by M. A. Grant
Atlas nodded and reached for the tie he’d set out, but Cristian beat him to it.
“Nope,” he said, stealing it out from under Atlas’s fingers. “Not tonight.”
“It’s part of the uniform,” Atlas protested.
Cristian held the tie behind his back and shook his head. “Afraid it’s not tonight, Mr. Kinkaid. Only one of us gets to be painfully formal and that’s me.” He tossed the tie on the bed and stepped in closer, reaching out so his fingers brushed the buttoned collar of Atlas’s dress shirt. “May I?” he asked.
At Atlas’s nod, he carefully popped the top two buttons, trailing his finger down Atlas’s throat until it settled in the dip of his collarbone. He tapped his finger there once, twice, and smiled. “Much better. Now, come on.”
Atlas eventually got his breathing back under control, though it took longer than he was willing to admit. Cristian led him to the garage and one of the town cars. They got settled in the front seats and headed out. Cristian entered an address into the GPS, then fiddled with the radio as they drove, eventually settling on a classical music station, of all things. Music to think by, Atlas’s grandmother used to say about it. She loved testing him and Bea on the composers, though he’d never taken to it quite like his sister had.
“Now, that’s a smile I haven’t seen before,” Cristian murmured. When Atlas gave him a look, he added, “I would have remembered seeing one like that.”
He didn’t know how to respond. Cristian pressed at times, but his teasing was often easy to dismiss thanks to his changes of subject or follow-up jokes. This was so genuine, so soft, Atlas couldn’t just push it away and pretend like the words hadn’t been said aloud.
“Whatever could have brought such an expression to my stoic bodyguard’s face?” Cristian asked. A smile threatened and his voice was light with barely concealed laughter. Joy looked good on him.
“Shut up,” Atlas grumbled. “My grandma liked this kind of music. Good memories, that’s all.”
“Who was her favorite? Beethoven? Mozart?”
“Jansons, actually. Barbirolli was a close second.”
Cristian threw his head back and laughed, a brilliant sound that danced around the enclosed space of the car. “Oh, my God, I think I may love her. What was she like?”
Maybe it was the strings drifting around them as they drove. Maybe it was a desire to prove Cristian wasn’t wrong to trust him wholly, that he was capable of sharing pieces of his life too. Or, maybe it had just been long enough since he’d talked to anyone else about his grandmother. No matter the reason, Atlas said, “Brilliant. Hard working. When she took me and Bea in, she used to tell us stories about all the people she met at the talent agency she worked at. We’d be sitting down for lunch, minding our own business, and she’d launch into a story and drop all these names and then make us go wash the dishes without answering any of our questions about them. She was one of the smartest, strongest people I’ve ever known. And she loved music.” He gave a laugh half-choked by a swell of emotion. “God, she loved music. All kinds. She made me take piano lessons.”
Cristian leaned closer, eyes bright, testing the limits of his seatbelt. “You play?”
“Not very well. I wish I’d paid more attention.”
“I’ll teach you again,” Cristian offered. “Mother made me learn. Made me work with some other instruments as well, but piano was something we could do together.”
“Everyone seems to have loved her,” Atlas said.
Cristian hummed in agreement. “She was wonderful, but an absolute terror. Father didn’t stand a chance.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Atlas said as he put on the blinker and got in the correct lane. They were headed downtown to meet the realtor, but Cristian’s first stop was in one of the plazas before the industrial section.
“They eloped,” Cristian said. “My grandparents were visiting an ally in... I guess it’s Romania now. My father was the territory’s lieutenant and was tasked with protecting the visitors. He and Mother fell in love. One night, Mother told my grandparents she was going out for a ride and taking Father for protection. They crossed out of the territory and were blood bound by one of the other Council members before her parents’ men could catch up. That’s why the Wharrams hate my father so much. They said Mother humiliated the family by marrying little more than a mercenary captain. They returned to England without her, but kept sending people to try to bring her back. She eventually got sick of them meddling in our lives and moved us all here to the American colonies.”
“How old are you?” Atlas asked, astonished and failing miserably in his attempts to juggle history and figure out their destination.
“Old enough,” came Cristian’s flippant response. But his nerves were there underneath the remark. Atlas could tell in the way he fiddled with the collar of his jacket. “I’ll have you know I look good for my age, Mr. Kinkaid.”
“Obviously,” Atlas muttered. Judging by Cristian’s flush, he hadn’t expected such a compliment. “So are you actually immortal or what?”
“Close to it. I’ve got enough years ahead of me for it to feel like immortality.”
Cristian sounded oddly apathetic about it, which Atlas didn’t understand. Hell, wasn’t life everlasting the driving force behind the human race? It led the charge of religion, science, medicine, war... Surely vampires recognized the gift they had.
“Do you regret that?” Atlas asked as he made the last turn into a parking lot in front of a discount store. He was confused, until he spotted the food truck parked at the end of the lot. “You wanted to get food now?”
“Consider it a survival celebration,” Cristian said. “They were open extra late tonight for one of the local games.”
“And they serve...waffles?”
“Don’t judge before you’ve tasted,” Cristian chided him.
They must have made it before the game let out, since there was no line yet. He lingered on his approach anyway. The Christmas lights hanging from the truck’s awning were inviting, but the wafting scents of bacon, warm maple syrup, and waffle batter cooking away were the true siren’s call. Cristian moseyed alongside him, hands stuffed in his pockets. The menu was large and easy to read, with punny names for unusual combinations, and reasonable prices.
At the counter, Cristian ordered something called the Sunny Side Sandwich, which boasted two bacon waffles spread with whipped maple butter and filled with a fried duck egg. He also ordered a coffee, which Atlas knew would be drowned in so much cream and sugar, it would count as a dessert. The young woman taking the orders smiled at Atlas when he stepped up. “And what can I get you?”
He glanced over the menu again. “Umm...is the This Little Piggy any good?”
“One of the favorites,” she assured him.
“I’ll go with that then.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Just a water, please,” Atlas told her and reached for his wallet, only for Cristian to stop his hand.
“My treat,” Cristian said, stepping in his way to pay the lady. Atlas let him have his way, mostly because he was too busy ogling Cristian’s suit from behind to put up a fight.
They stepped off to the side to wait for their order, even though there was no one else around. Cristian stood a little closer than necessary to Atlas, but he didn’t mind. It gave him the opportunity to admire his smile when he tilted his head up to look at the Christmas lights over their heads.
“I don’t normally regret it,” Cristian said.
Atlas blinked. “Regret what?”
“In the car, you asked if I regretted how much time I had.” He shrugged. “Honestly, it depends on the day. Some are good, some are bad.”
“And today is?” Atlas asked.
Cristian’s smile was brilliant and blinding. “We’re alive, Atlas. Today is a good day.”
They gat
hered their order when it was called, along with extra napkins, and returned to the car. The property Cristian was going over with the realtor wasn’t far, so Atlas drove them the rest of the way while Cristian unpacked the food. There wasn’t another car parked near the line of warehouses, which meant there was no reason to not dig in and eat while everything was still hot. Cristian handed Atlas’s waffle sandwich over, the foil already peeled down and out of the way for him.
He moaned at the first bite. The waffles making up the outer layer of the sandwich were speckled with herbs and toasted cheese, which melded perfectly with the thickly spread sage and onion dressing inside. He ate carefully, trying not to spill chunks of roasted pork and a sprinkling of crispy cracklings with each bite, but was still halfway done with his sandwich by the time he looked up and found Cristian still hadn’t started to eat.
“Where’s yours?” he mumbled through a mouthful of pork.
Cristian laughed and shrugged out of his jacket to get more comfortable. Atlas couldn’t blame him. The tailored suit highlighted the strong line of his shoulders and the taper of his waist, but the jacket was far from forgiving to sit in. The buttons of his dress shirt strained when he turned to toss the jacket in the backseat, mesmerizing Atlas. It was like Cristian had cataloged every time Atlas had surreptitiously watched him during a shift and chose clothes he knew would draw his eye.
He wasn’t done yet either. A quick twist of his fingers to undo the cuff buttons, and he rolled up his sleeves. First the back and ass, now the forearms. Atlas was screwed.
Cristian undid the foil around his sandwich and grabbed several napkins, arranging them on top of the brown bag in his lap in preparation for a messy meal. He closed his eyes and hummed in appreciation at his first bite. Even in the shadowed dark from the industrial buildings before them, Atlas could see Cristian swallow and run his tongue over his lips, catching the dripping maple butter escaping his sandwich. He gave Atlas a sideways look and asked, “See something you like?”
“Yes,” Atlas said simply. A flush rose to Cristian’s cheeks and darkened when Atlas’s gaze lingered. His confession to Cristian might ruin everything, so he would appreciate the view while he could. After a bittersweet minute, he set the moment aside and returned to his dinner, polishing it off quickly and clearing his trash.
Cristian took longer to finish his, mostly because he kept juggling between sandwich and sips of coffee, but it didn’t matter. The realtor still hadn’t shown and they were in no rush. Atlas leaned back in his seat and watched the lights on the water.
“It’s nice over here,” he commented. “Not as creepy as Nell’s side of the river.”
Cristian made a sound of agreement and swallowed his last bite. He started wiping his hands clean, working a finger at a time in quick, precise movements that made his forearms flex. “Lots of potential. Tonight we’re supposed to discuss where to start the renovations. There are a few businesses who still have leases in play, so Father’s working around that.”
Cristian’s confidence was intriguing. He’d never hidden his lack of interest in Decebal’s work, but he was clearly knowledgeable about the situation. Atlas gestured out the windshield at the empty buildings in front of them. “What does he want to do here?”
“I’ll show you,” Cristian said, undoing his seatbelt. He chuckled at Atlas’s hesitation and undid his belt as well. “We won’t go far.”
This wasn’t the conversation he was supposed to be having. This was an easy excuse to avoid what he needed to say, but it had been a pleasant evening and the walk would give him time to gather his thoughts. “Sure,” he finally agreed, and left the car.
The air outside had a slight chill from the breeze off the water, but the night was comfortable otherwise. The faint noise of street traffic from the busy downtown carried to them, settling in as a background hum while they walked over worn sidewalks toward the weathered buildings. The decay on this side of the river wasn’t as pronounced. The piles of trash were smaller, giving Atlas better views of the shadowed side yards they passed. Some of the buildings were falling apart, skeletons of their former glory, but others still had signs up, staking claim to their place and existence. He couldn’t help but notice the additional signs though, ones stating where the businesses were relocating, or that they were going out of business and were liquidating everything.
Cristian kept his hands in his pockets as he walked, loose limbed and relaxed. He spoke as they went, holding Atlas’s attention with the steady rise and fall of his voice. “Father’s been working on landing this section of properties since the hospital renovations. The river used to serve as the heart of the timber trade. Now that it’s gone, he wants to find a way to rebrand it and use it to Scarsdale’s advantage.” He spun in a slow circle, hands upraised. “Medical research and conference spaces.”
“Better funding in the big cities,” Atlas said.
Cristian dropped his hands and shot him a pitying look. “You aren’t thinking ahead,” he scolded. “With the downtown coming back to life, this is the perfect town for young singles needing to jump-start their careers. And the experienced researchers are looking for something quieter, slower, and easier for their families to come into.”
He thought of the suburbs crawling toward his neighborhood and began to understand just how far Decebal’s plans extended. No wonder the Wharrams wanted him out of their way—he drew up in the middle of the sidewalk, guilt transforming his dinner into a leaden weight in his stomach. No matter how he tried to escape it, he had to tell Cristian the truth. The timing was poor. The past four years of carrying his own trauma made it easier for Atlas to see the hole Andrei’s betrayal ripped the fabric of the family. With such long lives, they were acquainted with loss and were carrying on like normal.
He couldn’t decide if the promise of centuries to come would make the betrayal easier to forget, or if it would only make it linger and putrefy. Would his betrayal haunt Cristian as much as that of his great-uncle? Or would he be easily forgotten, ignored and lost to history as Cristian outlived him? He didn’t think he wanted to know the answer to either question.
“Atlas?” Cristian had stopped walking to watch him. “What’s wrong?”
He searched for the words as Cristian walked back to him. Found none. Tried anyway. “What Andrei said about me—”
“Shh.” Cristian’s finger pressed over his lips, cutting off the rest of the words he fought to free. “We are not talking about that tonight.”
He reached up and clasped Cristian’s hand in his, pulling it away so he could speak freely. “We need to.”
“No,” Cristian said stubbornly. “I don’t need your defense or confession or whatever else you have in mind to say to try to convince me of who you are. I know you.”
“From one taste?” Atlas threw back.
He growled when Cristian started laughing, furious at the flip response until Cristian reached out and rested his hands against his chest. “No, iubițel,” Cristian soothed. “From every day you’ve spent by my side, even when I did my best to run you off. From your choice to return, no matter how frightened you were to face us again. And from the way you’re looking at me right now.” His fingertips pressed more firmly against his skin, over his heart. “I’ve lived long enough to know when it is a mistake to walk away from a man like you.”
“You should walk away,” Atlas whispered, meaning it with his whole soul. “I’ve made so many mistakes.”
“Maybe,” Cristian agreed, “but do you want me to?” He leaned in closer, eyes fixed on Atlas’s mouth. “Choices, Atlas,” he murmured. “Remember?”
Words could fail. Actions were safer. He leaned in, closing the gap between them, and captured Cristian’s mouth with his. The kiss landed like a lightning strike, all heat and shock, until Cristian’s hands reached up and clutched at Atlas’s shoulders. His lips parted and Atlas gave in, hungrily taking all Cristian offered.
He focused on the flex of Cristian’s back under his hands and the way he shivered when Atlas scraped his teeth over his lower lip. It took Cristian drawing away for him to come back to himself, and it took even longer for him to register the sound of trash rustling at the rear of one of the buildings.
Atlas wanted to give in again, to stop the world with Cristian’s taste and touch, but he’d relied on his instincts too long to ignore them now. He released his hold on Cristian and kept watching the area the sound came from. A shadow moved. A pair of eyes reflected out of the darkness.
The eyes hovered, shifted from side to side, but didn’t vanish. Atlas took a slow step back, forcing Cristian to move with him. “I don’t like this,” he murmured.
“Neither do I,” Cristian agreed.
They made a slow retreat, trying not to spook whatever was watching them from the shadows, but limited by the row of buildings and the river behind them. The thing gave a strange, warbling screech. The sound grated over Atlas’s nerves, dug into his darkest memories, and froze him in place. He’d heard that cry before. It had echoed out of the trees around the stretch of rural road in Romania the night his life ended.
“Atlas?” Cristian gripped his arm and gave a slight tug, urging him to continue their escape.
He couldn’t move, trapped somewhere between fight and flight. Couldn’t move, but could warn. Could perhaps save someone else this time. “Don’t run,” he whispered to Cristian. “It likes when you run.”
“The fuck—” Cristian started, only to cut off when the strigoi shuffled forward.
It was as if he’d stepped back in time to that night. The creature’s hairless skin still looked like tissue paper, so thin the vessels colored it in branching patterns, so sickly it seemed ready to tear from the slightest touch. Its clothes were torn, well worn, and still recognizable, unlike the ancient, shredded shrouds of those monsters he saw overseas. Its yellow eyes shifted between him and Cristian, weighing them and assessing the threat they each posed. It must not have been a serious one, because it took another plodding step forward.
