Rare Vigilance by M.A. Grant

Chapter Seventeen

He followed Cristian up the familiar path to Decebal’s study, trying to rein himself and his emotions back in. He wasn’t sure if Decebal could read his scent the same way Cristian could, but it was a risk he had no desire to take.

The door to the study was open, revealing Decebal and Helias talking in hushed tones over some documents. The moment he spotted Atlas, Decebal dropped the conversation with his consilier.

“Mr. Vladislavic,” Atlas said, noting the way Cristian didn’t bother to close the door behind him.

“We are balancing our schedules,” Decebal said, “and wanted your perspective.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but cautiously offered, “I’ll do what I can.”

“Mr. Vladislavic’s travel will increase over the next few weeks, which means Mr. Slava will be running his meetings for the time being,” Helias said as he slid a document to Atlas.

The page was filled with several neat columns of meeting dates and times over the next few weeks. The list also included each meeting’s location. They were all local addresses, at least. Atlas recognized several as clinics Cristian had visited before, and assumed the rest would be other businesses in Decebal’s empire.

It was a daunting reminder of Decebal’s complicated duties within his territory. Atlas was overwhelmed and he only had to drive from meeting to meeting. He couldn’t imagine how Cristian was feeling about this sudden, drastic change in their usual routine. And as much as he wanted to ask, it would be unprofessional to take such a liberty in front of their current audience.

“Are all these meetings set already?” Atlas asked Helias instead, trying to figure out how much wiggle room Cristian’s schedule could have.

“Some could be moved or rearranged,” Helias said, “though the fewer changes we need to make, the better. Do you see any issues?”

Atlas pointed at two of the meetings on the page. “It would be difficult to drive between these locations with those meeting times,” he warned. “And if anything runs over, we’d definitely be late.”

“Are there any other conflicts you can see?” Decebal asked while Helias wrote something on his copy of the schedule.

Atlas scanned the page again, offering his feedback about interrupted lines of travel, or nights when they’d burn too much time doubling back and forth across Scarsdale. Helias took diligent notes on all his comments, and Decebal leaned back in his chair, watching Atlas work with something akin to pride on his face. Cristian didn’t speak up once, content to sit near the window and watch. When Atlas finished, Decebal looked to Cristian and waved a hand in Atlas’s direction.

“You see?” the man asked his son. “Your success hinges on the ability of those working with you. You complain about meetings, but this is why they matter. If you take them seriously and invite the correct people, your work is lessened. You will have more freedom to spend on other projects.” Decebal tapped the schedule in front of Atlas with his finger emphatically. “But you do the real work first, yes?”

“Yes, Father,” Cristian agreed quietly.

Decebal looked like he wanted to add something else, but Helias managed to divert the conversation by telling Atlas, “Once I make these changes, I’ll be sure to give you the updated schedule.”

“Thank you,” Atlas said, awkwardly aware of the rising tension in the room. He felt like he’d stepped into an old argument, one he didn’t want to listen in on. More importantly, one he didn’t want to be used in, especially if Decebal saw fit to use him against Cristian. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No,” Cristian told him. “Father and I have further business to discuss. I’ll find you later.”

It was an obvious out and he took it unhesitatingly. He abandoned the study and wandered back downstairs to wait. The rest of Cristian’s group was in the billiards room. To pass the time, he attempted to unseat Vasilica from her champion’s throne. She wiped the floor with him twice before he gave up and handed the cue back to Ioana.

He watched Vasilica and Ioana’s battle royale for a bit before he caught the tap of footsteps coming down the stairs. Cristian entered the room just as he turned to the door, and Atlas wished he could risk reaching out to him.

The last part of the meeting with Decebal had clearly put Cristian through the wringer. Exhaustion tugged down the corners of his mouth, despite his weary smile to the group. He rubbed the back of his neck, a move Atlas knew well because he did it too when his headaches flared up.

“How’d it go?” Andrei asked, voicing the question Atlas couldn’t.

“I’ll be stuck here while he travels,” Cristian warned. “There’ll be individual meetings with every clinic. The hospital board wants me to attend the presentation on the proposed lab and storage expansion. And don’t get me started on the new inventory programs Helias and I have to learn.” He shook his head. “All work, and no play.”

“For how long?” Dinu asked.

“The next couple of weeks,” Cristian said with a grimace. “Once Father’s back, things should return closer to normal.”

“Damn it. Rapture just got featured on one of the travel blogs,” Dinu whined as he nudged Andrei aside so he could dig around in the small fridge behind the wet bar. “I was hoping you could do a private tour to promote it more. I even had a script so you could sneak in references to some of our other properties.”

“Tell Helias your plans,” Cristian said, eyeing the chairs near the bookcases. “He’s handling my schedule for the foreseeable future.”

Vasilica gave a dark chuckle, though Atlas couldn’t tell if it was for Cristian’s news or the perfect shot she’d just landed. “You’re letting him create your schedule? How’s that going?”

“Letting is a strong word. And it’s going as well as you expect. He’s color coding it,” Cristian lamented.

“Profligate son to dutiful heir in less than a night,” Dinu laughed. “I’ll remind him to not forget to schedule in feeding too. I swear, the man feeds less than Ioana. He needs to remember not all of us can pull that off.”

Ioana rolled her eyes and flipped him off. Dinu made a kissing sound in reply and pulled a blood bag from the fridge. Andrei grunted and tilted his head toward Atlas. It took Dinu a second to understand what he meant, but once he did, he gave Atlas a worried look. “This okay?” he asked.

Atlas thought about it for a second and shrugged. “It’s not mine, so have at it.”

“Anyone else want some?” Dinu asked. Everyone waved him off, so he poured the contents into two glasses. He sipped from one and handed the other off to Vasilica, who accepted it with murmured thanks as she plotted her next move. Cristian sank down in one of the chairs that left him an easy view of the game, while Andrei worked on his own drink.

“Mr. Kinkaid,” Cristian called, crooking a finger at him. He was a sight, legs slightly splayed, head tilted so he watched Atlas’s approach through his dark eyelashes, and wicked, lazy smile in place. He waited for Atlas to draw up beside his chair to ask, “What are your thoughts on my visiting Rapture for Dinu’s little campaign?”

He didn’t have thoughts on Rapture. No, that was a lie. He had thoughts, but none of them made sense. He wanted Cristian to enjoy himself. Decebal had tightened security at the club, so it was one of the safer places for them to go. He’d gone several days without any signs of an impending migraine, so he wasn’t worried about the music or lighting setting one off. But he didn’t like the jealousy sliding in at the edges of his mind as he thought of Cristian wandering off with another donor. He had no intention of feeding Cristian again, so he had no claim to such an emotion. It sat there nevertheless, an irritating burr he kept brushing against as he reasoned with himself and tried to find a good response.

“Let me know when Helias schedules it in and I’ll get us there,” he said at last.

Behind him, Dinu and Vasilica sent up whoops of triumph. Cristian didn’t. He gave Atlas a slow once-over and said, “I’ll think about it.”

“What’s there to think about?”

“I want you to enjoy yourself too.”

Maybe it was the way Cristian stared at his mouth. Maybe it was the earlier sexual frustration taking the words out of context. It could have been one of a hundred things, but Atlas’s desire flared back to life. Cristian sucked in a breath. His pupils dilated and his fingers dug into his denim-clad knee. Atlas shifted, suddenly remembering Nell noticing the change in his scent and praying no one else in the room had deciphered its meaning. His discomfort snapped Cristian out of whatever distraction he’d lost himself to because he lifted a hand and flicked his fingers toward the door, dismissing Atlas from his presence.

“Move, Mr. Kinkaid,” he said, voice rough and rasping around Atlas’s title. “Let me watch Ioana finish this.”

He moved back to his earlier place by the door, relieved that no one seemed to have found his and Cristian’s interlude unusual, and settled in to finish out the last hour of his shift.

It passed uneventfully. As dawn neared, he made his goodbyes and headed for his car. He was almost home before he remembered his nearly empty fridge. Eating dinner with everyone else while he was on shift had become so common he rarely needed to make major shopping trips anymore, but he was down to the dregs of his last half-hearted trip. If he wanted to eat anything other than the last splash of spoiled creamer or the leftover seasoning packet from a box of wild rice he’d purchased on a whim, he’d need to stop somewhere.

He pulled into the mostly empty parking lot of a store near his neighborhood. The lights overhead created a patchwork of darkness and illuminated asphalt he stuck to on his way inside. It was still early enough that the aisles were a maze of boxes and pallets while workers restocked shelves. Only a handful of other customers wandered about, most of them older. No one made eye contact, all preferring to slip quietly past each other like ghosts. It was calm and still smelled of cleaners and mopped floors. He snagged a basket and began wandering.

He decided on sandwiches, an easy meal to throw together if he was feeling fancy. Even better, he could eat the individual components as his energy and stomach permitted if he had a bad day. He found some decent vegetables and wandered to the bakery, where he dug around in the discount pile until he uncovered a bag of rolls that were still soft when he squeezed them. His basket filled quickly after that with his usual purchases. Coffee, creamer, a roll of paper towels, and another bottle of liquid plant feeder for Snafu, not that it would make a difference. He paused in the personal care aisle to eye the boxes of condoms. It was a stupid thought to entertain.

After a few attempts to walk away, only to find himself looping back through the same aisle, he gave in. He added a box to his cart, along with a fresh bottle of lube. He’d never use either, he told himself, guiltily shuffling the contents of his basket so the rolls covered the damning evidence of his foolish hopes, but it was better safe than sorry.

Last stop was for sandwich meat and cheese. He splurged on the thick-cut slices of cheese before facing the intimidating refrigerated wall of plastic boxes and bags. “Isn’t meat supposed to be gluten free?” he mumbled, leaning closer to decipher one of the labels.

“I should hope so,” said a man to his right.

Atlas jerked away, swinging his basket up between them when he registered who was speaking to him. The colors of Jasper Rhodes’s suit were flattened by the industrial lighting, which cast the planes of his face in an uncomfortable blend of shadow and washed-out flesh.

“Surprised to see me, Mr. Kinkaid?” he asked. His smile was too wide, the slightly pointed canines and flat line of straight, white teeth too pronounced to look natural.

“What do you want?” Atlas asked. He doubted Jasper was here with anyone else. It would be cutting too close to sunrise. Besides, the last time he’d been seduced by the Wharrams’ promises, Jasper had come alone to do the job. Bryony Wharram wouldn’t waste her time dealing with Atlas directly.

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.