by M. A. Grant
He gave her the coordinates, which she repeated once before saying, “I’ll talk to him. Get going.”
Daria slipped inside the house. Cristian wondered how Atlas would take the message. But that wasn’t something he could worry about.
He had a meeting to get to, information to gather, and hopefully a mystery to solve. Radu’s absence was tied to the strigoi somehow. If they found him and shared his knowledge, it might be enough to convince the Council to find and stop the strigoi’s sire. Cristian plugged in the coordinates to Emil’s meeting place and began driving. He would stop these attacks and keep his promise to Atlas, no matter the cost.
Chapter Fourteen
The farther Cristian drove up the mountain into the forest, the more he wondered if the GPS was broken. The headlights illuminated the stripe of road, with faint tire tracks showing through the fallen leaves and needles. The trees pressed in from all sides and even the moonlight couldn’t cut through their thick canopy. The woods Atlas’s platoon had stopped at were similar to these, and he shuddered thinking about what might be watching him from the shadows.
Nothing but static buzzed from the speakers when he turned on the radio, and he turned it off with regret. Without a distraction, he’d have to suffer through his nerves on his own. He ended up singing to himself, some of his mother’s favorites, as well as one of the old folk songs his father had taught him when he was a little boy. He wasn’t a very good singer, but trying to remember the words and rhythm helped him focus on something other than the unnerving sense that strigoi would attack him at any minute. It got him to his destination at least.
The GPS announced his arrival as he pulled past a set of old metal gateposts and drove down the wide road toward the clearing ahead. The mountains rose up gently around him, and a fast-moving river glinted far ahead. Another dark stripe ran near the river, but his headlights didn’t stretch far enough to illuminate it. He followed the curve in the road and bit back a curse when he came around the corner. A series of decrepit buildings stood about. The dark stripe resolved itself into a railroad track, and Cristian realized where he was.
This was the logging camp Atlas had marked on his map.
With a bitter pang of regret, he knew Atlas had been right. These coincidences weren’t fate; they were signs of a setup. He had to get out of here, now. He started to spin his car around and head back down the road when a set of headlights turned on beside one of the buildings. He braked as a figure clambered out of the white van and waved to him.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
It would be impossible to pretend he hadn’t seen Emil’s welcome. Driving away now would alert Emil to Cristian’s suspicions. In a car, he might stand a better chance against one or two strigoi, but against a whole nest of them? He swallowed hard and tried to think of what Atlas would do... Shit, what had Atlas chosen to do after Daria gave him the message? Was he on his way up here now?
Cristian tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Atlas had spent his military career planning extractions for important targets. He would use the coordinates to figure out Cristian’s location and recognize it on his map. He would connect Emil’s meeting spot to the strigoi. He would think before he rushed in; he would plot before trying to save Cristian from the dangers. He would. Cristian had to believe it.
He’d face Emil and drag out their meeting, give Atlas time to get up here and get him out. He could do this. Had to do this. He would rather die than bring the strigoi down on Atlas again.
He parked a short distance from the van, gathered his courage, and opened his door. He clambered out and stood behind the door, resting his arms over the top, where he could easily watch Emil. “What is this place?” he asked the older vampire.
“Used to be a logging camp,” Emil called back. “They boarded up the buildings decades ago. No one comes here anymore.”
“You weren’t kidding when you said you wanted to make sure no one followed you here. Did it have to be this far out in the woods?”
Emil held out his hands at his side and shrugged. “Couldn’t risk any unexpected visitors. Where’s your partner?”
“Migraine,” Cristian lied easily. “I’ll catch him up after.”
“Down to business then. I found someone who will testify to what Grigore’s been doing. Come inside and we’ll all talk.”
“A lucky find since yesterday. Maybe we could talk out here,” Cristian said, torn between dragging it out or escaping while he still had a chance. “I’m a stranger and I don’t want to make them nervous.”
“They’ll be fine,” Emil said. “Come inside.”
“I really would prefer not to,” Cristian admitted.
“Don’t you trust me? The man who fought alongside your father and Mihai?”
“But not alongside me,” Cristian said. “We can work our way up to complete trust.”
“There’s no time,” Emil said, abandoning his van to walk closer. The moonlight made his face a death’s head, and his skeletal smile warned Cristian no amount of playing coy would help him out of the situation he’d thrown himself into.
Escape was the only option left. Atlas would forgive him for what would come. He tried to duck back inside the car, but Emil rushed him, closing the distance between them in a blink and pushing the car door shut. It banged into Cristian, a punch of pain so strong he lost his breath. He wasn’t strong enough to fight an elder vampire, especially when he was this weak from poor feeding.
Emil read his surrender in the slump of his body and hummed in approval. He gripped the door so tightly metal creaked, and his fangs were fully exposed when he leaned in and growled, “Inside. Now.” Once Cristian nodded, he swung the door open again and gestured him to walk ahead.
He took a breath and walked toward the nearest building and into the belly of the beast.
He was nearly to the door when the valley reverberated with the sound of a roaring engine. Emil turned to the rapidly approaching headlights, swearing under his breath, and Cristian seized the moment. He’d never beat Emil in a fair fight, but with Atlas here, he might survive long enough for them both to get out.
He had no reserves, but used what little energy he had to race away from Emil. Emil shouted, and Cristian sprinted to the oncoming truck. For a second, he thought he’d done it. He’d reach the truck, throw himself in the bed, and Atlas would spin around and tear back down the mountain. They’d survive this—
Emil collided into his back with the force of a freight train. He landed hard on the ground, diaphragm spasming as he hit, head crashing forward from the impact. His lip split, and a rock smashed against his cheekbone. He skidded over the dirt. The truck pulled up abruptly. Ears ringing, eyes tightly shut, he still tried to yell a warning. “Atlas! Get away! He’s—”
Emil cut him off by digging his fingers into his hair and forcing his head back. He struggled to get free, but Emil was too strong. A heavy hand closed around his throat, squeezing him into silence.
“Get off him!” Atlas roared.
He sounded close. Too close. Cristian squirmed and tried to claw at Emil’s hand, but he hauled Cristian up and kept him close, a hostage and shield in one. He gripped Cristian’s hair tight enough to keep him from swinging his head and burying his fangs into Emil’s skin. As much as he wanted to, his head ached and his body warned him he was too injured to try anything so bold. Instead, Cristian searched for Atlas. He found him halfway between the haphazardly parked truck and Emil. Atlas held his body rigidly and even from a distance, Cristian could catch the fading scent of Atlas’s fear dissipating into the cool night air. The drive had taken its toll on him. Despite that, he’d drawn his silver blade, and the honed edge caught the moonlight, flashing as he adjusted his grip.
“Your pet thinks he has teeth now,” Emil said in Romanian, amused by Atlas’s display.
Cristian tried to ignore Emil and called out in English, “Go.�
� When Atlas didn’t budge, Cristian ordered, “Survive.” His voice broke on the word as Emil’s grip tightened.
Emil leaned in closer, until his lips brushed Cristian’s ear. He reveled in Atlas’s inability to understand as he whispered, “How long do you think he’ll last against them?”
The shadows of the forest writhed and twisted. Twigs cracked and strange calls drifted up to the cloudless sky above. Emil’s hand loosened at his throat.
“Don’t,” Cristian begged Emil. He tried to kick off the ground, to tear free of Emil’s grip, to do anything that would distract him from the order about to come. “Let him go.” He switched back to English, sucking enough air in to scream one last time, “Go, Atlas!”
But it was too late. The strigoi flowed out of the forest like fog over fields. Their yellow eyes bobbed and blinked through the darkness like fireflies, and the shredded shrouds and clothes draping their forms gaped to expose macerated skin. Five prowled closer to Atlas, circling him, while Emil whistled to the others, who growled and snapped at each other as they scurried back to one of the abandoned buildings.
Atlas’s blade wavered like silver ripples on water, and the sick stench of spilled guts rose from his skin as his fear threatened to take over. Emil gave a low, two-noted whistle, and the strigoi launched at Atlas. He ducked the first’s leap and used his blade to hack at the clawed hand reached for his leg as another tried to take advantage of his distraction. The creature screamed when the silver edge touched its skin. It spun off and away, cradling its injured hand to its chest, and Atlas’s plan came into focus.
He didn’t have to kill them. He simply had to cut them with the silver and avoid their snapping jaws as they fell into death throes.
With every swipe and bite Atlas avoided, with every swing of his blade and snarled retreat the strigoi were forced to take, Cristian’s hope grew. He growled and twisted, slamming his weight back into Emil, trying to knock him off balance. Emil swore and tried to regain control. He wrapped an arm around Cristian’s chest, too low and too frantic to hold him tightly.
Another strigoi screamed as Atlas landed the next hit. Cristian wouldn’t leave him to this fight alone. He wrenched on Emil’s arm and buried his fangs into the man’s elbow. Emil bellowed and Cristian bit harder and deeper. It didn’t shock Emil into releasing him. Instead, Emil crushed him even closer to his chest, and used his free arm to hit Cristian hard in the gut. The pain exploded through him and he curled to protect himself. Emil ripped his arm free and spun Cristian away from him, sending him hurtling back to the ground. Cristian landed on his hands and knees. He didn’t even manage to crawl closer to Atlas before Emil’s shoe connected with the back of his head.
The world flashed with bright lights and when he blinked, he found himself flat on the dirt, head spinning. The three remaining strigoi had closed in around Atlas. Cristian tried to yell a warning, but nothing worked. No voice. No body. He was nothing but a witness to the strigoi who snuck around Atlas’s back and latched on to his swinging arm. It bit deep over his forearm and he screamed. The blade fell; his scream remained.
Emil whistled, a different call, and the strigoi growled and hissed and spat as they backed away from Atlas. The one who still held his arm in its jaw slowly released him as Emil approached, and Atlas collapsed to the ground, breathing shallowly. Emil kicked his blade out of reach and knelt beside him. He hummed when he examined Atlas’s arm, lifting it without paying any heed to his pained cries.
“If you’re lucky,” Emil told Atlas in heavily accented English, “you will change. And if you do not, at least they will feed well tonight.”
He used the blade harness to get a good hold on Atlas and dragged him away. Cristian’s legs shifted uselessly and he clawed at the earth with his fingers. He craned his head to follow Emil’s path and whimpered when they headed toward the same building the strigoi had vanished into.
The two wounded strigoi lay near the truck, twitching as they succumbed to the silver poisoning. The other three strigoi followed Emil like hungry cats.
They left Cristian’s line of sight. He groaned and tried to rise again. His body refused, the pain too strong to overcome, no matter how badly he needed to help Atlas.
A heavy door closed and Emil returned, with no strigoi at his side this time. The sudden shuffle was Cristian’s only warning before Emil’s boot connected with his ribs.
“Stupid fucker,” Emil growled, and kicked him again, sending white-hot pain radiating up his spine and across his back. “Stupid as your father. You’ll pay. Slowly. You’ll wish you’d gone in there with that human.”
He didn’t fight when Emil spat on him, or circled around to kick dirt into his face. Every movement, every breath hurt. But nothing could compare to the shattering heartbreak of Atlas’s fate. Of knowing Atlas’s worst nightmares had come true, and it was all his fault. The eternity of his life wouldn’t be long enough to staunch his grief. If Emil let him live that long.
Emil patted him down and confiscated his phone. Another avenue of escape or help rendered useless. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the wetness over his cheeks, and tried not to whimper as Emil grabbed his legs and dragged him away from the deserted camp buildings and to another blocky cabin set on the edge of the forest. It had an oddly shaped roof, with a high point well above the rest of the building, but no other details. It wasn’t until Emil pulled him inside, past the old door, that he recognized the space as an abandoned chapel.
God had fled the place long ago. The icons had been removed, along with the carefully embroidered liturgical cloths that had once decorated the space. The murals painted on the wooden walls were faded, worn away by weather and time. Every window was boarded up, and the only light came from a series of oil lamps. The screen that once separated the nave from the sanctuary had been replaced with iron bars.
Emil dragged Cristian into this blasphemous cell, opening the door just enough to toss him inside, before closing it back up and locking it tightly. Content his prisoner couldn’t escape, he tossed the keys on a small table, and pulled out a phone as he walked away. Cristian lay on the cold, plank floor and listened to Emil’s steps outside the chapel. The door closed, leaving him to the darkness and the faint glow of the oil lamps.
He closed his eyes and wondered how long Emil would keep him alive before throwing him to the strigoi. Hopefully not for long. He’d failed utterly. Failed to protect Atlas, failed to find a way to warn his father of what was happening here, and now failed to hold on to a will to live. It would be a relief to be tossed into the nest after Atlas, a fitting end for a useless heir.
Something rustled in the back corner of the cell. His senses were dulled from his likely concussion. With no hope of seeing or smelling what was coming for him, he rolled away, trying and failing to find a defensible position. He ended up crouched in the corner with his back set against the metal bars. The world spun violently and he barely got a hand down in time to support him as he puked. The pain in his head grew and he wondered if it would stop if his skull split open.
“If you’re going to kill me,” he rasped, wiping his mouth with his forearm once he’d spat out the last of the bile, “I’d appreciate you doing it quickly.”
“Cristian?”
He balked. The tenor of the voice had changed in the time they’d been apart, but he still recognized it. He took a shuddering breath and asked quietly, “Radu?”
A figure crawled out of the darkness. Radu was a shadow of the man he’d been. His honey-dark hair hung lank and oily about his face. His cheeks were hollow and the dark smudges under his eyes only drew attention to the hopelessness in his confused gaze. He spoke around his fangs, which weren’t retracting due to his near starvation, and his dirty clothes didn’t come close to fitting his frame.
“Cristian, is that you? You smell like sorrow and blood,” Radu whispered. He reached out a shaking hand, but withdrew it before they touched.
“I must be hallucinating again—”
“It’s me,” Cristian promised. He ignored the dirt and other things caked under Radu’s nails and took hold of his hand. “How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know,” Radu said. “There’s no light. No darkness. There’s pain.” His fingers tightened around Cristian’s hand, and he leaned in closer, sniffing at Cristian’s wrist. “There’s hunger.”
“Has he hurt you?” Cristian asked.
“He hurts and when I grow hungry, he leaves. Then he returns and hurts me again.” He’d pulled on Cristian’s hand until his wrist was exposed. His head dropped and as he spoke, Cristian could feel his lips brushing over his skin. “He hurts and hurts and nothing makes it stop. I can’t heal from it because it never stops...”
Cristian shivered at the faintest scrape of fangs against his wrist. A terrifying cold gripped him. Radu hadn’t gone feral yet, but he was on the edge, and Cristian’s injuries filled the air with the scent of blood. If he fed from Cristian now, before he had full hold of his faculties, neither of them would survive the experience.
He must have scented Cristian’s fears. Radu gave a ragged sob and rested his forehead against Cristian’s wrist. Cristian reached up and petted his hair, wondering how long Emil would be out of the building for. Maybe it was worth the risk...
“I’m not strong,” Cristian warned Radu quietly. “You can’t feed too deeply.”
“I won’t,” Radu promised.
“You have to let me in,” Cristian told him. “Your family and mine are in danger. I have to know what you learned.”
“I will,” Radu promised. “Please let me feed, Cristian, please let me feed—”
Cristian pressed his wrist to Radu’s lips. There was no gentleness or consideration in his bite; Radu was too far gone for that. The moment his fangs slipped into Cristian’s skin, Cristian understood what he’d meant. It hurt and hurt and didn’t stop—
