by M. A. Grant
Had Decebal already sent someone for him?
He bit the inside of his cheek and clenched his fingers tighter around his car keys. If he was smart, he’d ignore the obvious invitation to come closer, get into his car instead, and drive around Scarsdale until he knew he wasn’t followed before returning to his apartment. But Atlas wasn’t feeling very smart. His back and wrist stung with every movement. The base of his skull ached. He was itching for a fight, even though it was one he wouldn’t win. He moved toward the headlights. The night was already shot to shit; this couldn’t make things any worse than they already were.
The driver’s window slid down as he swung wide to get a better look at whoever wanted his attention. The man inside was probably Helias’s age. He looked like a transplanted European head of state, with his carefully coiffed dark blond hair, perfect smile, and tailored suit. He was careful to avoid any sudden movements, and though his expression was serious, there was an openness to him Atlas didn’t expect.
“Who the fuck are you?” Atlas asked from a safe distance away. Maybe not safe enough if the man pulled a gun on him, but, at this point, Atlas would almost prefer to die by such mundane means.
“Jasper Rhodes. And it seems you’ve had a bad night, Mr. Kinkaid,” the man said with a trace of a posh British accent. The fact that he knew Atlas’s name was troubling, but it was his accent that made Atlas hate him a little more.
“How would you know?”
“I went into the workshop after you left and saw your handiwork. Quite a bit of reconnaissance was wasted thanks to your actions tonight.” The man didn’t seem to notice Atlas’s sudden tension. He simply carried on like they were having a nice chat. “I caught up to you as you were leaving Decebal’s estate and hoped you might stop long enough to speak with me.”
“You—” Atlas bit off the rest of his question and tried to stop his mind’s whirling. “Reconnaissance?”
The man’s smile would have been warm, if not for his blatant condescension when he said, “You aren’t the only one who knows what Decebal truly is.”
He sighed when Atlas didn’t respond and tugged his sleeve higher, revealing scarred puncture marks bitten into his wrist. Atlas clutched at his own wrist, only to suck in a breath when the pain of the bite flared. Jasper nodded, as if he’d confirmed something, and then reached down, out of sight. Atlas started, breaking away toward his own car, and the man jerked his hands up. “Sorry! Should have warned you. I’m simply getting out a card.”
Atlas watched the man slowly reach into his console. He telegraphed every move as he pulled out a silver card case and removed a single card from it. He seemed amused by the drama of it all, but Atlas didn’t care. He had a better chance of telling what was coming. Jasper retrieved a pen, wrote out something on the back of the card, returned the pen to the console, and closed it. He held the card between two fingers and extended his arm out the open window.
“My employer was impressed by what I told her about your work tonight. She asked me to offer you a tête-à-tête. An exchange of information, as it were. She’s expecting your call.”
“I don’t know you. I don’t know your employer. Why the fuck would I meet with either of you?”
“Because we intend to stop Decebal.” He said nothing else. He didn’t need to, and they both knew it.
Jasper smiled. “Have a good night, Mr. Kinkaid.” The card slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the ground, and the window rolled up. Jasper flashed his headlights once more and slid away into the night. The car turned onto the main strip, taillights disappearing around the block, before Atlas crouched down and retrieved the card. He didn’t look at it. He stuffed it in his pocket and hurried back to his car, intent on returning home and securing his apartment in case Decebal or his employees came crawling over to visit. Then, once he knew he was safe, all he had to do was wait for Bea to call. She’d believe him, just as she always had, and together, they’d get through this.
Back at his apartment, he sat on his couch and waited. The last remaining hours of his shift passed without a single sound outside his front door, without any text messages or phone calls. Dawn broke. He watched the sun climbing higher through his open window shades and the moment its warm beams fell over his skin, he closed his eyes and sent up a prayer of thanks for making it through the night.
Bea called him twenty minutes later. She began talking the moment he answered.
“Are you okay?”
He chuckled, but it came out wrong, too choked with emotions and too twisted to be amusing or self-deprecating. “Not really.”
“What the hell happened last night? I got in this morning and had a message waiting from Mr. Vladislavic and then I found your note and—”
“You talked to Decebal?”
“Of course,” she said, as if his question had confused her. “He said something went wrong and that you’d quit.”
“I did. Quit, I mean,” Atlas confirmed. “Look, Bea, you can’t talk to him again. Working with him is too dangerous.”
She didn’t deny his assertion right away. He heard her desk chair creak and could imagine her settling in more comfortably, preparing for a longer conversation. “And I ask again, what happened last night?”
He scrambled for an explanation. “I drove Cristian to a meeting and we were attacked. Cristian got hurt. I got him back safely, but—” He couldn’t tell her the truth. Sure, she’d believed him when he’d woken a delirious, broken mess in the military hospital, but this was different. Bea hadn’t seen what he had in Romania, so it was easier to accept his explanations then; she’d worked with Decebal for a while now. Even if she trusted Atlas and believed his instincts, there was no way she’d accept his explanation. Desperate, he finished, “—but these issues aren’t going to stop. It’d be better to cut ties now than wait for something to go truly wrong.”
“Atlas, we’re hired to provide protection in dangerous situations. Most of our clients aren’t going to change their ways...hiring us is easier. And I have no intention of cutting ties with Mr. Vladislavic. He’s one of the most respected men in Scarsdale.”
“Because he throws money around! He’s...dammit, Bea, he’s a monster!”
“Atlas,” she soothed, “you aren’t making sense.”
“His business is dangerous and I won’t let you—”
“You know I love you,” she interrupted, “but if you finish that sentence I will show you how dangerous I can be. I know what kind of man he is. I know all the stories of how he made his money. Working with him is in the best interests of my company, so I intend to continue our business arrangement.”
He dug a hand into his hair and tugged in frustration. The movement made his wrist throb dully, reminding him of the delicate puncture wounds he’d cleaned and dressed earlier. “Please, Bea, you have to trust me. Walk away from it.”
“I do trust you, and I know you’re telling me this out of worry. But after talking to Mr. Vladislavic about last night, I also know that you were probably in the middle of a panic attack when you dropped off Mr. Slava, and that you haven’t taken care of yourself since you got home.” Her words rang with worry. “Am I right?”
“Bea—”
“I need you to go eat something. Then I want you to shower and crawl into bed and sleep for at least four hours. Take one of your pills if you need to. I’ll call you this afternoon and we’ll talk about it again then. Okay?” When he didn’t immediately answer, she pressed again, “Okay, Atlas?”
He mumbled his acknowledgment and hung up the phone, exhausted and numb. Bea, his rock, didn’t believe him. Decebal had gotten to her first, despite his best efforts, and convinced her to side against him.
“Fuck,” he said aloud and got up from the couch.
The movement reminded him something was in his pocket. He reached inside and fished out Jasper’s card. The expensive, thick paper bore a coat of arms on the front
. The blank back had a single phone number written on it. No names. No explanations.
He remembered Jasper’s scarred wrist. The man’s words rattled around his head. My employer was impressed. An exchange of information, as it were. We intend to stop Decebal.
If he couldn’t protect Bea himself, maybe he could find someone who could.
He dialed the number before he lost his courage. The tension in his gut coiled at the first ring and tightened at the second. He felt sick. He should hang up—
The fourth ring cut off, and a woman asked, “Mr. Kinkaid?”
“Yes,” he got out.
Her accent was like Jasper’s and she spoke with the same confidence Bea did. “I’m very glad you decided to call.”
“I—I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”
“I don’t believe it was, Mr. Kinkaid,” she said. “Jasper told me you didn’t strike him as an impulsive man.”
“He doesn’t know me. Neither do you.”
“Just as you do not know us. Nevertheless, people are brought together every day by their common interests.”
Standing still made his anxiety worse. He paced the small length of the main room, from the false wall near the front door all the way down the hall past the bathroom and to his bedroom door, then back. “And ours is?”
“Decebal Vladislavic, of course,” the woman said with a laugh. It was a pretty thing, like the sparkling tinkle of bells knocked loose. “You have no reason to trust me, but I’d like to make you an offer I believe you’ll find interesting. If you want to know more, Jasper will be waiting for you at Pullman Roasters at noon.”
Atlas knew the spot. A new coffeehouse in downtown Scarsdale. Very public, with lots of windows, lots of sunlight. It would be safe to go there, especially in the middle of the day.
“If you want nothing more to do with us,” the woman continued, “simply do not attend. We will not bother you any further.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Not yet, Mr. Kinkaid. Not yet.”
The line went dead. Atlas pulled the phone away from his ear, squinting at the shattered screen to verify the call was over. He didn’t like this. Mysterious organizations hunting vampires didn’t exist. They certainly didn’t find men like him to join their ranks. And no one did anything out of the goodness of their hearts. People didn’t work like that.
He had time to decide what to do. It was still morning and, as loath as he was to admit it, Bea’s suggestions seemed wise. Showering was first priority. The layer of grime from the fight in the workshop, combined with the unsettling sensation of Cristian’s lips against his skin, needed to be scoured away. Everything else could come after. He didn’t have to worry about it now.
He didn’t have to worry, but couldn’t stop himself. He tried to convince himself to not take the bait and attend the meeting with Jasper. He told himself Bea would be disappointed if he didn’t stay home and take care of himself, that she’d call him at some point and want to have a rational discussion with him, which he couldn’t do if he was off at a meeting with a complete stranger acting on behalf of a mysterious woman. Even that self-imposed guilt trip couldn’t dampen his curiosity. So, a few hours later, he found himself parked across the street from Pullman Roasters.
The coffeehouse was in a newly gentrified section of downtown Scarsdale. The former neighborhood had been a liminal space between the riverfront industry and the downtown shopping district. When he was a kid, it had been a strip of used car lots, mechanics’ shops, fast food restaurants, and furniture stores that were always having an out of business sale. Now, the grunge had been polished away. Buildings were refaced with artfully distressed paint and faded barn-wood exteriors that had never served time in a field. Hand-carved signs hung above the new tenants, understated in a way that forced people to get out of their cars and browse to find the place they were looking for. Larger spaces had turned into cooperative shopping experiences, with multiple stores sharing the space. Old garage bays were repainted and given new glass panes that glistened when the doors were lifted to open up the fancy, specialized eateries like poorer cousins of European cafes.
Pullman Roasters was such a place. It smelled good, which surprised him. He avoided Starbucks like the plague thanks to the acrid scent of burned coffee beans, and had never held out much hope for other coffee shops as a result. This one balanced out the warmth of the coffee by filling the air with butter and sugar as well. It was busy, but not overwhelmingly so. If he ever wandered downtown, he might have chosen the place to visit on his own.
He wouldn’t be alone though. Jasper sat at one of the outdoor tables away from everyone else, sipping from a bone-white mug and carefully forking up bites of a pastry that looked so expensive Atlas cringed. A thin stack of papers held down by the wood-turned salt and pepper shakers sat at Jasper’s elbow. It was a relief to confirm he was human, even if he was arrogant enough to expect Atlas to show.
Out of spite, he waited until his car clock read 12:01 to emerge. He crossed the street, ignored the funny looks he got from some of the people he squeezed past in the crowds of window shoppers, and slowly neared Jasper’s table. The man smiled when he spotted Atlas.
“So glad you could make it,” he said, and nudged the empty chair across from him with a foot.
Atlas pulled it out and sat down, far enough away from the table that he could rise quickly if he needed to. It was habit; he didn’t think he’d need to flee this meeting. Everything about it seemed tailored to put him at ease, from the warmth of the exposed sun falling over him to the location far from Whitethorn and Decebal’s mansion, to Jasper’s casual focus on his food.
“Do you want anything?” he asked, tapping a small laminated menu with the back of his fork. “They’ve got some good treats. This schichttorte is surprisingly good for an American shop. And their macchiatos are to die for.”
“I’m fine.”
Jasper frowned a little, but didn’t press him any further. Instead, he set down his fork and gathered the stack of papers. He arranged them carefully, using his fingertips to ensure the corners were crisp and aligned, before extending them toward Atlas. “My employer warned me you would have questions. I will answer what I can—”
He ignored the papers in favor of grasping hold of the man’s forearm. Jasper was too shocked to fight as Atlas examined the punctures he’d seen earlier that morning. They were still there, faded in the sunlight, but raised from Jasper’s skin. They were old, with the raw edges of the wound almost smoothed out. Satisfied it hadn’t been a trick to draw his attention, Atlas released Jasper and sat back in his chair once more.
The man fiddled with his cuff, covering up his wrist, but gamely continued, “—and we can call her if there are answers I can’t provide.”
“You’ve faced them too,” Atlas said.
“I am intimately familiar with Decebal’s world,” Jasper said. He held the papers out farther, waiting for Atlas to take them. When he didn’t, Jasper sighed and placed them on the empty table in front of him so he could return to his coffee and fancy cake. “He is a dangerous man.”
“No,” Atlas bit out. Jasper gave him a curious look and he clarified, “Not a man.”
Jasper tapped his fork tines against the plate and nodded. “True. Though he is better than most at playing one. My employer has been tracking him for quite some time.”
“Why?”
“Decebal Vladislavic is what you might call an invasive species. Adaptable. Quick to reproduce and spread across its new territory. Such creatures can cause great harm. Economic—” Jasper gestured expansively at the upscale area they were sitting in. “—and environmental, especially as they find new prey.”
Even the sunlight couldn’t remove the chill of dread that settled into Atlas.
“And your employer has focused on him specifically because—”
“Because she lost
her sister to him.” Jasper shrugged. “We never told you it was a complicated reason, Mr. Kinkaid, but it is an honest one.”
The papers sat there, taunting him. He wasn’t sure what he’d find. Wasn’t sure what he wanted to find. He forced his attention away from them and back to Jasper, who was waiting patiently on him. “I don’t see how I fit into this.”
“We have been tracking Decebal’s movements for quite a while. He is notoriously private, but he does work with humans he considers trustworthy. It’s why we were surprised to learn he had contracted with Whitethorn.”
This wasn’t clarifying anything. Atlas frowned and growled, “Get to the point.”
“Cristian and Decebal have not revealed themselves to any of their previous security agents. You saw their true natures, yet you still live.” Jasper leaned closer suddenly, his eyes blazing with feverish intent. “Why, Mr. Kinkaid? Why have they allowed you to be their loose end?”
“I don’t know.”
“After seeing that workshop, I think I do. You are too valuable to kill. Any human who can hold their own against a vampire is rare indeed. Decebal is, at his heart, a collector of powerful things. You are exactly a curio he would hold dear.”
Jasper’s intensity was too close to the pressure he’d felt from the professionals who’d been tasked with keeping him together after his return home. Doctors watching for any sign of his reaction to stimulus or rehabilitation, breaking down his minute physical tells and reducing it to data alone, with all emotion stripped away. There was no room for pain or fear or frustration in their notes. There was only a secret to unlock. Most of his psychologists weren’t much better, though they were busy trying to pry the words, instead of the physical data, out of him.
He shuddered and scooted his chair back a few inches farther. It didn’t actually buy him much space, but it sent a clear message to Jasper, who immediately drew back. He clasped his hands in his lap and took a breath to calm himself.
When he spoke again, Jasper kept his voice lower and quieter. “My employer agrees with my assessment. It’s why we decided to approach you.”