Rare Vigilance

by M. A. Grant

  “Is this okay?” Cristian asked. Nell stood off to the side, watching their interaction with interest.

  “Yeah. Tilt it down?” The pain of the flashlight faded a little as Cristian obeyed. Atlas took another moment for rough shapes to appear in the darkness around them before asking, “And off?”

  It still took longer than he wanted to see once the flashlight went out completely. Fortunately, Cristian had been cautious in following his directions, so the rough shapes around them took on more detail and form as the seconds ticked by. The interior was surprisingly clean in comparison to the outer facade. Atlas had hit a cardboard box, one of a small stack near the door. They weren’t dumped there, but carefully arranged to form a strange kind of wall. A blockade of some kind?

  “For the sun,” Cristian told him. “Helps keep it out of the inner halls in case something happens here in the front and they have to get out through the back.”

  “Oh. There’s an exit in the back?” Atlas asked as they followed Nell farther into the building. Interior walls were repaired with anything solid and light-blocking that could be found. There were other people living here, most of them waving or calling greetings to Cristian as he passed. Atlas wondered how long Cristian had been coming here to earn such a warm welcome.

  “Leads down into the sewers. No real way out of there, but at least it’s safe from the sun,” Cristian said.

  “Angelica watches over us down there when we need her to,” Nell said from her place up front.

  Cristian’s shoulders tightened and his head dropped. Atlas wanted to reach out to brush a hand over his shoulder, to check if he was okay, but there wasn’t a chance. Nell carried on as though she hadn’t said anything upsetting. She opened up a door, leading them into a large open room.

  Patched chairs, rickety tables, and other miscellaneous furniture were scattered throughout the space. Two fridges chugged in a corner of the room. Cristian crossed to the first and set down his bag, so Atlas took up a place by the second and copied Cristian’s movements to unzip his own.

  “I got what I could,” Cristian said to Nell, but Atlas lost the rest of the conversation when he saw what the duffels held. Underneath the reusable cooling packs were carefully packed blood bags.

  Blood. Cristian was bringing Nell and the other vampires in this building enough blood to sustain themselves without having to go out. It must have been from the surplus he talked about.

  Atlas wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. What had he done by aiming the Wharrams at the clinics Cristian visited to pick up food for these vampires? It wasn’t difficult to see the ripples. Mary had been killed when she went out to hunt. How many others had been forced to go out to feed because Cristian’s drop-offs stopped? And how many had been lost to strigoi or dawn while they were out there? He’d been wrong...so, so wrong and he couldn’t even apologize about it. Cristian was better than Atlas had known, so much better, and the way he joked and teased Nell even though she couldn’t even remember who he was and kept calling him the wrong name made the guilt inside Atlas twist and tighten until he could barely focus on transferring the bags into the fridge.

  “Artie?” Nell’s voice broke him from his thoughts. The older woman sat at one of the chairs, her arms clasped tightly around her, watching Atlas with concern. She looked from him to Cristian. “Artie, is your Atlas all right?”

  “I’m fine, ma’am,” Atlas promised Nell. He looked to Cristian for backup and tried not to ogle at the way the denim clung to him as he crouched at the fridge, transferring bags with the speed granted from familiarity with the task.

  “Leave him, Nell,” Cristian said without looking at either of them. He stretched to grab the last of the blood bags out of the bottom of the duffel and the fabric over his thighs strained—

  “Oh,” Nell said, with a sniff. Atlas flushed with embarrassment from being caught and returned to the task at hand. Nell kept talking. “That’s much better. Atlas, darling, you should look at Artie more often. How lovely. Burned sugar and salt and now what else—?”

  “I’m sorry?” Atlas asked.

  Nell glanced away from him to Cristian, as if he would answer her, but he didn’t. He knelt there with the fridge door open, empty duffel bag at his side, staring at Atlas like he’d never seen him before.

  “Close the door, Artie, or you’ll waste all the cold,” Nell reminded him.

  Cristian closed the door and swallowed hard. “Sorry. And Atlas is fine, just like he said.”

  “I know that now. Can’t you smell—?”

  “Of course,” Cristian soothed. “This isn’t the first time.”

  “Ah, to be young again,” Nell said.

  What the fuck did that mean? Was there something more to smelling him than noticing his shampoo or cologne? Suddenly nervous about what exactly Cristian might be able to scent on him, he announced, “Let me just finish putting these away and we can head out.”

  Cristian nodded and finally moved, rising in a fluid, graceful motion that somehow ended with him flipping the empty bag over his shoulder like it was a designer jacket instead of a dusty mess. Atlas finished stuffing his fridge with the bagged blood and stood, grimacing a little at the pull on his scars when he pushed up from the floor. “Ready to go, Mr.—Artie?”

  “I guess so,” Cristian said. He gave Nell a hug. “We’ll see ourselves out. You stay here and have some dinner.”

  “No wandering off,” Nell said, hugging him back. “I remember. You worry too much, Artie.”

  “I worry the correct amount. And please eat something,” he said. “You’re getting thin again.”

  Nell waved him off. “I’ll eat when I’m good and ready.” Atlas was surprised when she folded him into a hug as well. She released him faster than she had Cristian, and gestured toward the hall. “Now, get back home. Tell Ioana to bring her cards next time. Betsy and I want to teach her whist.” She smiled at Atlas. “So glad you finally stopped in. Make an honest man of him, will you? A mother worries, you know.”

  “I’m trying, ma’am,” Atlas agreed easily, though he wasn’t sure exactly what she meant. “It was nice to meet you too.”

  There were more vampires up and about in the halls as they headed back toward the front entrance. Word must have gone around that the fridges had been restocked. Cristian kept his head down and kept walking, quietly evading any thanks that could come his way. He didn’t speak again until they were back at the car, tossing the empty bags into the trunk. Cristian closed it up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “So...that was Nell.”

  “It was nice to finally meet her.”

  “Do you want to go for a walk?” Cristian asked, tilting his head toward the dilapidated sidewalk running parallel to the river. Back in the riverfront’s heyday, it must have been a beautiful place to walk. Now, it was another reminder of an era. Atlas wondered if Cristian could remember what it looked like before, if those overlays of the past ever got stuck in his mind. Cristian read his wandering thoughts as hesitation. “A short one, I promise. I’d like to see if there’s a sign of anything sniffing around. And we could talk.”

  Talking meant he’d have time alone with Cristian, away from the house, away from whatever persona Cristian felt he had to put on in front of others. Because the man he was here, with Nell, was the Cristian Atlas suspected existed underneath the fancy clothes of business meetings and the faked debauchery of Rapture. This man was not at all what he appeared from a first impression. This man could convince Atlas to change his mind. Had convinced him.

  He would probably regret this, but agreed anyway. “A short walk.”

  Cristian nodded, kicked at a clump of weeds growing out of the cracked pavement at Atlas’s feet, and turned, leading him on toward the river. It granted Atlas too-tempting a view of strong shoulders nipping down to a lean waist, of those perfectly filled out jeans, and God help him, he wanted.

&
nbsp; “You know,” Cristian said conversationally, “I thought we could talk to each other on this walk.”

  Atlas huffed and kicked a pebble toward the river. It skittered off the low curb and back onto the sidewalk, where Cristian delicately stepped over it. He used it as an excuse to slow his pace, waiting for Atlas to catch up to him so they were walking side by side.

  “Fine,” Atlas said. “Why does Nell call you Artie?”

  “You know, that’s what I like about you, Mr. Kinkaid,” Cristian said. “You go straight for the jugular, like us.” His smile was charming and wicked, and Atlas wanted to deny the comparison, but it was already too late. “Her son, Arthur, died a while back. Nell never could grasp it. When she started calling me Artie, I just went with it.” He brushed hair out of his eyes. “I know I shouldn’t, but the idea of her being alone for the rest of her life is—”

  “Awful,” Atlas murmured. “Especially if she doesn’t understand what happened to him.”

  “Exactly. Nell’s lived long enough, been through enough, she has a hard time keeping all her memories organized. It happens in older vampires, especially if nutrition hasn’t always been good.”

  “Is that why you bring her and the others blood?”

  Cristian scuffed his feet and frowned off into the shadows created by the two buildings they were passing. “My mother is the one who started the outreach. Doctors in other territories found a regimen of proper nutrition helped older vampires like Nell who suffered from memory loss or mental confusion. There was no guarantee, but Mother thought it was worth it, regardless. Even if their minds never fully heal, they’ll be satiated and less likely to wander away to hunt. It’s safer for everyone in our territory.”

  Atlas shook his head. “I still don’t understand why you can’t tell your dad about this. You’re continuing her work.” When Cristian ducked his head and tried to pick up his pace, Atlas reached out and took gentle hold of his arm. He pulled him to a stop and waited for him to look up so he didn’t have to guess at his sincerity. “You deserve to be acknowledged for what you’ve done.”

  “Maybe,” Cristian hedged, “but I can’t rub this in Father’s face.”

  “Or get him to acknowledge it at all?”

  “It’s complicated.” He gave a half-hearted tug against Atlas’s grip. They both knew he could have gotten free if he wanted.

  “Why?”

  “Because my mother died doing this,” Cristian ground out.

  Atlas released him, shocked and bitterly angry at himself for forcing such a confession. Cristian didn’t seem to notice. He was busy looking toward the warehouse they’d walked away from.

  “There were donor shortages for a few decades. Blood was hard to come by, and it had been over a month between Mother’s visits. She stopped to pick up blood from our contacts at the blood bank. They were behind schedule and she should have come home instead, gone out the next night, but she didn’t because she was worried about everyone here. She didn’t want anyone going hungry for another night. She dropped off what she could and was driving home when sunrise broke. She got back inside the house and we tried everything we could, but the burns spread...” He swallowed hard.

  “Cristian,” Atlas whispered, his mind racing back to the warehouse where they’d found Mary’s ashes.

  “No matter how many donors fed her, no matter what the doctors did, the damage was too great. She couldn’t heal from it. It took three days, Atlas, and there was nothing left of her but ashes.” His expression was earnest. “I don’t intend to go out like that, I swear it. I’m careful every time I come here. But if I say what I’ve been doing, if I come clean about it, Father wouldn’t be able to separate the risks I’m facing from the memory of her death. I can’t ask him to carry that worry. Ioana said he almost lost it when he thought I wouldn’t get back to the house that night at Rapture. If he loses me, he’ll have nothing left of her.”

  He remembered Cristian’s arms around his waist on the motorcycle. The way he’d pressed against Atlas as if he could crawl inside him and take refuge against his spine. He remembered Cristian’s fearful hiss as they turned into the shaded lane of the property, narrowly avoiding the sunlight. Now, knowing how Angelica died, knowing what Cristian had feared as they waited outside Rapture, knowing how deeply Cristian had trusted him to get him home before he suffered a similar fate... Atlas could barely breathe through the tightness in his chest.

  Fuck. This was more than simple physical attraction. He abandoned the sidewalk—and his place at Cristian’s side—to pace the ragged, empty yard in front of one of the nearby dilapidated buildings. He was used to self-denial, had spent a lifetime perfecting it. Refusing to take the toffee treats sitting in a pretty glass jar in his grandmother’s assisted living apartment so she’d have them for the bad days. Turning down offers to spend weekends at the beach with his high school friends because he and Bea both worked. And now, another abnegation. Cristian was someone he couldn’t have, no matter how much he longed for him.

  “Atlas?” Cristian asked.

  Habit made him turn back to the man to check he was still safe, and he must have looked miserable about it because Cristian sucked in a breath. A second later, his pupils dilated and he took another inhalation, this one slower and deeper.

  “That’s what she meant,” he whispered. “All this time and I didn’t know that’s what it was—”

  “What are you talking about?” Atlas protested. Nell’s odd interrogation came back, her insistence that she smelled something different about him when he looked at Cristian. Burned sugar and salt... Cristian scented the air again, as subtly as he could, and Atlas flushed, suddenly, horribly exposed. “Stop smelling me.”

  “Sorry,” Cristian apologized immediately, though he swayed a little as he tried to get himself back under control. “But—”

  “What?”

  He took a deep breath. “Is that all it takes? Is telling you the truth all it takes to get you to look at me like that?” he asked, courageous in a way Atlas would never know. He took a cautious step forward, sliding so, so easily into Atlas’s space, and tilted his head up, his lips a breath away. Waiting. Giving Atlas the chance to move, to flee, or to surrender and close the distance between them.

  “How am I looking at you?” Atlas asked, desperate to keep his head and not do something foolish.

  “Like I’m finally worth the risk.” Cristian smiled, a tentative quirk of his lips. “You have an impressive poker face, you know. No matter what I did, I could never tell what you were actually thinking. The scents didn’t tell me anything either. But maybe I’ve just been reading you wrong this whole time...” He trailed off and lifted his hand, brushing the backs of his fingers lightly down Atlas’s temple, his cheek. He moved as though he feared Atlas would lash out against him, but Atlas couldn’t have stirred if he’d wanted to. And he didn’t.

  Please, he thought, closing his eyes and leaning into the next hesitant touch, don’t stop.

  “Atlas,” Cristian chastised gently, thumb caressing Atlas’s jaw, “Why do you want to hold back?”

  “I haven’t earned this.” He dared to crack open his eyes, wishing he was brave enough to admit the truth. God, if he told Cristian what he’d done, who he was really working for, this would end. Selfishly, he hedged with, “I’m supposed to take care of you.”

  Cristian’s smirk was positively filthy. “I promise, I am not opposed to you doing exactly that,” he said, though his fingers were still impossibly, sweetly gentle on Atlas’s skin. “Anything else?”

  “And it’s a conflict of interest.” God, Bea would skin him alive for even considering breaking her cardinal rule.

  “Well, hiring and hiding our vampiric nature from a man whose life was ruined in an attack isn’t exactly best practice either. I don’t think this is a typical job.” His blue gaze turned suddenly serious. “You’re right though. This is a job
. Your job, and your choice. If you want to stop, we will. I’ll never bring it up again. Though I’d prefer you not quit, as you really are the best damn agent we’ve ever worked with and it would be an absolute cock up trying to replace you—”

  He wanted to laugh, or maybe to curse, at the absurdity of Cristian’s rant. But there was so little space between them and his focus was elsewhere. He may have been good at self-denial, but he wasn’t a fucking saint. He reached up and caught hold around Cristian’s wrist, stilling his movements.

  “Mr. Slava, stop talking,” Atlas commanded, tilting his face down until the words brushed against Cristian’s mouth. He shut his mouth so quickly Atlas heard his teeth click together. “Do you remember what I said that first night?”

  A flash of understanding crossed Cristian’s face. Atlas felt his damnation breathing at the back of his neck, waiting for the right moment to lunge. But, God, if he was going to fall, he’d do it on his own terms.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. Cristian trembled in his grip, so he slid his thumb over the pulse point of his wrist, soothing as best he could. “Do you understand?”

  “Atlas,” Cristian breathed.

  He stole the rest of it from Cristian’s lips and when the man sighed and opened for him, he took everything offered. There was no room for remorse here, in this still, sweet place where slightly chapped lips pressed to his, where their tongues tangled as they stepped closer and closer, until they were pressed against each other, so close they seemed to breathe together. He nipped at Cristian’s lower lip, earning a growl of want for his teasing. He’d given up his hold on Cristian’s arm and reveled in his desperate attempts to cling closer still, to touch every part of Atlas possible.

  He lost himself to the kisses, mind blissfully blank. Cristian’s fingers were threaded through his hair, angling his face down, and there was a slight pressure against his lower lip, then a pinch—

  Atlas jerked back at the same moment Cristian swore. He carefully probed at his lip with his tongue, tasting the faintest trace of blood, and tried to relax through the adrenaline spike.