Rare Vigilance

by M. A. Grant

  Cristian appeared at his side. His knee slammed into the vampire’s stomach and as it curled up from the ground with a rushed exhalation of pain, Cristian’s hands settled firmly on either side of its head. He twisted, a brutal, confident movement, and the air resounded with the wet pop of vertebrae cracking. The vampire’s body went limp beneath Atlas, and he slammed its hand to the ground until the knife skittered out of its limp fingers.

  “Bought a second,” Cristian panted, clutching at his injury. “Need to finish. His heart—”

  Atlas staggered to his feet. A row of dusty pipe clamps hung on the wall nearby. He grabbed one, dragged it over, and clutched tightly at the black pipe as he raised it over the vampire’s chest. With a ragged bellow, he drove it down with his remaining strength. The end of the pipe ground into the concrete floor and he tore it free, repeating the staking again and again and again and—

  “Stop,” Cristian urged, tugging at his arm with a hand. “It’s done.”

  He blinked and let the clamp fall from his trembling hands. The vampire lay there, an ugly, uneven hole torn through its chest. Thick, dark blood dribbled sluggishly from the edges of the wound, and Atlas choked on rising bile.

  Cristian pushed him back from the body. He went willingly, desperate to move his attention to something, anything, else. Like Cristian’s hand clutching at the wet fabric under his arm and the fine sheen of sweat coating his forehead.

  “You’re hurt.” Atlas dug for his phone.

  He hit the number he’d programmed in case of such an emergency and turned the phone on speaker so he could use both hands to paw at Cristian. Cristian swore and tried to avoid his inspection, but Atlas remained focused. He needed something to cling to as the adrenaline high faded. He needed to keep Cristian alive. If he did, he could prove everything that had happened to him was real.

  The line clicked. “Doctor Dosou,” a woman said.

  “This is Atlas Kinkaid. Cristian is injured,” he explained, still trying to get Cristian to move his hand away enough so he could see the wound.

  “Slow down, Mr. Kinkaid. Where are you both?”

  “Hahn Lake,” Cristian said aloud, hissing when Atlas tugged on his jacket lapel. He must have realized he’d lose the battle, because he dropped his hand and continued glibly, “How are you, Héléne?”

  “What kind of injury?”

  Atlas gently pulled the lapel away from Cristian’s chest and swore when he saw the slice through the armpit of Cristian’s jacket. “Knife to the armpit.”

  “How deep?”

  “Deep enough to be a problem,” Cristian admitted. “I think it nicked something.”

  Atlas glanced up, surprised by the resignation in Cristian’s tone, and froze when he met a golden stare. The phone hit the ground between them and the screen shattered. Cristian stepped farther away, ducking his head to try to hide his features, but it was too late.

  “You—” Atlas breathed.

  Why was he on the ground? Had he fallen? No, the stripe on the dusty floor indicated he’d crawled backward, until his back was pressed against one of the old desks. He searched for the clamp, but it was too far away, lying beside the unmoving body of their original attacker. A vampire. Just like Cristian.

  “Mr. Kinkaid? Mr. Kinkaid, please listen to me.” A calm, stern voice rang out from his phone speaker and he dimly remembered he’d been talking to the doctor.

  “He’s a—”

  “Yes, Mr. Kinkaid, I know.”

  His voice rose, breaking as it climbed over the impossible truth. “—fucking vampire!”

  “That is true, Mr. Kinkaid,” Doctor Dosou agreed. “He is also your client, and at this moment he may be dying.”

  Every breath was a fight against panic. His muscles set and flexed, ready to flee the moment an opening came. But the doctor’s words cut through some of the instinctual response. “What?” he croaked.

  “Blood loss, Mr. Kinkaid. I can’t see where he was wounded, but it sounds as though Cristian is suffering rapid blood loss. He’ll die.”

  “Good,” he growled without thought.

  Cristian, halfway hidden in the shadows, flinched.

  “You have a job to do, Mr. Kinkaid,” the doctor tried to argue, but Atlas growled again. It was nowhere near as threatening a sound as the vampires had made, but it was raw and honest.

  “Leave it, Héléne,” Cristian ordered.

  “You need to feed—”

  Cristian moved faster than Atlas expected, and Atlas banged his head and back against the desk in an attempt at farther retreat. Cristian, squatting with the phone in hand, watched him with an odd expression. “I’ll call you back,” he said quietly to the doctor.

  “Cristian, don’t—” she protested, but Cristian hung up before her lecture could continue. He stayed crouched there and warned, “I’m going to toss this to you.”

  Atlas didn’t watch the phone. He kept his eye on Cristian’s hand and dug his fingers into the concrete to keep from lashing out when the phone hit his stomach. It was his phone, it was his phone, it wasn’t something else—

  “Mr. Kinkaid,” Cristian said, “I hate to interrupt your existential crisis, but we’re going to need to make some decisions rather quickly here.”

  “You’re a vampire,” Atlas said. And then, because his night had already gone to shit, he decided there was no point trying for diplomacy. “Are you going to try to kill me too?”

  “Yes, I am. And no, I’m not. Father would be very unhappy with me if I did.” Cristian grimaced and his balance wobbled. Rather than steady himself by untucking his hand from under his arm, which would stop his holding pressure to the wound, he fell gracelessly onto his ass. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, and his lips were tinged gray. “I need to get back to the house, but I don’t know how we can manage it in time.”

  His mind latched on to the promise of a problem to solve, conveniently pushing the horrifying reality aside for a moment. He swallowed and asked, “Why not?”

  “I need to feed to heal. There’s blood at the house.”

  “If you don’t feed, you’ll die?”

  He frowned and looked away. “Probably.”

  The silence stretched between them. Atlas didn’t know how Cristian was keeping such tight control over his vampirism, but the feral behavior could come out at any moment. He’d seen it in Romania. He’d almost witnessed it already. Avoiding Cristian’s reach was the only way to keep himself safe.

  He slid his phone in his pocket and held himself still, praying that a lack of movement wouldn’t draw Cristian’s attention and trigger a predatory response. There was no stopping his senses from running riot. The scent of blood and rent flesh mingled with the disturbed dust. Nothing else moved in the building, leaving him to listen to Cristian’s ragged breathing and the soft sound of liquid slowly dripping onto the floor.

  Cristian was bleeding out. He shifted at the thought, torn between relief and regret. If he died, Atlas would be safe to flee. But if he died, Atlas would fail the job, which meant Bea would face Decebal’s wrath since her “best” agent sat there and let his son die.

  Bea. She was working for vampires and had no idea. They could go after her at any moment. Would go after her if he failed.

  “Fuck,” Atlas whispered.

  Cristian tilted his head, but didn’t waste energy looking toward him.

  He’d failed his platoon, in real life and in every nightmare he’d suffered after. He couldn’t fail Bea. Her death would kill him.

  He clenched his fists. “You need to feed.”

  “Obviously,” Cristian mumbled.

  “How much?”

  Cristian glanced at him, movement sluggish and painful to witness. Atlas buried that shred of concern. Cristian was a monster. A monster he was contractually obligated to protect. There was no room for worry or sympathy.
>
  “I’m not sure,” Cristian admitted. He struggled to keep his head steady. “Enough to start the healing process. As long as I’m not dead when we get back, Héléne can fix me.”

  “If I get you back, you swear your father won’t come after Bea?”

  Cristian looked confused. “Why would he—”

  “Answer me,” Atlas snapped. “Promise she stays out of this.”

  “Fine.”

  “On your life.”

  “I promise on what little of it remains.” Cristian’s fangs made his smile too sharp, too cruel. Atlas shuddered.

  He could do this. He had to do this. For Bea, he could do anything. “Get over here then.”

  Golden eyes widened when Cristian realized what Atlas was offering and he gave a single, weak shake of his head. “No.”

  “Then you’ll die.” Atlas let that cruel truth hang between them. “You can feed from me, or you can bleed out here. You decide.”

  Cristian was too weak to stand. Instead, he dragged himself across the floor, his eyes fixed on Atlas’s neck. He was careful to not reach for Atlas, even as he drew within touching distance. Only when he was an arm’s length away did Atlas ask, “How do we do this?”

  “I need a blood vessel,” Cristian said.

  “Not my neck,” Atlas ordered.

  Cristian, swaying faintly, didn’t protest. He forced himself to look away from his first choice, only to alight on Atlas’s arm. “Wrist or elbow?”

  “Wrist.” An automatic response. Dislodging a monster from the elbow was far more difficult. He’d learned that the hard way.

  “It’s going to hurt,” Cristian said. “Too weak to make it enjoyable.” He almost sounded apologetic. Only almost though, since his fingers were already dancing over Atlas’s arm, pushing up his sleeves and caressing the thin skin of his wrist, ghosting over the raised ridges of his tendons.

  “Nothing enjoyable about your mouth on my skin,” Atlas informed him. His past attraction had died the moment he saw what Cristian really was. He closed his eyes, commanded, “Finish it,” and held his breath.

  The bite was like nothing he expected. Quick, shocking, painful, yes. He knew that would come. But it was the growing pressure in his head, his panicked flashback to the attack slamming up against something else, something that grew inside his skull, coaxing and whispering and asking him to let it in and—

  He lay on the ground, staring up into the yellow eyes of the gaunt, humanoid creature pinning him to the dirt. The shreds of fabric draping its body reeked of sweat and stale blood and worse things. Its thin lips peeled back from a mouth of jagged teeth, of long canines, and its overgrown nails—no, its claws—dug into his collarbone as it resettled its weight and prepared to latch on to his neck. Nothing but faint groans around him, too few and too quiet for anyone except the dying. If he could reach his knife, he might be able to save himself. But he’d have to time it right.

  He had to survive. He had to get back to Bea. Had to warn his CO so no one else was sent here to die. He gave in to the pressure of its body, forced himself to relax, and waited. Patience. He must have patience.

  The vampire—fuck, he didn’t have any other word for what these blood-crazed things could be—hissed. Atlas fought his flinch. Let it strike. Then he’d get his knife and gut it while it fed.

  He didn’t plan for the explosion of agony as it struck. Its fangs slid into the sensitive skin of his neck like hot brands. A scream loosed from him in that flash of adrenaline. He scrambled for his knife, but it stuck in its sheath as he drew it. Rather than the stab and drag he’d planned in his head, he only managed a glancing slice against the vampire’s ribs.

  It ripped its fangs free on a roar of fury. His blood streamed hot on his neck and he tightened his grip on the handle and struck again and again, praying to whatever god was listening for the sun to rise—

  He reached for his sidearm, but it wasn’t there. Gone. Ripped away in the fight. No knife. No defense. He pulled his arms up, protecting his face and neck. He twisted and fought, choking and screaming from the weight on his body, still caught in the memory. A memory he’d forced down for so long that it never rose that completely, even in his nightmares.

  “Fuck!”

  The weight vanished and Atlas rolled to his side, heaving up bitter bile as tears and snot ran down his face from his uncontrollable sobs. He scrambled, digging for purchase against the ground. Retreat. Back against the wall, prevent others from sneaking up from behind, stay quiet so they couldn’t find him—

  “Fuck, Atlas!”

  Bits and pieces came back. A metal desk at his back. A steady ache in his wrist. The need to protect Bea.

  “Can I do anything?”

  “No,” he whispered past a raw throat. A gentle touch against his foot. He lashed out, kicking as hard as he could, and when he connected snarled through bared teeth, “No!”

  “You’re here, Atlas,” someone said. “You’re not there. You’re here and you’re alive and...and, fuck, I didn’t know you’d let me in like that. Is that what happened to yo—”

  He knew that voice, knew it was... Cristian. And as long as Cristian was alive, his promise to not let Decebal go after Bea was alive too.

  “Car,” Atlas interrupted, trying to ignore his roiling nausea. He clawed his way to his hands and knees, forced wobbling joints to obey, rose through nothing but spite and sheer force of will and the knowledge that after this was over, Bea would be safe. He didn’t look back to see if Cristian trailed after him. He abandoned the workshop and rushed to the car, collapsing in the driver’s seat, still shaking and shivering as the adrenaline faded.

  Later. He could break later.

  The rear door opened and Cristian slipped inside, a loose roll of papers clutched in hand.

  “Was it enough?” Atlas rasped.

  “Yes,” Cristian whispered. “I’ll live.”

  At the confirmation, Atlas called the doctor’s number again. The instant she picked up he rasped, “He’s fed. We’re heading back.” He hung up and put his phone on silent.

  There was nothing left to do but drive. He pushed the speed limit, not enough to get pulled over, but enough to help him focus on the road ahead while reality set in. A vampire sat behind him, healing thanks to his blood running through its veins. How many nights had he woken up from nightmares, promising his dead brothers in arms he’d find a way to avenge them? And instead of staking Cristian, he’d ensured he’d live.

  Cristian only tried to talk to him once. “What I saw,” he started.

  Atlas turned on the radio. Without stations in range, the radio could only spit static at them through the speakers. Atlas turned up the volume until the static scraped over his skin like a metal rasp. However sensitive his hearing, Cristian’s was even more so. To be safe, he turned it up even more, until he couldn’t hear Cristian’s breathing over the noise.

  Cristian didn’t try to speak to him again.

  They arrived back at Decebal’s mansion with a few hours left in his shift. People spilled from the house, but Atlas ignored them and the itching under his skin. He looked back at Cristian in the rearview mirror and said, “No one touches my sister.”

  “No one, I swear.” Cristian’s grip on the papers tightened. “But Atlas—”

  “I quit.”

  He abandoned the car. Cristian couldn’t follow after him, too busy assuring the others of his safety. The distraction worked. Atlas didn’t respond to Helias’s call. He didn’t look back at the house, unwilling to risk catching Decebal’s notice. He got into his own car and tore away down the private lane, leaving it all—the beautiful house, the hefty salary, and the monsters who’d tricked him into believing he’d had a purpose—behind him for good.

  Chapter Eight

  Whitethorn existed in one of the most underwhelming buildings in Scarsdale. The faded white paint
of the squat office and its darkly tinted windows gave no clue to the business inside. Even the careful lettering on the front door—nothing but the company’s name and address—was crafted with utter neutrality. Only someone with training would notice the carefully placed cameras, the security pads for entry into side doors, the garage, and the fortified rear parking lot. Only people who had heard of Whitethorn through word of mouth would ever consider stepping foot past the threshold and, even then, only half would probably go through with it. Those were the clients Beatrice Kinkaid catered to. The rich or the desperate...sometimes both.

  Atlas sure as shit didn’t fit into the first category, despite his recent generous paychecks. The latter category though... Well, how else could he explain why he found himself parked in front of the dark building hours before dawn, scrawling a note to Bea on the back of a receipt off his floor.

  Quit contract. High risk. Need to talk in daylight. Atlas.

  He took the note with him when he abandoned the car. Bea had given him a key to the office ages ago, when she’d first moved in, so it was muscle memory to unlock the door, close the lock behind him, turn off the alarm, and head for her office. She hadn’t taken her laptop home for once. A truly rare occurrence indicating she needed genuine rest, and yet another reason to not call her at this godforsaken hour. No, he wouldn’t draw Bea out of the safety of her home until the sun was high, no matter how much he didn’t want to be alone right now.

  He set his note on her desk where he knew she would see it and fled the office, resetting everything on his way out. He was halfway to his car when an engine turned on from the darkness in the back of the lot. A pair of headlights flashed twice at him and went dark. Fear left his muscles cold and useless. He paused, unsure whether to bolt for his car and pray he made it in time, or to confront whoever was clearly waiting for him.

  The waiting car made no move to come closer to him. Instead, it turned on its headlights, illuminating the area, and waited. No other shapes nearby. No scuffle of footsteps on dirty asphalt. It seemed that he and the mystery driver were alone.