Crooked Shadows--A Vampire Bodyguard Romance

by M. A. Grant

  “Same here,” Atlas said.

  “Hopefully you’ll get a good night’s sleep,” Cristian said, hoping she was able to read his unspoken thanks into the words.

  She must have, because she smiled before slipping out of the room, leaving them to get settled for a desperately needed rest.

  Chapter Twelve

  Daria returned with some blankets and an ancient, unzipped sleeping bag, which they laid out on the living room floor. The shutters of her windows were barred and locked, but Atlas and Cristian still drew the heavy curtains just in case. Atlas took his trazodone with only minimal nervousness. Daria didn’t comment on it all; she fled to the peace and safety of her bedroom. Cristian crawled under the blankets with Atlas. They were careful to settle in with space between them, still wary of crossing each other’s boundaries after the failed feeding.

  A few hours later, Cristian came awake with a groggy start. The soft glow of dying embers in the fireplace gave enough illumination for him to place his surroundings without panicking, but he still reached out with his senses, trying to find the source of the disturbance that had pulled him out of sleep.

  No sounds of strigoi creeping around outside. No disruption from Daria’s room. No, the source of his disquiet came from the man lying in bed beside him. Cristian could smell Atlas’s distress, though he gave no signs of being lost to another night terror.

  Maybe he’d woken before Atlas could succumb to it. Maybe he could actually help this time.

  The darkness lent him courage. “Atlas,” he whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. “Atlas, wake up.”

  When that didn’t wake him, he began rubbing Atlas’s shoulder and back and speaking in Romanian, hoping to pull him back to consciousness. “Time to wake up, Atlas. You’re probably dreaming that you’re somewhere in Romania with your platoon, but you’re not. I mean, we are in Romania, but you’re here with me. And with Daria, since we’re staying at her house. But we aren’t out on a road in the middle of a forest. There are no strigoi nearby. They aren’t going to attack you. They won’t hurt you. I won’t let them. Remember? I promised you I’d keep you safe and I’m going to do that. We’ll figure out where the bastards are hiding and we’ll destroy their nest. They’ll never hurt anyone again. Not you, not Daria, not Teodora or anyone else in this village. We’ll stop them here and we’ll go home and find the nest in Scarsdale and destroy it too.”

  He knew Atlas couldn’t understand his rambling, but the constant talking must have annoyed him enough because just as Cristian was about to continue, Atlas’s pulse changed and he shifted under hand.

  “Cristian?” Atlas’s voice was sleep-rough and confused.

  “Just me,” he murmured, withdrawing his hand and moving so there was more space between them. “I needed you to wake up before the nightmares started.”

  “Hmm,” Atlas grumbled. He rolled over, tucking his head beneath Cristian’s chin. “Good idea.”

  “I thought so,” Cristian whispered. His heart was beating too fast and a soft, foolish hope fluttered behind his ribs, even as he didn’t move for fear of ruining the moment. He was always the first to reach out, to offer the invitation for touch and comfort. For Atlas to be the one to close the gap now, for him to be the one to seek out Cristian, was a marvel.

  “Keep talking,” Atlas mumbled into his chest. “Helps.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Anything. I like it all.”

  He swallowed and slid his hand through Atlas’s hair. “It’s funny you say that,” he whispered, “because I remember when you hated me. The instant you saw fangs, you told me it would be better if I died. When you came back to work for us, I wondered why. Now, I think I know. But I’ll wait for you to tell me. That’s what love is, isn’t it? Patience and kindness and something else, I think...” He stared up at the ceiling, but couldn’t figure out the rest of the damn quote. He sighed. “Probably sex. Seems like that’s what most people consider love to be. And if we convince ourselves that’s true, it’s easier to walk away—”

  He glanced down and those bands squeezed round his heart from Atlas’s peaceful face. The tension had eased from his brow and eyes, and his mouth was slack. Apparently the preemptive waking had worked and now the medication could help keep the rest of the symptoms at bay.

  He brushed his hand over Atlas’s hair once more. The short, silky strands parted for his fingers, and he smiled when Atlas snuffled and ducked his head farther against his chest. “Well, that doesn’t matter. At least I’ll have the memory of you when you walk away.”

  Once he said it though, he couldn’t push the thought out of his mind. He’d told himself he was fine accepting whatever limited affection Atlas threw his way. Any scrap was better than nothing when the intensity of his feelings for the man were so strong. Now, lying beside a dying fire, he realized he was wrong. He’d greedily lapped up every touch and kind word and whisper of praise Atlas had granted him, because he’d believed Atlas would never choose him in the end. But Atlas had stuck around, time and time again, and was trying to make up for his past mistakes.

  He didn’t want scraps any longer. He wanted a future, an actual future, with this man. And he didn’t know if Atlas wanted that too.

  “Fuck,” Cristian mumbled to the embers.

  He carefully disentangled himself from Atlas, tucking him in under the blankets to ensure he didn’t get cold, and headed for the kitchen. Maybe cool water would clear his mind, especially if Daria had a glass big enough to drown himself in.

  He didn’t find a large glass, but he did find Daria, who’d snuck in at some point to make herself a cup of instant coffee. She pointed him toward a shelf and he filled up a glass. They stood on opposite ends of the small counter, facing each other, and drinking silently. He had refilled his glass and was chugging down the second helping when Daria abruptly asked, “Does he know?”

  At least she was speaking in Romanian, which guaranteed a modicum of privacy if Atlas woke up. Still, Cristian coughed to clear his throat. “Know what?”

  His attempted stare-down didn’t work on her. Rather than quake and change the subject, she gave him a weary look and took another sip of her coffee. In that moment, she reminded him of Ioana, and his homesickness hit him like a bag of bricks.

  He pushed the emotion aside and ground out, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose may have helped him focus, but it did nothing to ease his aching heart. “Because it complicates things.”

  “And hiding this doesn’t?” Daria asked.

  “We want different things. If he doesn’t know how I feel, it will make it easier for him to leave when this is all over.”

  She frowned, set down her mug, and crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him. “Is it your right to make that decision for him?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He changed the subject, unwilling to bare that much of himself to this strange, unknown woman. “Tomorrow night I may need to follow up on something. If I leave him here—”

  “He’ll be safe,” Daria promised, still wearing a deep frown.

  She looked like she wanted to say more. Too bad. He was done with this conversation. Cristian nodded, set down his empty glass, and headed for the living room. He was almost out of the kitchen when Daria asked, “Have you always been this human?”

  He froze. “No,” he said quietly. “I used to be far kinder.”

  * * *

  He didn’t fall back to sleep. Daria’s pointed questions replayed in his mind, and he couldn’t stop himself from analyzing his responses. He hadn’t answered her most important question then, and still couldn’t organize his thoughts coherently now.

  Atlas deserved the choice of choosing what kind of future he wanted them to share. Cristian would never deny that. His father’s empire was built a
round the concept of choice; it always was, and would continue to be, the most valuable commodity out there. What Cristian hadn’t been able to verbalize to Daria was his inner conflict over offering others choice, or choosing to protect himself from what might come.

  He didn’t know where those lines fell. Hell, he didn’t know if he’d done enough in his long life to deserve putting himself first.

  The answers never came, no matter how many hours passed. Rather than fight a losing battle with sleep, he grabbed a random book from a stack on a small table, crawled back in next to Atlas, and began reading. He forgot the day’s start and lost himself in the story, following the young officer through the ravages of the Great War. He continued to read when Atlas finally shifted, though he smiled when the other man grumbled and squinted up at him.

  “You’re reading?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Cristian said, lifting the book to show how obvious Atlas’s observation was. “Have been for a while.”

  “Any good?”

  “Very. But depressing as fuck,” Cristian admitted. He used the dust jacket cover to save his place and set the book down on the floor near his side of the makeshift bed. “It’s about an officer who commands the execution of a traitor and has to face himself and the consequences of his actions afterward.”

  Atlas sat up abruptly. The blankets fell from his chest and shoulders, exposing the thin shirt he’d worn to bed. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and mumbled, “Why would you voluntarily read that shit?”

  “Because it speaks to the human condition?” Cristian tried. When Atlas glared at him, he held up his hands and tried again, “Because I couldn’t sleep and needed something to distract me.”

  “Let’s find something other than traitors to distract you,” Atlas mumbled as he got up.

  The jump in his pulse gave away his discomfort with the subject, and Cristian wondered how long it would take before Atlas stopped running from his past and broached the subject of the Wharrams. Even if the memories from the botched feeding threw him back into a new spiral of guilt, he should be able to break it with common sense observations. Cristian was sure he’d proven a confession wouldn’t change anything between them. So why couldn’t Atlas see that?

  They rotated in and out of Daria’s small, windowless bathroom, taking care to not disrupt the pipes, and returned to their temporary bedroom feeling a bit more alive. Atlas snagged his previous night’s work off the desk on their way to the kitchen. It was endearing to watch him use curtains and dishtowels to close off sunlight that slipped through the shutters. Once he gave the all clear and settled in at the heavy table, Cristian puttered about making coffee. He prepared three cups and set one on the edge of the counter near the doorway before taking a seat beside Atlas.

  Daria came out a few minutes later in her work clothes. She eyed Cristian’s cup with envy, until he pointed to the counter where hers waited. The small peace offering seemed to help. She made her way farther into the kitchen and leaned against the counter to watch them work.

  Cristian set down Atlas’s cup and nudged it toward him. “Drink. You’re a bastard without your caffeine.”

  Atlas took it, tilted his head back, and chugged down most of the brew, making his throat flex in beautiful, distracting ways. When he finished, he set the cup aside, pushed the map to the center of the table where Cristian and Daria could see it better, and pointed with his pencil. “We have Stefan’s attack here. Alva’s here. My platoon was attacked somewhere in here, but I don’t know the exact location, which isn’t very helpful. Have we heard of any others?”

  Cristian dutifully recited the names of the villages he’d seen in the article about the bear attacks. When he finished, Daria reached out a finger and pointed to a spot near Alva’s attack. “There was another one here. A backpacker from the south. They never found family to contact. And here—” She pointed at another place. “A couple hiking with their dog.”

  She hesitated for a second. “And you can mark this house too.”

  Atlas froze, pencil poised over the map, and looked up at Daria. “What?” he whispered. “You were attacked here?”

  Cristian didn’t move, too stunned by the admission to say anything. Probably best that he shouldn’t anyway. Daria stood at the edge of the table, hands gripping her cup tightly, while studiously avoiding Cristian’s gaze.

  “My brother had been helping my father with a difficult lambing. I... I think the strigoi smelled the blood. They killed them in one of the old barns. They came for the house after.” She cast a distant gaze around the kitchen. “I was doing dishes. My mother died trying to help me escape. I tried to crawl to the road, but didn’t make it. They didn’t find me. Too distracted, I guess. I blacked out. Woke up screaming in the sunlight.” She wrapped her arms around her core and shuddered. Her voice dropped to the barest hint of a whisper. “It burned...”

  Cristian’s skin crawled. How long had Daria been trapped here, living out her daily life in such a tomb? He’d lived enough lifetimes to know all buildings were haunted by death at some point, but he doubted humans had the same perspective.

  “I’m so sorry,” he told her, and left it at that. Anything else would have made her suspicious. Anything less would have been a lie.

  Atlas murmured his agreement. She nodded, and her grip on the cup loosened a bit. “Do you think you can find them now?”

  “I can make a few good guesses.” Atlas’s voice was gruff and he glared down at the map like he could threaten it to give up the strigoi’s nest. “But that’ll need to wait.” He looked to Cristian a little guiltily. “Some of the people in town wanted to talk to me about the article and the bears in the area. I said you were busy, so Daria offered to translate instead.”

  Cristian waved off his concern. “If you need to go, go. Anything to help narrow our search area.”

  “What will you do?” Atlas asked him.

  “The bookstore clerk saw Radu. She said he was heading this way.” Cristian stole Atlas’s pencil and used it as a pointer as he traced a tentative route down the country roads. “I’d like... I’d like to search for him again, especially after we couldn’t help Florica. I was thinking of taking the car later this evening and trying to figure out where else Radu’s been. And, no,” he said, pointing the pencil at Atlas threateningly, “you are not coming with me. I’m already going to need to think quickly to avoid suspicion, and having an American who can’t speak the language with me won’t help.”

  “I am still responsible for you,” Atlas said with a mixture of heat and resignation. “It’s dangerous to travel alone.”

  Help came from an unexpected quarter. “He’ll be careful,” Daria said, collecting their coffee cups. “Besides, unless he runs into strigoi, nothing he meets will pose a real challenge to him.”

  Cristian forced a smile and looked to Atlas. “Exactly,” he said. “Listen to her. I’ll be fine.”

  * * *

  There was a curse on those three words, Cristian decided as he stepped out of yet another small bar. Anytime he started with any kind of conviction how he’d be fine, the world conspired to prove him wrong.

  His night was almost up. He’d driven most of the way back to the bookstore before turning around. Then he’d stopped in every village and town on the road back. Factor in the time necessary to put the locals at ease, to ask general questions about whether anyone of Radu’s description had been through yet, and to excuse himself to continue the search, and he was going to be cutting his drive to Daria’s a little close to the bone. To make it worse, it had been a useless effort. Only one person had a vague recollection of seeing someone like Radu, and they hadn’t taken any notice of where he was headed. Cristian had hit a dead end.

  And now he was standing across the street from Emil, who looked genuinely stunned to find him here.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Cristian growled in Romanian
as he stalked toward him. “Why didn’t you answer any of my calls? We needed your help.”

  Emil held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I can explain.” He glanced over his shoulder at a van, then around them at the empty street, and asked, “May we speak somewhere quieter?”

  “Where? A graveyard?”

  Emil winced. The expression was so out of place on the man’s stoic face, with its lines from age and experience, that Cristian actually stopped to consider the request and what could have possibly made him utter it.

  “Is the Council here?” he demanded.

  “No, but please let us talk somewhere off the street.”

  Atlas’s distrust of the man seemed to have worked its way into Cristian’s mind too, and he eyed the surrounding area with more care than he normally would have. There weren’t many options available. The bar would be too busy for Emil’s taste and he had no idea what the man had driven here. Without another choice, Cristian gestured to his own car.

  “You sit in the front passenger seat. I’ll sit in the back,” he ordered. At least he’d have a slightly better chance of surviving a dangerous encounter, if that was Emil’s intent. Atlas would be so proud.

  Emil didn’t argue. He waited for Cristian to unlock the car and got into the front seat. Cristian slid into the back and stayed near the far door, where he had a better eye on Emil and an option to bolt for freedom if it came to that.

  “We’re somewhere quieter,” he said. “Talk.”

  “Theo Wharram has been looking for you,” Emil warned. “He’s collected memoriam sanguinis throughout Grigore’s territory and is trying to piece together your movements. He won’t stop until he finds you. What did you do to bring the Wharrams down on you this way?”

  “They wanted me to join their family. I told them I already had one,” Cristian said, mind racing. “Has he fed from you yet?”