by M. A. Grant
As he expected, Jasper said, “Ms. Wharram wished for me to contact you about our agreement. Your time has come.”
Of course it would come now. Decebal’s absence from Scarsdale meant Cristian was a perfect target. But too much had changed—the strigoi, Cristian’s affection, and even Atlas’s view of the situation—for him to obey.
The handles of his grocery basket clicked under the pressure of his nervous grip. “That’s too bad,” Atlas said, “because I can’t help her.”
“I beg your pardon? We thought you understood our terms.” Jasper’s smile was still there, but with a new brittleness. He reminded Atlas of a broken automaton, trying to grind through the jammed gear to complete its task.
“You mean your threats?” He could do this. Cristian had refused his aunt, and he had an even deeper understanding of the dangers Bryony posed. If Cristian could hold to his bravery, Atlas could too. “Consider our agreement broken, Mr. Rhodes,” Atlas said. “I have no desire to help you or your employer any further, not when I’ve seen the methods used to assure your victory.”
“That...that is quite unfortunate,” Jasper said at last, smile finally wiped clean. He looked confused and perturbed in equal measure, and Atlas almost felt sorry for him, knowing he’d have to deliver news of his failure to Bryony. “I don’t suppose asking you to reconsider would work?”
“Afraid not,” Atlas replied.
“Ms. Wharram will not take kindly to this,” Jasper warned. “She may be forced to tell others of your decision.”
Cristian would be wounded by the betrayal, but if he was willing to wait for Atlas’s affection, Atlas could wait for his forgiveness. Decebal would be the real danger. He valued choice though. Atlas, despite all his missteps, had finally made a choice and was standing by it. Hopefully that would be enough to keep him alive. It was Bea he feared for most. But he couldn’t let that fear rule him any longer. It had led him down this path in the first place, and letting go of it was his only shot at escaping Bryony’s clutches.
He doubted humans often turned her or her family down, especially those who had knowledge of who they were and what they did. But he had expected the showdown to be...well, to be something a little more exciting. Jasper’s threat, delivered in the deli aisle of a quiet grocery store, lacked all the terrifying menace Atlas had imagined. His last doubts fled, leaving nothing but confidence in their wake.
“Ms. Wharram can take a flying leap into the sun, for all I care,” Atlas said. He reached past Jasper and took a bag of thinly sliced turkey, which he dropped in his basket. “Goodbye, Mr. Rhodes. I look forward to never hearing from you again.”
* * *
After the previous shift, he should have been more cautious when he returned to work. He should have observed everyone to see if any of them had noticed how his relationship with Cristian had changed. Instead, he drove Cristian to a meeting downtown with some architect Decebal was considering for a project. They fled the elegant, glass-enclosed office as quickly as they could and headed back to the house. Cristian had to debrief his father, so Atlas wandered while he waited for their meeting to end.
Ioana was nowhere to be found. Andrei was watching a movie, which gave Atlas the perfect excuse to not bother him. That left Dinu and Vasilica, who were holed up together in one of the studies. Vasilica waved to Atlas, but didn’t look away from her laptop. An auction website was open on the screen, and she watched the countdown ticking away.
“What’s she bidding on?” Atlas asked Dinu.
Dinu set aside his book—something Italian that included the word caffé—and squinted at the screen. “Another puukko,” he said.
“Not another puukko,” Vasilica corrected. “An original Marttiini Ilves with a raita root burl handle. It’s a piece of fucking art and I swear if this asshole outbids me one more time, I will hunt him down and rip out his heart.”
Atlas glanced at Dinu, who made a face and shrugged. “She’ll be fine,” he assured Atlas. “Just gets a little testy when auctions aren’t going her way.”
“I guess I just expected vampires to have...unlimited funds available,” Atlas said, flinching a little when Vasilica swore and made a higher bid.
“It’s not about buying it outright,” she muttered. “It’s about stealing it out from everybody else for the least amount possible.”
“And when that fails, it’s about finding who got it and waiting for their estate to go up for sale. That way you can try your luck for it again,” Dinu added cheerfully.
“Huh,” Atlas grunted.
“Did you need something?” Dinu asked when he realized Atlas wasn’t immediately leaving.
“No. I’ve got some time before Mr. Slava finishes his meeting with his father.”
“Well, if you don’t have anything to do, want to grab us some beers from downstairs?” Vasilica asked. Her nose was practically pressed against the screen, and Atlas prayed she won, for the sake of whoever was bidding against her.
“Sure,” he agreed.
It didn’t take him long to find the beer in the kitchen. He took a couple of bottles in hand and closed the fridge before turning toward the door, where he found a glowering Andrei blocking his path.
“Yes?” he asked, trying to shift the bottles around so he was at a one-handed disadvantage instead of two. He didn’t think Andrei would hurt him, but something about the man set Atlas’s teeth on edge. He did not like appearing unprepared or unable to defend himself when they were alone together.
Andrei noticed his slight adjustment and the furrows of his brow deepened. “Cristian is behaving differently. I am concerned.”
There were too many ways to take the comment, so he stuck with neutral acknowledgment. “I see.”
“Has Cristian spoken to you about visiting Rapture again?”
“He hasn’t brought it up tonight.” Atlas noted Andrei’s growing frown. “Is that a problem?”
“Yes. He does not enjoy feeding as he once did. That is your fault. He tasted your blood and now you are the only donor he has any interest in.”
“That’s not true,” Atlas argued. “He feeds regularly at Rapture.”
“Yet he stretches out the time between visits as far as he can stand before he returns. He does not feed deeply. He risks his health with this self-denial and you are too foolish to see the consequences of it. Cristian pines for you now, and you are within his reach every day. Have you discussed what will happen when your contract ends?” Andrei asked.
He hadn’t thought of that. There had never been talk of him leaving the position after that discussion with Decebal and Cristian. He’d simply...returned to work every shift, never contemplating an end date. That had never happened to him before on any job. Andrei’s question seemed innocent, until Atlas noticed his triumphant smile.
“Think about it, Mr. Kinkaid,” Andrei said, as if he’d read his mind. “No matter how loyal you are, or how well you do your job, Decebal will not sacrifice Cristian’s health for you. He will not risk Cristian bonding to you, only for you to walk away when the job is over or when money runs out. If he suspects impropriety, your position here will end.”
“There’s been no impropriety,” Atlas managed at last.
“A relief,” Andrei blatantly lied. “And easier to believe if Cristian returns to his normal feeding habits. Don’t you agree?”
Andrei didn’t wait for a response. He walked out of the kitchen, leaving Atlas alone with a jumble of new doubts and fears of Decebal’s vengeance. There wasn’t time to wallow though. He couldn’t risk anyone suspecting his mental turmoil.
He dug around in the drawer to find a bottle opener, and hissed when he stabbed his finger on the pointed tip of the opener’s corkscrew. It was the final straw. He swore, threw the bottle opener on the counter, and grabbed hold of the marble counter, hating how his fingertip throbbed.
“You were trained
to handle all kinds of deadly weapons, but you can’t manage a bottle opener?” Cristian stood in the doorway, his shoulder resting against the doorjamb. “Dinu said you were down here. Are you bleeding?”
“Maybe? I was distracted,” Atlas admitted.
Cristian made a soft sound of understanding and came to stand beside him. He eyed Atlas’s death grip on the counter and though his voice remained light, his expression shifted to something a bit warier. “Was may be a little optimistic. What happened?”
“Nothing.” He started to push off the counter, but Cristian reached out and placed a hand over his. Atlas swallowed when Cristian’s fingertips traced over the pale lines cut into his knuckles. There was tenderness in the touch, but no pity. He couldn’t have handled it.
“I can always tell when you overthink,” Cristian mused. “You chew on the inside of your lip.”
The observation startled a laugh from Atlas. When Cristian gave him a curious look, he explained, “Rojas used to say the same thing.”
“Rojas?”
“One of the guys in my platoon. We were responsible for a lot of the planning. We spent tons of time together, going over intel and other data, and even more time organizing it. He used to get pissed whenever I started biting my lip.”
“Why’s that?”
“Said I only did it when I was about to give him bad news.”
Cristian tugged gently at his hand, urging him to lift it. He obeyed, though he was confused until he realized Cristian was inspecting the dot of blood on his fingertip.
“In that case, what bad news do you have for me?” Cristian asked, glancing up at him.
Atlas didn’t know when they’d moved in so close to each other, but the world was fading away, replaced with the quirk of Cristian’s mouth as he started to smile. “Atlas?” he whispered. “Stop thinking and speak.”
He closed his eyes, lost in the sensation of breathing Cristian’s air, of feeling his words brush against his mouth, of hearing his name spoken with affection. Cristian’s grip on his hand flexed, tightened, and he wanted to stay in this moment.
He looked back and found Cristian staring down at his hand, eyeing the crimson bead. His body was relaxed and his gaze was contemplative, not hungry, but Atlas suddenly remembered Andrei’s casual accusation.
“Are you going to feed when we go to Rapture again?” he blurted out.
Cristian gave him an odd look. “What?”
“You—you haven’t seemed to be feeding as often. Things are only going to get busier, so I thought maybe you would want to indulge while you still could.”
“I don’t need to indulge,” Cristian said.
“Won’t you feel better if you feed more often?” Atlas challenged. His pulse picked up when Cristian’s gaze dipped to his neck for a brief moment.
Cristian’s gaze returned to meet his. “You don’t need to worry about me,” he said. “And I’m not interested in finding another donor—”
“Because you’re waiting for me.”
Cristian recoiled, dropping his grip on Atlas’s hand and stepping back. It was the worst confirmation of Andrei’s accusation, and Atlas’s heart sank. Feeding was an intimacy he couldn’t afford. He remembered the sensation of Cristian’s mind pressing against his, of his own mind opening, and of the memory they shared. He’d offered Cristian his most intimate moment already. How could he ever keep anything else from him? No secret would be safe. Not even the secrets that would break Cristian’s trust in him.
“If you need to feed, you shouldn’t wait on me,” he said slowly, tucking his injured hand behind his back.
“It can be good—”
“I don’t care. I never want to do it again. No amount of time will change that.”
They faced each other, unmoving, while tiny drops of condensation gathered like dew on the warming beer bottles. Cristian broke first. He glanced away and crossed his arms over his stomach. “That’s your choice, and I’ll respect it.”
“You’ll find another donor then?” Atlas pressed.
He’d almost forgotten the empty sound of Cristian’s false laughter. It was wrong to hear it again here, with only the pair of them in the room. Belatedly, he understood how deeply his statement had hurt Cristian.
“How I feed is my choice,” Cristian said. He tried for nonchalance, but there was too much underlying pain for it to land. “And I expect you to show me the same courtesy of respecting my decisions.”
“Of course,” Atlas agreed miserably.
“Vasilica and Dinu are waiting for you. She lost the auction,” Cristian said, fleeing from the room.
He didn’t talk to Atlas again the rest of the night.
Chapter Eighteen
Atlas believed in intelligent, rational thought. He believed in hard-won experience and the rewards it brought. He didn’t believe in signs. He didn’t believe in divine retribution for taking the wrong path. But, fuck him, tonight was trying way too hard to change his mind.
“Are you okay, man?” the kid kept asking.
Atlas gave a wordless growl, loud enough to earn him a fearful look and a wider space between them.
At least the kid had stopped crying, which meant the burgeoning migraine Atlas had been fighting for hours wasn’t getting worse. He’d spent too few hours of sleep dreaming of Cristian. It started with them tangled in the fine sheets of an enormous bed. Biting kisses stung his lips and hands clutched at his shoulders and biceps as they pressed against each other. The kisses drifted lower to his neck and he arched toward Cristian’s mouth, petrified by fear of the bite and needing its pain at the same time. But every time he thought Cristian would feed, his lips would pull away, until Atlas was gasping. Cristian rose up, fangs extended, and Atlas felt no fear at the sight. He dug his fingers into the sheets, tugging on them to hold himself in check as he waited for Cristian to strike. But the sheets pulled free and the room flooded with sunlight and Cristian made a choked sound and turned into a statue of ash that fell over Atlas, coating him in dust, suffocating him—
He shot awake well before his alarm with a vise around the base of his skull. He’d considered calling in and begging off his shift, but the thought of Cristian going to Rapture without him, especially after last night’s painful confession, was too much. He’d medicated, drunk some water, and prepared himself for the shitstorm of a shift he was about to have.
And then he’d been rear-ended on his way to Decebal’s house.
The kid had misjudged the distance between him and Atlas when he pulled out of a parking lot and clipped his rear bumper. The damage to their cars wasn’t awful; the broken lights could be replaced by insurance, and both cars still ran well enough for them to get off the street to exchange information. It shouldn’t have taken half an hour to untangle the mess, but the problem was that the kid wasn’t insured, looked high, and had broken down in tears no less than six times as he begged Atlas to not call the cops.
When he saw Atlas pull out his phone, he started pleading for a seventh time, though he was wise enough to not creep any closer. Atlas glared at him and said, “I have to call my employer, so shut the fuck up.”
He decided not to bother Decebal, who would likely request he go home for the night, and dialed Helias instead. The man picked up on the third ring. “Helias Casimir speaking.”
“Mr. Casimir, it’s Atlas Kinkaid.”
“Ah, Mr. Kinkaid, I noticed you haven’t arrived yet. Is something the matter?”
“I was rear-ended on my way over and it’s taking longer than I expected to get to the house to pick up Cristian and the others for their trip to Rapture. Would you let them know I’ll be there soon?”
“I’m afraid I’ll be unable to do so.”
Atlas’s gut sank and he gripped his phone tighter. “Why’s that?”
“He and the others left shortly after sundown. Andrei drove the
m. I assumed their departure had already been cleared, as Cristian didn’t leave any message behind for you.”
He looked at his phone to check the time, not responding to Helias’s concerned, “Mr. Kinkaid? Mr. Kinkaid, are you still there?” They’d left after sundown, right as he should have arrived for his shift. Cristian must be trying to avoid him, and he’d finally turned to Andrei for the surreptitious help he’d offered shortly after Atlas’s arrival.
He’d apologize later for hanging up on Helias, but nothing about the situation sat right. No matter how awkward their conversation about feeding was, Cristian wouldn’t have snuck out behind Atlas’s back without encouragement from someone else. Someone like Andrei, who disliked Atlas and wouldn’t pass on an opportunity to undermine him.
Then there was the convenient timing of Andrei’s confronting him yesterday about Cristian’s feeding. Yesterday, the same day Jasper had found Atlas and demanded he obey Bryony’s commandment. Atlas didn’t believe in coincidence, especially when evidence stacked up. He may have turned his back on the Wharrams, but he’d done their work anyway. He’d driven Cristian straight into a trap he’d never known existed.
He hurried back to his dented car and opened the door, ignoring the kid’s screech for him to wait. Waiting could cost him Cristian. He pulled back onto the road and sped toward the club, dialing Ioana on the way.
She didn’t answer. Probably hadn’t heard her phone ringing at all, but she was the only one of the group who kept it on vibrate, to Cristian’s everlasting disapproval. Atlas tried her again. And again. When the line opened up at last, Atlas shouted, “Where’s Cristian?”
“Atlas?” So much background noise. It grated against his ear and scraped the inside of his skull.
He gritted his teeth against the pain and asked again, “Ioana, where is Cristian?”
