. The bed in the corner, with its pile of embroidered blankets and pillows, was untouched. At least Stefan hadn’t been caught in his bed. He’d tried to fight. He must have fled into the kitchen.
Cristian couldn’t place the smell in that room, though it was familiar enough to tickle his nose. A can of instant coffee had been overturned, its grounds scattered over the counter and floor. A few cupboard doors had been knocked open, but the canned goods inside hadn’t been touched.
He leaned in to one cabinet and sniffed. “They didn’t touch the cured meat,” he said.
“Bears wouldn’t have left that,” Atlas replied. He’d found a battered kettle on the floor. Its lid lay a few feet away and there was a large dent in the side, as well as a sharp bend in its cheap handle. “He hit them with this.”
“For all the good it did,” Cristian remarked. He’d finally picked up on the other scent in the room. “He was injured here. I can smell the blood.”
“Fuck,” Atlas growled and tossed the kettle aside.
Cristian led him on, past the destroyed table that had once stood near the back door, and out farther, where the truck headlights couldn’t reach. A small section of cleared land stood between the back of the house and the forest, which stretched its shadowed talons toward the house, a massive wall of threatening darkness. Cristian drew up hard when he processed the scene before him and immediately warned, “Atlas, don’t—”
Too late. Atlas had already flicked on their phone’s flashlight, illuminating the site of Stefan’s murder. Enough blood had spilt into the churned mud even the rain couldn’t wash its stain away. Worse were the drag marks, where strigoi had pulled away their divided portions of the prize to feast on.
Atlas made a low, miserable sound, and turned away. The flashlight’s beams spun with him, revealing Daria, who must have followed them out.
“It took them hours to find all of him,” she whispered, staring at the ground with a dazed look. Shock.
“Atlas, take Daria back to the truck,” Cristian ordered. When Atlas didn’t immediately move, he pointed, hissing at the pain in his wrist from the sudden movement. “Atlas, now.”
Wordlessly, Atlas reached out to Daria. He turned her with a gentle hand to her shoulder and together they made their way back inside. Cristian listened until he was sure they were obeying him, before glancing back to the forest. It made sense for the strigoi to attack Stefan instead of Daria. The woods were right there, a perfect escape, a
nd the forest detritus over the ground would help hide their tracks.
The only thing that didn’t make sense was why they broke through the front door, rather than the kitchen door. Cristian fought every instinct that screamed at him to not put his back to the woods, and quickly circled the house. No sign of prints, even waterlogged ones. The only tracks he could find out back led from the killing site into the forest. Nowhere could he see a second column of tracks leading from the forest to the house. So where the hell had they come from?
He frowned and made one last circle, speeding up when he hit the back of the house and praying nothing leapt at him from the shadows. Still no signs. Considering the police presence and the storm though, maybe they’d been washed away already.
He could ponder it later. There were two people waiting for him who needed something to focus on other than their memories. They’d at least made it out to the truck, which was a sight better than he expected. Daria still trembled when he opened the truck’s passenger door and clambered back inside. Atlas gave him a weary look as he got settled.
“Did you find anything?” Atlas asked. His voice was raw and pained, as if it alone could contain his trauma and hold it back from the rest of the world.
“Yes,” Cristian said. He leaned forward to look past Atlas to Daria. “We should go,” he told her as gently as he could manage.
She nodded and started the truck. The headlights flickered as the engine caught and the comforting rumble of the iron shell around them was a welcome reminder of how soon they’d be able to flee this place. When Daria drove through the gate and parked, Cristian waved her off and closed the remaining door for her. She didn’t miss his effort at a peace offering. Once they were back on the shitty road, she asked him directly, “What did you find?”
“There were no signs the strigoi came from the woods,” he said. Atlas tensed, the muscles of his thigh bunching where their legs rested together, and Cristian reached out to grip his knee reassuringly. “It was too risky to stay and search for their tracks, but I know they didn’t come from the forest.”
“I’ll come back when the sun’s up,” Atlas told him. “Try to figure it out.”
“Midday, please,” Cristian said, trying not to be too protective in front of their new third wheel. “I don’t want there to be a chance they can get to you.”
“I’ll watch his back,” Daria declared. She clenched her jaw as she stared out at the road and added, “He shouldn’t go alone.”
Atlas started to protest, but Cristian squeezed his knee, silencing him. Later, he’d have to remind Atlas that Daria had also faced the horrors of the strigoi and deserved the same opportunity to take control of her narrative. “Thank you,” he told her, meaning it with every fiber of his being. “Thank you for helping when I can’t.”
She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel and nodded. None of them spoke the rest of the drive back.
Daria dropped them back off at the bed-and-breakfast, worry pinching the corners of her mouth as they exited the truck. Before Atlas could close the door behind him, she warned, “I’ll come get you before noon. Try to sleep if you can.”
“You too,” he replied, and slammed the door shut. Her taillights disappeared out of the makeshift parking lot before Atlas turned back to Cristian. “Do you think she’ll be okay on her own tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Cristian said honestly. “I hope so. She deserves better than what life has handed her.” He sighed. “She’ll never trust me, but if she trusts you, we might be able to help her.”
Atlas’s gaze was too thoughtful. “She’d be a fool not to trust you.”
“She wouldn’t be the first,” Cristian mused, earning him a frown from Atlas. “Now, come on. You need to sleep.”
They made their way inside, trying to creep quietly despite the aged wood floor creaking beneath them. Only when they were safely hidden away in their room did Cristian ask, “Do you need to take something tonight?”
Atlas grimaced. “Probably. Some of it’s...stuck there...in my head.”
“I’ll get you some water,” Cristian offered. He was surprised when Atlas reached out to take hold of his good hand, preventing him from moving away.
“Not yet,” Atlas said. “I want you to feed before I take anything.” When Cristian tried to protest, Atlas spoke over him. “You said you’d accept the offer when I looked better. My head is sore, but the cut’s closed up, and my bruises are much better already. There’s no excuse to avoid this.”
“I was scared seeing what those strigoi did at Stefan’s house,” Cristian said, tugging against the hold. “Do you really think this is a good idea?”
“No,” Atlas admitted, “but it’s better than seeing you in pain every time you try to use that arm.” He must have sensed Cristian’s resolve weakening, because he added, “I want to do this. If I’m going off to hunt strigoi with Daria in a few hours, I’d feel much better if I knew you were healing while I was gone.”
“You are such a martyr,” Cristian griped.
Atlas backed slowly to their bed, watching Cristian follow him. He sat down and held out a hand. “That’s not a no.”
“It should be,” Cristian said. But he let himself be manhandled as Atlas wanted. He ended up straddling Atlas on the bed, their chests pressed close together, while Atlas’s arms wrapped around his waist to keep him there.
“Maybe,” Atlas said with a shrug, “but we both need this.”
“Both?” Cristian whispered, confused, but Atlas shook his head and stole a chaste kiss to silence him.
“Not the neck,” he reminded him quietly.
“What about the collarbone?” Cristian asked. He worried their positioning would remind Atlas too much of the attack, but when he tried to move, Atlas held him steady.
“Fine,” Atlas agreed. He kept one arm around Cristian’s waist, and lifted the other to his face, brushing his thumb fondly along the curve of his cheek. “Just...whatever you see, don’t be angry...”
This time, Cristian kissed him. It was the perfect way to stop his attempted apology and to make a promise. He eventually worked away from Atlas’s mouth and trailed kisses down his neck as they grappled to take his shirt off. By the time his bare chest was exposed, they were both laughing. Cristian hummed as he skimmed his lips over the bump of bone, and Atlas shivered under him.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes,” Atlas promised. “I need to do this.”
His words, the way he clung to that idea, of needing to do this, stuck in the back of Cristian’s mind as he kissed over Atlas’s collarbone. When he found the vein, he paused. There was no stench of fear on Atlas’s skin, but he couldn’t help hesitating.
Atlas exhaled and ran a hand up and down Cristian’s spine. “Please,” he whispered.
He couldn’t refuse Atlas, not when he knew what he wanted, so he took a breath, opened his mouth, and let his fangs slide into Atlas’s skin. The bond opened before them, the familiar sensation of minds sliding against each other, finding how to align. Cristian tried to focus on peaceful memories, moments he knew would offer Atlas a calming escape. He didn’t expect Atlas to reach out to him. A rookie mistake. Atlas must have taken his hesitation for acceptance, because his memory roared up like a tidal bore, swallowing Cristian whole.
The apartment was small and dingy, not for lack of effort. Most of the homey touches had moved with Grandma into her shared room at the rehab center. Some pictures still hung on the wall and their new makeshift table—a barely warped board resting on some concrete blocks—had nice vinyl placemats set down on it. Currently, it was covered with scattered school papers, including his unfinished math worksheet, which were forgotten easily enough when the front door unlocked.
Bea stepped inside. Her distended backpack slid from her shoulder to land on the ground with a thump—definitely her calculus textbook—and she
gave a weary smile that made the familiar gnaw of worry take hold in his gut. “Sorry,” she said. “Took longer than I expected.”
“How did it go?”
“Good.” She kept her shoes on, since the carpet was thin and the floor was cold, and wandered over to inspect the homework. “He said he’d let us stay as long as we made rent on time.”
“What did the school say?”
She dropped her gaze and fiddled with the corner of a piece of binder paper. The dread intensified when she didn’t answer. It must have been bad news. Had the school called CPS? Maybe they could pack up and have sleepovers with their friends for a while, until no one was looking for them—
“I didn’t tell them,” Bea said at last. She tapped the worksheet where he’d made a mistake with the long division, and went on, “Their paperwork has this address on it. They don’t need to know Grandma is somewhere else.”
He welcomed the momentary distraction and fumbled with his pencil. He erased the mistake and carefully made the correction. “What about permission slips? Calls home?”
“You know she taught me how to sign everything for her. And if the school calls, I’ll talk to her and make sure she knows before she calls them back. We’ll make this work, Atlas.”
He clutched the pencil tighter, the straight edges biting into his fingers. “They’re going to take us away,” he whispered, his panic growing no matter how hard he tried to get a hold on it. “They’ll take us away and put us with new families.”
Bea wrapped her arm around his shoulder and squeezed him tight. “They won’t,” she swore.
Tears spilled hot down his cheeks. “Someone will want you. You’re good at talking to people and you like math and you know how to cook. I can’t do anything and I got in that fight with Neil when he was picking on Melanie. No one will want me and they’ll make me move around like Vince did and you won’t be able to find me.” His chest was too tight and the room wobbled, no matter how hard he tried to get his sobs back under control.
