Rare Vigilance

by M. A. Grant

  It was a trick. Atlas knew from grim experience that it could shift in a moment, spinning and launching itself at whatever target it saw fit. Its movements now were slow and cumbersome, as if it couldn’t agree with its body on how to move flesh and bone easily. That would change in a breath.

  He wasn’t ready to face it again. He had no knife this time, and he had Cristian to protect.

  Cristian, who reached and clasped a hand around his bicep, reminding him he wasn’t alone. Cristian, whose expression was frighteningly serious, whose eyes flashed gold and whose lip curled up in disgust, revealing his fangs, as their enemy stepped closer. “What do we do?”

  “Walk very slowly back to the car and try to get away.”

  The hand around his arm tightened. “It’s far,” Cristian warned.

  The breeze picked up from the river at their backs, blowing toward the creature, and Atlas dimly wondered if it could smell his fear the same way Cristian had smelled his longing and lust.

  “We won’t beat it in a straight race,” Cristian said. “Maybe we can lose it out here.”

  “Maybe,” Atlas lied. Once it caught their scent, there was no hope.

  “Atlas!” Cristian’s hand on his jaw forced him to turn his head, to look away from the thing slowly closing the distance to them. It jarred him enough he actually looked at Cristian, saw his fear and, more importantly, his determination. “I won’t let it take you,” Cristian promised him. His kiss was sudden, firm, and over too soon. “Come on.”

  The strigoi had paused to watch them, tilting its head at their exchange and scenting the air. Its lips peeled back from its fangs in a snarl of disgust at whatever it had smelled. Atlas flinched at the sight, freezing on instinct. Cristian got him moving again, pulling slow and steady on his arm. He led them down the sidewalk, avoiding any sudden movements. Atlas allowed Cristian to guide him, to do the thinking for both of them because, fuck, his mind could only scream over and over how badly he wanted to escape this. He’d survived the nightmare once. He shouldn’t have to face it again.

  They were almost in line with the next building when the strigoi cried out. He saw its fangs glinting, watched the sinewy muscles beneath its skin flex and tense as it crouched, and he knew what would come next. He grabbed Cristian’s hand and finally gave in to the primal urge he’d been fighting since the creature appeared. He ran.

  Chapter Twenty

  They raced toward the nearest building, intent on getting something, anything, between them and the creature. It howled the moment they broke into their sprint and scrabbled after them. The memory of claws slicing through body armor made it hard to draw breath. He focused on Cristian’s hand instead, on how tightly it held his own, and followed him.

  The empty building loomed ahead of them through the gap in the fallen chain-link fence. Atlas hesitated. Even as dark as it was outside, moving inside meant what little sight he had would disappear, lost in that jarring transition. He needed to warn Cristian, to urge him to get away while he could, to not let him be slowed down. But the words wouldn’t come, couldn’t when they were already out of time.

  Cristian’s grip on his hand tightened. “Trust me,” he yelled, still running full out toward the building.

  Atlas squeezed back, took one final look at the clear path before them, then closed his eyes.

  Every other sense roared into higher life. Cristian’s even breath despite their desperate flight, the pounding of their feet over the solid ground. Cristian’s hand lifted his just a bit, warning him of something, and ahead he could hear the change from packed dirt to grit-covered concrete under Cristian’s feet. The warning meant he didn’t overreact when he felt that same shift of ground. Instead, he threw all his trust into Cristian’s decisions and let him lead them deeper inside.

  Their steps echoed through the cavernous space, ringing dully off the metal rafters overhead. They were deep enough inside now that Atlas opened his eyes, adapting as they shot past rusty machines. Their reflections skimmed like pale ghosts over the surface of broken windows. There was no point hiding their location. The monster hunting them could smell them, could probably sense their heat. Any time spent finding a hiding place would be wasted.

  His eyes had almost fully adjusted when Cristian warned, “Left.” He heard it, processed it, even understood what was about to happen. He was still unprepared for Cristian’s sudden pivot, the graceful way he redirected Atlas’s motion in the spin, keeping him upright as they burst through a broken wall and into one of the former offices. Behind them, claws and feet slid in a desperate effort to adjust, only to fail. The strigoi’s roar of disappointment and frustration rattled through the building.

  “Which way?” Atlas panted as Cristian led them through two more side rooms, slamming rickety doors behind them on the way.

  “Window, or risk going through two more offices and out the back exit,” Cristian said.

  “Window,” Atlas decided. He grabbed a broken chair off one of the tables. Cristian copied him and they ended up near one of the partially broken windows. “Aim for the top corner,” Atlas ordered, “and watch your face.”

  The strigoi had surely corrected its course. The doors were flimsy, would fall to its claws in a matter of seconds, and Atlas knew all of this, but couldn’t allow himself to give in to the fear gnawing at him. They had a chance. Cristian had gotten them a chance, and he’d be damned if he wasted it.

  He levered himself up and out of the cleared window with a forearm. Slivers of glass poked at him through his shirtsleeve, but it was better than using his bare hands and leaving behind a blood trail to be followed. His knees wobbled and his legs burned, reminders of the adrenaline wearing off and the shock setting in. He pushed past it and focused on running back around the front of the building. The strigoi probably wouldn’t expect them to double back. And if they got there before it did, there was a straight shot of sidewalk to the car.

  They were halfway to the front of the building when they heard the monster’s scream and the clatter of it scrambling out the window after them. They reached the sidewalk in front of the building. They ran for their lives, desperate to reach their final destination. They made it halfway down the stretch before Cristian glanced back. His eyes widened, he started to yell, and Atlas knew what he was going to say before the words formed.

  Their pursuer slammed into Cristian so hard they tumbled through a weathered wooden fence and into an empty parking lot near the riverfront. The strigoi skittered over the uneven pavement. Cristian hit the edge of a broken parking block and flipped off in a different direction, rolling to a stop a few feet away from the creature. Both were dazed, each struggling to get up first, and it gave Atlas the opportunity he needed. He wouldn’t lose Cristian.

  He rushed the strigoi, lowering his shoulder and bracing for the hit. He ran through the contact, through the sensation of claws digging into his unprotected shoulders, teetering for a horrifying, breathless moment on the edge of the tall concrete retaining wall before plunging into the dark water below.

  Cold. Darkness. Pain.

  Atlas pushed away from the strigoi, his hands slipping over its skin as it fought against its unexpected submersion. It managed another accidental swipe of its claws against his ribs, but didn’t get hold of him. He forced his way to the surface, broke that final barrier, and gasped, filling his lungs with air in case it seized him and dragged him under.

  “Atlas!”

  He turned and found Cristian at water level, racing along the low, parallel, maintenance walkway. The river, wide and sluggish from observation above, was stronger than he expected. The slow, inexorable pull of its current tried to drag him farther away from the walls and safety.

  “Atlas, come on,” Cristian yelled again.

  His new injuries pulled with every stroke. He didn’t dare to put his head fully under water and lose track of the distant splashing of their attacker as he sw
am back. Cristian ran ahead, tracking his progress and angle. He was waiting for Atlas when he finally got within arm’s reach of the wall. Cristian crouched and reached out a hand, snagging hold of Atlas’s arm and dragging him bodily back up onto the narrow strip of concrete.

  The shivers wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard Atlas tried to control them. Cristian helped him to his feet. He didn’t remind him to hurry. He simply led them toward the narrow stairs leading back up to the public access. The moment their feet hit the solid ground at the top of the river wall, Cristian steered him toward the car. He’d drifted farther downriver than he thought as they ran past the building they’d tried to escape through. The strigoi’s claws had left deep gouges in the entryway, a grim reminder of how close they’d come to bearing such injuries themselves.

  “Keys?” Cristian asked.

  Shit. He patted his pockets. “Here,” he said in relief when he found them.

  “Good. Get the car going.”

  “No,” Atlas protested instantly.

  Cristian pushed him toward the vehicle. There was a strange new tension around his mouth as he tried to hide his fangs and his eyes had changed color completely, all dark blue replaced with gold.

  “You’re bleeding,” Cristian bit out. “Get in the car. I’ll join you soon.” He cocked his head and listened in the direction they’d just come from. “It’s out of the river. Hurry.”

  Unlocking the doors took several fumbling tries. He flung himself inside and tried to start the ignition, but a flash of movement beyond the windshield distracted him. Cristian was grappling with the strigoi. They snarled and ripped at each other, so fast he could barely track their movements. He only knew that Cristian was fighting for all his worth, unable to keep up with the attack.

  The engine turned over.

  Cristian screamed. Atlas looked up, saw Cristian bowed backward, one of the creature’s clawed hands buried deep into his right shoulder, while its other hand raked at his exposed chest and stomach. Cristian reached behind him and dug his fingers into its eyes, forcing it to relinquish its hold before it could draw him in for a bite.

  Atlas slammed his hand down on the horn in warning, then threw the car in drive. The engine roared as he floored it.

  Cristian dove away from the strigoi. He hit the ground and rolled with the momentum, moving himself fully out of the way. The strigoi took a step toward him, right into the illuminated path of the headlights, and Atlas steadied himself. The front of the car crunched into it and sent it flying over the broken pavement. He accelerated again. This time, the bumper caught it as it tried to rise, and forced it back down to the ground. Atlas swallowed down bile when the car lurched and the thing underneath the tires crunched and popped. He flung the car into a quick reverse, and roared back to meet Cristian.

  He threw himself into the backseat of the car, bleeding on his fancy jacket. The door barely had time to close before Atlas was gunning their way down the narrow street in reverse, twisted in his seat so he could see their path. There was no point looking back. The thing might be dead. If it wasn’t, his goal was to get Cristian away. They could figure out what the hell to do after they were both safe.

  “Cristian, you okay?” Atlas asked as he spun them onto the blessedly empty cross street. He put the car back in drive and finally risked a single glance down the long stretch to the warehouse. There, far away, a crumpled, unmoving form. Thank God.

  “Not sure,” Cristian admitted. “Hurts.”

  Atlas tossed his phone back to him. “Call the doc. Make sure she’s waiting for us.”

  Cristian grunted his assent and sat up. Atlas ached at the low hiss of pain he heard. He tugged at the inside of his lip with his teeth, trying not to allow himself to be drawn back to the memory of the first attack, when he could hear the confused groans of his platoon members bleeding out around him. Hearing Cristian’s voice helped, even as he recounted the details of their fight. The grim narration was easy to ignore if he simply focused on the rasp of his words.

  The rustle of fabric made him glance back in the mirror. Cristian held his jacket to his neck, the skin of his wrist and knuckles white from the pressure he was putting against the deep puncture wounds. Atlas returned his eyes to the road and pressed down harder on the gas pedal.

  “I’ll find out. In the meantime, put my father on,” Cristian ordered. He leaned forward, closer to Atlas, and asked, “Where are you injured?”

  Atlas took quick stock, shifting in his seat so he could feel the movement of different limbs. “Shoulder’s bruised. Mostly scratches over my back and ribs.”

  “Were you bitten?” The question wavered with genuine fear, enough that Atlas fumbled to reach back to reassure him.

  “No,” he said, squeezing awkwardly at Cristian’s elbow. “No bites.”

  “Finally, some fucking luck,” Cristian muttered. Into the phone, he said, “Neither of us were bitten. Atlas got clawed though. I can smell the blood.”

  No point making an argument he’d lose. He could feel the blood welling up under his jacket, its warmth noticeable against the cold, soaked fabric of his clothes. “You’re worse off,” he said before giving one last squeeze and taking his hand back.

  “I’ll be fine.” Cristian stayed perched near the console, watching out the windshield, as he listened to the doctor and waited for his father to come on the line.

  Decebal’s voice carried through the phone, even with it pressed to Cristian’s ear. He was speaking in Romanian, and Atlas assumed Cristian would respond the same way. He didn’t. Instead, he held the phone out, turned it to speaker, and said, “We’re both here.”

  Decebal switched back to English effortlessly. “How long until you’re back?”

  “Five minutes?” Atlas guessed. He glanced at the speedometer and winced. “If we don’t get pulled over.”

  “I’m sending some of our people to recover the body,” Decebal said.

  “They’ll see it from the end of the road,” Cristian said. His fangs caught the light when he grinned. “Atlas ran it over with the car.”

  “Effective,” Decebal said, as if Atlas hadn’t destroyed the front of one of his luxury cars. “And Deborah?”

  Atlas didn’t recognize the name. Cristian made a thoughtful noise though. “She never showed. Send Ioana to check her office. I’m worried.”

  “As am I. I will see you soon.”

  The tires screeched as they turned onto the road leading to the house. Four dark cars passed them in a rush. Decebal’s people must have been given some kind of warning, because all the cars hugged the side of the road as they zipped by so Atlas didn’t have to slow or stop. The security gate was still open and he slid inside before it closed.

  “Garage,” Cristian told him. “They’ll be downstairs waiting for us.”

  They were. Doctor Dosou and a man Atlas assumed was another doctor were actually in the garage as they parked. The second they emerged from the car, she hurried forward with her companion, gloves already in place. “Atlas,” she called, “this is Doctor Ned Dalphin. He’s going to work on you. Cristian, you’re with me.”

  The doctors herded them into the medical office, but didn’t bother separating them out into different rooms. Instead, Atlas took a seat on an extra surgery bed in the corner of the room, while Cristian got the operating table under the better lights.

  The doctor, who said to call him Ned, got Atlas to walk him through what happened while he helped him peel out of his jacket so he could get a better look at the claw marks. “Yeah,” he muttered as he peeked under strips of the shredded dress shirt, “we’ll want to close those up. Butterflies should work though. How’s your shoulder?” He prodded at it, nodding when Atlas grunted. “Bruised, but not out of joint. So that’s a plus.”

  “Sure,” Atlas said.

  “How much of that river’s in your lungs and stomach?”

  �
��No idea, honestly. I wasn’t really worrying about a secondary infection.”

  Cristian snorted, drawing Atlas’s attention. It wasn’t that funny, but seeing him wearing a genuine smile went a long way to making up for the rest of the sight. He was a mess. His hair was tacky with sweat and blood. Bruises littered his jaw and cheeks. His shirt hadn’t been removed yet, but Atlas knew there would be worse injuries under the mauled fabric. Now, out of the heat of battle, he noticed the rips in Cristian’s slacks and the way he curled on himself to protect his back.

  “Ribs?” Atlas croaked at Cristian as Ned started to clean the worst of the claw marks with saline-soaked gauze.

  The gauze wasn’t enough, so Ned wrapped a gown around Atlas’s stomach with the order, “Hold this,” and began irrigating the wounds with saline instead. Atlas clamped his jaw against a whimper at the familiar pressure of liquid over broken skin. He was back in the hospital, with people cleaning what was left of him so the surgeons could step in.

  “Definitely bruised,” Cristian said from far away. “Yours?”

  “Fine,” he ground out. The cool trickles down his back made goosebumps rise until they pulled on the opened skin.

  “I don’t believe you, you glory hound. Prove it. Breathe for me.”

  He wasn’t in the hospital. He was here, in Decebal’s house, and Cristian was with him. Cristian was concerned, since his statement was taunt and hidden worry in one. He focused on Cristian’s challenge. He took a breath, but it was too quick and shallow. It let him feel the changing path of the saline over his skin and he clenched his fingers tighter into the fabric of the gown.

  “Slower,” Cristian warned. “Anyone can hyperventilate.”

  The teasing helped. He managed another breath, slower this time, and another after that. Each inhalation got deeper, more measured, and the misery and dizziness faded bit by bit. Once he had himself back under control, he glanced over to Cristian and asked, “How’s the rest of you?”