Rare Vigilance

by M. A. Grant

  “Fine.”

  “Lovely doing business with you, Mr. Kinkaid. See you tonight.”

  He blinked and looked down at his phone. The call was over. But the compromise was in place.

  Bea reentered her office a moment later, and Atlas was positive she’d been waiting outside the door, likely eavesdropping. “Sounds like it went well,” she remarked as she returned to her desk.

  “I think it might have,” Atlas agreed cautiously.

  “Did you apologize?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you decide on a compromise?”

  “I think so. At least the start of one.”

  Bea set down the piece of paper she’d picked up on her way out. She gave Atlas a smug smile as she settled back into her chair. “Sister knows best,” she bragged. “Now, go home. You look like shit warmed over.”

  “Love you too, Bea,” Atlas mumbled. Her laughter followed him out of her office, but it didn’t bother him. His mind was finally clear enough he might be able to manage some real sleep before tonight’s shift. No matter what Cristian had agreed to, Atlas was sure he’d need to keep his wits about him.

  * * *

  Despite their tentative truce, low expectations for Cristian’s behavior meant he was on guard when he showed up for the next night’s shift. It was the right call because he noticed the tension in the air before ever stepping into the house. Dinu and Vasilica stood in the doorway of the billiards room with cues in hand, blatantly eavesdropping on the muffled, furious voices from the office upstairs.

  “Hey,” Dinu greeted Atlas. “Did Cristian text you yet?”

  “No,” Atlas said, a little confused. “Was he supposed to?”

  Vasilica jabbed her elbow into Dinu’s side. “He doesn’t have Atlas’s number, remember?” She darted a quick look at Atlas, a rare decision to include him in the conversation. “We aren’t going to Rapture tonight.”

  Atlas looked over his shoulder. More and more, he wondered if there was a joke going on he didn’t know about. “The car’s out front.”

  “That’s because Cristian is going somewhere. We aren’t.” Vasilica must have had her fill of him, because she looked back toward the stairs, head tilted in anticipation.

  Andrei emerged from one of the doors leading to the kitchen. Atlas caught his attention as he headed for one of the studies—difficult to do when the man was completely focused on not spilling whatever was in his coffee mug—and asked, “What’s going on?”

  Andrei grunted, spun out of Atlas’s reach, and said, “Business,” before vanishing through the other doorway.

  About as helpful as a kick in the nuts, Atlas lamented. None of Cristian’s friends seemed interested in giving him any details, so he decided to follow Vasilica and Dinu’s lead and find himself a comfortable place to linger until he knew what the night’s activities were.

  It didn’t take long to find out.

  The voices in Decebal’s office fell silent.

  “Ooo,” Vasilica whispered, “here it comes.”

  Atlas’s shoulders tensed and he lowered his head without fully understanding why. A door upstairs opened, cracking into the wall a second later, and a pair of heavy footfalls pounded down the hallway.

  Vasilica and Dinu retreated into the billiards room, closing the door behind. Well, almost closing the door behind them. Atlas had no doubt they were peering out through the narrow opening.

  Atlas choked on a surprised breath when he spotted Cristian. He’d seen Cristian dressed up for Rapture, but those designer clothes were always worn with the relaxed indifference of someone used to such wealth. The gray suit Cristian wore now was nothing like that.

  The single-breasted, modern-fit jacket made his shoulders and chest look wider than Atlas knew them to be. His skinny tie was the same color of his eyes and drew attention up to his aristocratic sneer. The careful pleat of his slacks lengthened his legs and his shined shoes would rival those of dress blues at parades. It made him look older, harder, and Atlas wondered if Cristian deliberately avoided wearing such clothes because it reminded people that he could be a responsible adult.

  Armor, Atlas decided. This is Cristian in armor.

  “What are you looking at?” Cristian spat when he noticed Atlas watching him.

  Atlas mentally rolled his eyes before replying, “Nice tie.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Cristian stalked past him and out the front door before a frustrated Helias appeared on the stairs. Atlas didn’t immediately follow Cristian, instead raising a brow and looking to Helias for any kind of clues of what the hell was going on. Helias made a face and gestured for Atlas to follow Cristian instead.

  Okay, so he would be going into this completely unprepared.

  He took a slow, steadying breath, and abandoned the house. Cristian had already gotten into the backseat of the car. He didn’t say anything as Atlas got in and started the ignition. He didn’t say anything as Atlas drove down the drive. Atlas left him to his silence as long as he could, positive it was better to give him some time to calm down before pressing for answers. Only when they hit the end of the Vladislavic’s private road did he dare speak up.

  “Tonight’s destination?” he asked.

  “Sixty-one Revelator Road.”

  Atlas frowned, but dutifully pulled up the GPS. “I don’t know that one,” he admitted. It stung his pride a bit; he was familiar with most of Scarsdale.

  Cristian gave him a twisted grin from the backseat. “Not Scarsdale. We’re going to Hahn Lake.”

  He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “Hahn Lake? Like, almost an hour away, Hahn Lake?”

  “If traffic is good and there’s no road construction. Yes.” Cristian leaned forward and pointed at the GPS. He repeated, “Sixty-one Revelator Road, Hahn Lake,” while Atlas dutifully typed it in.

  “And you couldn’t have told me this sooner?” he asked as the directions popped up on screen.

  “I didn’t have your number.”

  “Get it from Helias.”

  For some reason, that made Cristian’s poor attempt at good humor vanish, replaced with a scowl. “Give it to me yourself.”

  With a sigh, Atlas recited his number and turned onto the road, resigned to the long, miserable drive. He only made it fifteen minutes before glancing back at Cristian. “Why are we going to Hahn Lake?”

  “Father has a business meeting out there and decided to send me in his stead,” Cristian said with bitter cheer. “Supposedly it’s an easy transaction and even I won’t be able to mess it up.”

  Atlas wasn’t sure if there was a tactful way to ask the question, but he tried anyway. “Was this planned?”

  “What do you think, Mr. Kinkaid?”

  He didn’t answer. It wasn’t that kind of question. Instead, he turned on the radio and, like a coward, kept his mouth shut for the rest of the drive.

  Chapter Seven

  Hahn Lake didn’t strike him as the kind of town Decebal Vladislavic would consider an asset. What had once been a sparkling summer resort town had faded over the years. The local B&Bs and small chain hotels proclaimed vacancies as he and Cristian drove through the main strip, though they should have been filled at this point in the season. The downtown district could have been Anytown, USA. There was a small local hospital near one of the two churches. The churches looked so similar Atlas could only distinguish between their denominations thanks to the large signs posted out front. Several comfortably worn restaurants whose names were little more than a description of the food they served, and a post office were all within walking distance of the weathered-brick town hall and its short clock tower. Crammed in among the other buildings, various tourist trap boutiques showed their wares with dimly lit window displays. If Atlas ever needed to buy Bea a wood-burned anything or a bright sweatshirt whining Hahn-y, take me to the lake! he kne
w where to come.

  If Cristian was equally unimpressed, he didn’t show it. He kept his head down, gaze fixed on his phone, and left Atlas to take in the sights on his own. Their destination was on the northeastern side of town, near a closed timber mill whose locked gates declared it would soon be converted into a packing plant for a company he didn’t recognize. As they drove by, he didn’t miss the large sign declaring the proposed project completion. Apparently, someone else had figured out that the project’s eleven-year late start wasn’t very promising; they’d spray painted FUCKERS over the company logo with fluorescent orange paint. There was no such vandalism on any of the signs at the closed cabinetmaking workshop a few hundred feet away, where the GPS informed Atlas they’d reached the end of their journey. The outside lights were on, allowing Atlas to find a parking spot near the two SUVs already there, though the interior lights didn’t appear to be on. All he could see was a faint pool of light, which did nothing to illuminate what they were walking into.

  This did not look like a place to do any kind of good business. This looked like he’d stepped into an episode of some procedural show that would end with a jaded detective staring at his dismembered body before making a quip and sliding down a pair of aviator sunglasses.

  “Who are you meeting?” he asked Cristian.

  “Some delightful ruffians.” Cristian gave a sinuous stretch in the backseat and grinned at Atlas’s scowl. “Father is very interested in expanding his influence and they have been amenable to supporting his expansion...for proper financial backing of their business interests, of course. I’m here to seal the deal. Don’t make that face. This won’t take long. We go in, I charm them, collect some papers Father sent over, and we leave. In and out in ten minutes.”

  There was no immediate threat to Cristian’s safety. There was no reason to lock the car doors and drive him away. Atlas frowned, but had no choice but to follow Cristian’s lead and exit the car. The door into the workshop was unlocked. Cristian pushed it open and sauntered inside, ignoring Atlas’s hissed order to stop so he could go first. A dusty electric lamp sitting on a desk behind the front counter was responsible for the light Atlas had seen from outside. An open door to their left revealed a shadowy break room and kitchenette. No one was there, which meant their only other option was going through the door into the rear section of the workshop labeled Offices-Employees Only.

  He beat Cristian to the door first and drew to a stop. It forced Cristian to halt as well, which earned him a dirty look. “Mr. Slava,” Atlas warned quietly, “I realize you have no choice about attending this meeting, but please remember I also have a job to do here.”

  “They aren’t going to hurt me,” Cristian grumbled. When Atlas held his ground, he threw his head back, sighed, and said, “Fine, I’ll listen to you. Can we go now?”

  The door swung inward on slightly sticky hinges and Atlas could see a handful of people in the room beyond. Again, the fluorescent lighting was ignored, made up for by a floor lamp this time, which kept Atlas’s eyes from aching thanks to its soft light. Two men sat on a couch with their backs to the door, while others stood or sat in the shadows just out of the lamp. No one looked over at them; Cristian was expected, after all.

  “Durand,” Cristian called out as he slid past Atlas into the room. “Decebal sends his regards.”

  Atlas made it two steps into the room before Cristian froze. Atlas grunted and twisted to avoid colliding with him. He only partially succeeded, forced to reach out and grasp hold of Cristian’s shoulders so he didn’t knock either of them down. Cristian’s muscles were tense under the smooth fabric of his jacket and he stared ahead at the couch with something like horror. And then Atlas smelled it. Blood. Stale, metallic, almost moldy from the way it mingled with the dust coating the workspace.

  He dug his fingers into Cristian’s flesh, tugging him toward the door. “Leaving. Now.”

  He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Should have known Cristian had no intention of following through with his agreement. His misplaced faith allowed Cristian to shake him off easily and hurry toward the couch. Atlas swore and followed, trying to peer into the darkness around them. None of the shadowed figures moved and he realized grimly that none of them were supporting their weight independently. One slumped in a folding chair. Another leaned heavily against a filing cabinet. His gut pitched when he remembered Kurt’s head had tilted the same loose way when his corpse was lifted from the ground and tossed against a tree.

  Stop. Don’t go back there. Stay here. Focusing on Cristian kept him from chasing the horrific memories of his platoon’s bodies scattered around him.

  His charge had halted in front of the couch. His fists clenched, his jaw clamped, and Atlas braced himself for the sight he suspected he’d find. He held a hand uselessly over his nose to try to limit the stench and faced the bodies. There was blood, just not as much as Atlas would have suspected, which meant the smell was coming from the other bodies in the shadows. The lack of blood made the sight of the two men worse.

  They were pale, one almost grayish, and the thin skin of their closed eyelids shone waxy in the lamplight. The shirt of the man on the right was stained with crimson blotches from the jagged wound in his neck. It was a nice shirt, fine cotton under an even finer black jacket, which probably hid more bloodstains. He was younger than Decebal, but not by much. His brown hair was brushed with silver at the temples. His open-mouthed grimace highlighted the silver streaks in his beard. The papers in his hand were still somewhat legible in spite of the fine spattering of blood over Decebal’s letterhead.

  “Fuck,” Cristian swore when he spotted the papers. He took a step forward to reach for them. On gut instinct, Atlas snagged hold of his wrist and pulled him away.

  Just in time too. The second man, who had been leaning just as bonelessly against the back of the couch, opened his eyes. Cristian and Atlas both lurched back in surprise, which brought an eerie smile to the man’s face. “You’re not Decebal.” He unfolded from his macabre place on the couch.

  Atlas dragged Cristian behind him. He backed up with steady steps. Tripping over something could give this stranger a chance at Cristian.

  The man tilted his head and the light from the lamp fell differently over his face. His brown eyes flickered amber, and memories of yellow eyes and sharp white fangs flashing in moonlight rose like a shadowed leviathan in the back of Atlas’s mind. He squeezed Cristian’s arm to ground himself and swallowed, forcing down his fear.

  “You’re not Decebal,” the man repeated, slower this time, “and you brought a pet.” He sniffed the air and his eyes narrowed. “Why would you need a pet, I wonder?”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Cristian demanded. He tried to get around Atlas, but a quick step and shift of body weight prevented it.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” the man said. “But I think I already know.”

  He hadn’t moved any closer to them. Their efforts to escape didn’t concern him. He seemed...bored, and that scared Atlas more than anything else.

  “We thought Decebal would come himself,” the man mused. “We wished to discuss his surreptitious attempts to expand his borders. We never thought he’d send his son instead.”

  Fuck. Whoever “they” were didn’t matter. They knew who Cristian was, which meant they’d been keeping an eye out for him. The danger was too great.

  The mystery man rolled his shoulders, flexed his hands, and stretched his neck from side to side, like an athlete limbering up before a competition. A low rumbling growl built in the room all around Atlas—from the man, from Cristian, from his own imagination?—and Cristian tugged against his iron grip. Even that reminder of where and when he was didn’t help. The man turned farther into the light and Atlas’s heart lost its beat in a stumbling moment of panic. The scars on his neck and ribs stung like they’d been reopened. The creature standing across the room had given up all pretense.
Yellow eyes with dilated pupils. Tips of long fangs pressing coyly into a lower lip as it smiled at them.

  Vampire.

  “No one is leaving,” the monster said with no little glee.

  It lunged forward, moving fast, too fast, like they had that night in Romania. Atlas tried to push Cristian toward the door, but Cristian had already stepped around him. In front of him, with his back to their enemy, shielding Atlas.

  He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only marvel at Cristian’s fearlessness.

  “Go!” Cristian shouted, face to face with Atlas, and then the word cut off, replaced with a grunt of surprise. He clutched at his armpit and spun away, roaring something at the snarling vampire behind him, who was already shifting his hold on the delicate knife he’d meant to use against Atlas. A knife he’d sunk into Cristian instead.

  Adrenaline surged. The world narrowed to the task at hand. Protect.

  He pushed past Cristian and met the vampire mid-charge. The elbow he landed to its throat stunned it for a moment, sent it off balance, and Atlas capitalized on that. He hooked his heel around the back of the vamp’s leg and toppled it. It snapped and hissed and clawed at his back as it fell. Snatches of the Romanian attack blurred and ran together with the present. His head echoed with screams and growls as he straddled a thigh, trying to control the vampire’s ability to twist free. The violent sting of fresh scratches opening across his back melded with the aching pull of the scarred skin crisscrossing his chest and abdomen stretching past its endurance as he fought to pin it with a forearm to the chest. The vampire twisted its head and fangs clicked as they snapped inches away from his neck. The healed gouges ripped into his flesh burned from the memory of fangs lodged in his throat.

  One forearm to chest. The other hand holding the wrist, trying to control the movement of the knife. Atlas gritted his teeth and tried to slam the vampire’s arm down, dislodging its hold on the weapon, but it was too strong. He couldn’t win this fight.