by M. A. Grant
“My hero,” Atlas deadpanned.
Caught, Cristian flushed and nudged Atlas into the lounge, to a distant corner that was about as far away from everyone else as they could manage. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ll let you handle yourself next time.”
“Didn’t say I minded,” Atlas said. “Just trying to figure out the new rules.” He settled into one of the fabric armchairs, one that meant his back was against a wall, and took another, slower look around. “Are you sure humans are welcome here?”
Cristian sat in one of the leather chairs that pointed at Atlas’s and groaned as he sank into the comfortable cushion and stretched his legs out before him. He leaned his head back, resting it against the plush back of the chair and let his eyes fall closed. The lounge was deep enough underground that the usual hustle and bustle of the airport didn’t reach him. It was a relief after the flight, and he wondered if Atlas also appreciated this new peace. “Many of us travel with donors, who already know our views on privacy. As long as you don’t try to start a fight or start taking pictures to post online, we’ll be fine.”
“Don’t have any online profiles. And is that what they think I am?” Atlas asked him quietly. “Your donor?”
“Maybe. The man who’d been eyeing you was checking for marks, and the woman at the bar was reading how close we were standing together. They were just curious, but we’ll need to figure out how we want to present our relationship sooner rather than later.”
“And my being your donor makes it easier while we travel?”
“In some ways.”
He finally opened his eyes, only to find Atlas watching him closely. The first time he’d seen Atlas on the day of his interview, he’d been unimpressed. The man reeked of exhaustion and resignation, and his eyes were haunted with ghosts Cristian had no interest in meeting. And then Atlas had stood up to him, had gotten the job, had become an island of steady calm and practicality he didn’t realize he’d longed for, and Cristian hated himself for trusting his first impression for so long. The way Atlas looked at him now, with a gentle concern he couldn’t manage to hide no matter how he tried, and his mouth marred with the start of a frown... Cristian treasured these moments most because Atlas trusted him enough to show his vulnerability. Cristian wished Atlas would trust him more. If they weren’t in public, he might have said as much. Instead, he shoved those emotions down and returned to the issue at hand.
He nudged Atlas’s shin with his toe. “Does that bother you?”
“I’m not sure.”
It hurt more than he thought it would. After the partial feeding they’d shared in Scarsdale, he longed for their relationship to deepen. But he would never manipulate Atlas into moving faster than he wanted. Maybe that’s why Atlas’s ambivalence about donors now rankled. It wasn’t an outright rejection of what they could become someday. It was far worse, a reaction ambiguous enough to give Cristian hope. He’d lived long enough to know how dangerous hope could be.
“Honestly,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, “you pretending to be my donor when you really aren’t is—” He struggled to find the right word. Awful, humiliating, depressing were all accurate, but would make Atlas ask a lot more questions, and receive answers he probably didn’t want to hear yet. Cristian finally went with, “—difficult. Trying to remember what we’re pretending risks distracting both of us at inopportune times.”
“So we stick to the truth,” Atlas suggested. “I’m your bodyguard, you’re my client.”
“Clean and efficient.” Cristian attempted a smile. It was fake, twisted, and Atlas’s frown deepened at the sight. “Don’t look at me like that. If that’s what it takes for us to stay focused and figure out how our unwanted guests arrived in Scarsdale, so be it. Do you want anything from the bar?”
“No,” Atlas said with a shake of his head.
He stayed sitting there as Cristian walked away. Separating himself from Atlas, from the challenge of trying to read the man’s subtle scents, was good. He ordered them both coffee—it felt wrong to not offer Atlas anything—and returned to their quiet corner a few minutes later, holding out the perfect flat white like a peace offering. Even though he’d said he didn’t want anything, Atlas took it with a murmured thanks.
He waited for Cristian to sit down again and figure out how to best hold his mocha before stating, “You didn’t let me finish.”
“Finish what?”
“In public,” Atlas said steadily, “I’m your bodyguard.”
“Yes, Mr. Kinkaid, I am well aware of that.”
“In private, I’m...well, we can figure it out as we go.” He ignored Cristian gaping at him and took a sip of his coffee.
“Figure it out as we go? I thought you wanted clear plans,” Cristian choked out, setting his mocha down on the arm of his chair. “What happened to needing logistics?”
“About how we travel, how we keep you from turning into ash, how we move through different territories, how we defend ourselves,” Atlas said with amusement. “Those are the kind of logistics I need. Maybe now that you know where we stand on the other issue, you can focus on our more pressing concerns.” He took another sip of his coffee, smugly watching Cristian trying to pull his thoughts back together.
Yes, hope would be the end of him.
“Right,” Cristian mumbled, “sure. Where do you want to start?”
Chapter Two
They landed in Bucharest with no issues.
The stone tunnel they walked through to the lounge was clean and undecorated, designed for practical purposes, and a far cry from the modern, well-lit hallway in the private German airport. There were no advertisements here, no artwork, and no carpet. This tunnel was far older than the new, documented network of Bucharest’s underground passages and sewers used by those disenfranchised after the revolution, and it remained hidden from the city’s knowledge thanks to centuries of secrecy and care by the Dunării family, who ruled the territory’s various counties. Cristian liked comfort, but his father had been a mercenary, and he understood the importance of practical decisions too.
Whatever decadence was missing in the hallway had been given over to the lounge. Elaborately carved archways organized the cavernous seating areas. Atlas, despite his exhaustion, tilted his head back to follow the carvings up to the high ceilings and their beautifully painted frescoes. Sturdy wooden tables and chairs filled the spaces nearest the bar, where a friendly worker called a greeting to them. Cristian waved back, but focused on settling Atlas at a couch tucked into a protective corner created by the archway.
Atlas dropped onto the couch like it was the bed of a five-star hotel and released a soul-weary sigh. “What now?”
“Phone.”
Atlas handed it over with only minor hesitation. “Who are you calling?”
He hoped he remembered the number correctly. “If we want safe passage through the territory, we need permission from the family who runs it. We could try to slip through without reaching out, but it will make us—and Father—look bad.”
Atlas made a low sound of understanding and slouched farther down in the couch. He was halfway to prone and clinging to consciousness by stubborn will alone. “Make your call. I’ll contact Bea once you’re done.”
“Deal.” He dialed and waited. After a handful of rings, the call connected.
“Dunării residence, Crina speaking,” the woman said in Romanian as she picked up.
“Good evening,” Cristian replied. “I need to request safe passage through the Dunării lands.”
“One moment.”
On the couch, Atlas shifted, attentive to Cristian’s one-sided conversation. Either the rapid Romanian, or his tone of voice had caught Atlas’s ear, but there was no denying the effect. Atlas was interested, and not solely in a professional capacity.
“Voivode Mihai will speak to you. Please wait.”
“Thank you.” Cristian tugged at the hem of his—no, Atlas’s—shirt while he waited for Crina to put the Dunării patriarch through. He needed new clothes, something sharper and more professional. He hated political games, hated wasting his time and energy deciphering every careful word or action, but he couldn’t keep himself or Atlas safe here unless he played them.
Maybe his concern over Atlas is what made his stomach curl when the line picked up and a man’s gruff voice said, “You’ve requested safe passage?”
He needed to be careful. In the past, his father or Helias would reach out and vet those Cristian did business with in advance. He couldn’t rely on their expertise or power now. “Yes, sir. My partner and I just landed in Bucharest and are awaiting your approval before traveling out of the city.”
“Where are you traveling to? I will reach out to my ispán to secure you safe lodging and to help you feed properly during your stay.”
“We intend to travel to Braşov.”
“Braşov?” The man paused. “Who do you intend to visit there?”
“You, sir.”
“Who should I expect?” the man growled.
Cristian had heard the same threatening edge in his father’s voice before, the promise of pain and danger. Maybe he shouldn’t have waited until they were in Mihai’s territory to call and request safe passage. If it was denied them, they’d have limited time to come up with an alternative plan. Damn it, he should have listened to Helias when the man tried to teach him the finer points of diplomacy. But there was nothing for it now. His ability to play the game would have very real, very serious consequences. Not just for him, either.
Cristian cleared his throat and turned away from Atlas to hide his nervousness. “My companion and I are traveling under documents for Joseph Billings and Daniel Putnam. But our real names are Atlas Kinkaid and Cristian Slava.”
“Cristian... Are you Decebal’s boy?”
“Yes, sir.” Cristian hesitated, then dared to ask, “May we have safe passage to visit you?”
“I will send someone to collect you and your partner.” It was an order, one only fools would dare to challenge. A chill ran through Cristian as Mihai continued, “Wait in the lounge for my driver.”
“We will, sir,” Cristian promised. The line went dead. Had he done the right thing? Or was he walking them straight into another trap? No, stop thinking like that. What was done was done. He swallowed his fears, and turned to toss the phone back to Atlas.
The other man caught it easily. His searching look pinned Cristian in place and he hoped his fake smile held up to the scrutiny. Atlas had a frustrating habit of reading his true thoughts too easily.
“How’d it go?” Atlas asked.
“It didn’t go badly,” Cristian hedged.
“You inspire me with such confidence,” Atlas said dryly. “Are we allowed to stay in the territory?”
“The family is sending someone to pick us up, actually.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and admitted, “I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad.”
Atlas’s mouth flattened to a narrow line. Cristian knew a lecture was coming, but before he could start his defense, Atlas leaned forward and wrapped his fingers around Cristian’s wrist. He didn’t pull, didn’t tighten his grip, simply held there, which distracted Cristian utterly from his planned excuses.
“Will you be safe?” Atlas asked, voice low and calm. His professional voice, the one he pulled out when he didn’t want Cristian to get a read on his emotions. Worse, there were no tells in his scent, what little of it Cristian could catch. Atlas had closed himself off.
“I’ll be fine,” Cristian answered honestly. He would be. Decebal had been one of Mihai’s finest mercenaries, and the Dunării patriarch would do his old employee the courtesy of holding Cristian for ransom rather than killing him outright. He wasn’t sure if the same kindness would be extended to Atlas though. He tried to keep his tone light as he said, “If you want to get out, now’s the time. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”
Atlas grunted and heaved himself up from the couch. “Nice try. I’m going to call Bea. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Atlas walked partway back down the hall, not so far as to be out of sight or hearing of Cristian, but far enough to show he wanted privacy for this call. With little other choice, Cristian stole Atlas’s previous seat and waited him out. He made a conscious effort to not listen in, though he couldn’t help but notice the moments when Atlas stopped shifting or pacing and went still as he took in something his sister said. Cristian trusted Beatrice, almost as much as he trusted her promise of putting Atlas first. Her conviction was striking, and Atlas’s devotion to her was equally strong.
Beatrice would always come first. Atlas had already proven that, no matter how much he tried to make up for it now. Believing anything else was delusory at best, fatal at worst.
The call was short, far shorter than Cristian’s call to Mihai. Atlas returned to their couch and scowled at Cristian, who’d sprawled out over the cushions in the interim.
“How’d it go?” Cristian asked, echoing Atlas’s earlier question.
Atlas pocketed the phone. “Fine. Don’t make that face at me. You gave me the same response a minute ago after your call.”
“Yes, but you have a tendency to use that word incorrectly,” Cristian griped, “Usually directed at me in place of Fuck it or Fuck you.” Atlas rolled his eyes, but didn’t disagree. It wasn’t a victory Cristian could really celebrate, so he pressed, “Please define this fine for me.”
“Fine,” Atlas recited, “as in, nothing horrible has happened. I told Bea we’re safe. I asked how things were back home. Your father and our friends are healthy and safe.” Atlas smiled when he caught Cristian’s sudden, relieved exhalation. “Like I said, fine.”
“Fine,” Cristian muttered.
Atlas chuckled at that and nudged at his leg. Grudgingly, Cristian shifted to make room for him on the couch, sitting up so he could swing his legs away from the far cushions. Atlas settled into the newly opened space. Cristian froze when their shoulders brushed, sure Atlas would move away. But he didn’t. This wasn’t distance, but this wasn’t affectionate closeness either. There was a tension in Atlas’s body as he kept watch on the empty lounge... No, this was something else, something stuck between bodyguard and lover. Once again, Atlas had disarmed Cristian far more effectively than anyone else had in decades.
“Do you think we can trust the family who runs this territory?” Atlas asked after a few minutes of awkward silence.
“They’re respected by the Council, and they’ve always had a good relationship with my father. They helped him and Mother elope.”
“I sense a but coming—”
“But,” Cristian said, “you were attacked by strigoi here, in their territory, and somehow that news never spread beyond their borders.”
He didn’t have to say anything else; Atlas already understood. “Either they knew and kept it quiet, or they’re in the same boat as your father,” Atlas mused.
“I’d rather play things close until we know which situation we’re dealing with,” Cristian said. He tilted his head back to eye Atlas. He wished he could find a way to distract Atlas from his maudlin thoughts, maybe even coax a smile to the man’s face. “Once we meet with Mihai and the others, I’ll have a better idea of what we’re getting into.”
“We both will,” Atlas agreed.
“Try to get some rest,” Cristian suggested. “I can watch for the luggage. I need you sharp when we meet them.”
Atlas grunted in agreement. Probably less a sign of his docility over the suggestion and more from his desire to save his energy for better arguments. He leaned his head back and got comfortable, bringing his body into even closer contact with Cristian’s, before he closed his eyes. Faded freckles dotted his eyelids, and his long lashes cast shado
ws over the exhaustion-darkened skin below his eyes. Maybe, with enough time and care, he’d lose that wary, haunted look. Maybe Cristian would even be lucky enough to see it.
“Stop staring,” he grumbled. “And wake me when our driver gets here.”
Cristian swallowed and looked forward again, down the empty hall. “I wasn’t staring,” he lied. “And, of course, I’ll wake you up, Mr. Kinkaid. Who else will carry our bags?” He felt, more than heard, Atlas’s huff of amusement. After a few minutes, the man’s breathing evened out and deepened. Only when he was sure Atlas was asleep did Cristian let his head rest on Atlas’s shoulder as he waited for the next step of their journey to begin.
* * *
Despite his fears over their escort’s deliberate silence, Cristian couldn’t help pressing his face against the UV-proof glass of the car window and staring out in wonder. The Carpathian Mountains of his childhood hadn’t changed much.
Yes, his heart ached when he caught sight of the flat, scarred clear cuts marring the mountains, but the forests still standing were the primeval bastions of the wilderness he remembered. Beech, pine, and oak blanketed the steep mountainsides, the rich green checked here and there with the start of autumnal colors. Houses, villages, and farmed fields wrestled for patches of tamed ground, and the aged structures warned the mountains hadn’t given up anything without a fight. The Carpathians were one of the few places Cristian felt small, felt as if he could disappear without a trace, his insignificance swallowed up by the forests and left to molder alongside the bones of others who failed to prove their greatness to the unforgiving earth.
His memories from decades or centuries earlier didn’t always line up with the modern world, especially in areas he hadn’t visited recently. He tended to view the world with the hazy overlay of the past distorting everything, whether for good or for ill. Traveling through the countryside gave him time to reorient himself.
Their driver pointed out Braşov as they passed the famous walled city and continued along the narrow, winding road that led them farther northwest, into the shadow of the mountains. Cristian had been inside Atlas’s head, remembered the dark expanse the strigoi had come from as they attacked Atlas’s platoon. This forest wasn’t the same one, especially dappled in daylight, but he worried it was close enough to send Atlas back to that moment. He risked a glance at his bodyguard as the canopies of the trees blocked them from the sun and clenched his hand into a fist when he couldn’t read his expression.