by M. A. Grant
“He went down to the bar with Dinu and Andrei a little while ago. They’re not back yet. Where are you anyway?”
The light ahead of him blinked from green to yellow. No other cars he could see at the intersection, so he made the split-second decision to floor the gas and speed through. Not much farther until he hit downtown. If he parked in the employee lot, he could avoid the traffic out front entirely.
“I need you to find Cristian,” Atlas ordered. “Send Vasilica to let me in the employee entrance out back. I’ll be there soon.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Find him!” He hung up and tossed his phone into the passenger seat.
A confused Vasilica waited for him at the back door when he pulled in. He grabbed his phone and rushed toward her. “Cristian?” he called when he was close enough for her to hear.
“Ioana’s looking for him. Dinu said he and Andrei were hanging out at the bar when he came back to find me.”
“Fuck.” He slid past her to find Ioana hurrying down the hall to meet him. “Did you find him?”
“No, but I saw Andrei outside one of the rooms on my way.” She led him back toward the club proper, then down another different hall he’d never seen before. Andrei, who’d been sitting near the farthest door, rose when he spotted them.
“Look who finally decided to show up. Cristian can’t talk to you right now. He’s a little busy,” Andrei said. When Atlas ignored him and kept coming, he held up his hands in protest and added, “I checked him, just like you do. I swear it.”
He didn’t move out of the way, so Atlas braced himself and shoved his shoulder into the larger man’s chest. Andrei’s back thudded into the wall, prompting a hiss of sympathy from Vasilica.
“Atlas, what the hell is going on?” Ioana asked, her voice tight with worry.
Andrei was complaining to Vasilica, something about Decebal not being happy at Atlas going off again, that he was behaving like a jealous lover, and Atlas didn’t care. Cristian was on the other side of the door and Atlas had no idea who was in there with him.
The door was unlocked, just as Cristian and Atlas had agreed after their initial confrontation over the trysts. It swung open on silent hinges and Atlas stepped inside. He drew up short when he saw Cristian’s partner for the night. It was almost like staring into a mirror. Almost. He was a little shorter than Atlas, with a face softened by comfortable living, and no scars. He was how Atlas imagined he would have looked if his life had taken a different, less violent path. Somehow, that hurt more than Cristian’s attempt to avoid him tonight.
“Who are you?” the man asked, drawing back nervously from the empty glasses and open bottle of vodka on a small table. At least he was fully clothed. “He said no one would bother us—”
“What’s wrong?”
His chest tightened at the sound of Cristian’s slurred voice. He turned to find the man sitting haphazardly on a couch in the corner of the room. Cristian blinked; his glassy eyes tried to track the cause of the interruption and finally landed on Atlas. He sucked in a breath. “Atlas...you’re here?”
Everything screamed at him to go to Cristian, but he needed to secure the room first. His doppelganger hadn’t tried to run out the door or grab for any sort of defensive weapon, so Atlas kept an eye on him and yelled to the hall, “Ioana, you there?”
She joined him, eyeing the other man with open distrust. “Vasilica and Dinu are with Andrei.”
“Check him,” Atlas ordered, pointing at the donor.
“Andrei already—”
“Again.”
Her lips compressed to a hard line, but she nodded and moved to obey.
“Atlas,” Cristian whispered, “it is you, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Atlas said, crossing the room to kneel beside him. “You said you preferred my company.”
Behind them, Ioana explained something to the nervous man. Dinu’s voice rose and fell from the hall. Atlas didn’t mind the added noise. At least he’d have a very loud, obnoxious warning if Andrei decided to go anywhere.
“I do,” Cristian admitted, reaching out a hand to him.
He reached back, stealing a moment to check for Cristian’s pulse. It fluttered against the delicate skin of his wrist, offbeat and strange, and the pain in his chest twisted and grew. Something was wrong and it was his fault. He hadn’t been here.
“We need to go,” Atlas told him, adjusting his grip so he could track the erratic way Cristian’s pulse rose and fell. Cristian made a confused noise at the contact and tried to tug his arm away. Atlas hushed him, but it didn’t help. Cristian eventually pulled free and stared down at his lap, avoiding Atlas’s gaze. “You’re angry with me,” he whispered.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” Cristian swung his head up to glare at him. “I can smell it.”
Damn it, something was definitely wrong for Cristian to be talking like this so openly. He tried to keep his voice even, soothing, as he said, “I’m not ang—”
Cristian reached out and stabbed a finger into Atlas’s chest, sending him rocking back on his heels. “Don’t lie,” Cristian said. “You’re the only one who doesn’t lie to me. Don’t start n—” He blanched and gripped Atlas’s shoulder. “Don’t feel good,” he mumbled.
Atlas dug into his pocket for his phone and dialed the doctor. A familiar woman answered, “Doctor Dosou speaking.”
Atlas didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “This is Atlas Kinkaid. Mr. Slava and I are at Rapture. He’s got an erratic pulse, is pale, and says he doesn’t feel well. Where do I need to take him?”
“Can you get him back to the house?” the doctor asked.
“Yes.”
“Was he feeling well earlier?”
“Hold on.” Atlas glanced over his shoulder, where Ioana had finished checking the man, and jerked his head for her to join him. “I’m putting Ioana on. She was with him earlier.”
He handed over the phone, listening halfway as she answered the doctor’s questions, and focused on Cristian. “Are you going to be sick?” he asked.
“No. Head’s light...and tired.”
“I’m getting you out of here. I need you to lean on Ioana for a second, okay?”
Cristian managed a weak nod. Atlas stood and positioned Ioana near Cristian, so he could grab her if he needed, and stalked toward the terrified man on the other side of the room.
“She said I was clean!” he protested when Atlas grabbed hold of the front of his shirt. Closer, Atlas could see the minute shifts of the man’s eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. It reminded him of the kid from the earlier accident. All nerves for no reason if something wasn’t wrong...
“Let me go, man,” the guy said, struggling uselessly in Atlas’s grip. His shirt gapped from the movement, exposing his neck and the freckling of pale puncture scars over the skin. An experienced donor, for sure. “I’ve got nothing on me!”
“So where’d you put it?” Atlas growled.
The man stilled for a half second before fighting harder. It was as good a confirmation as any Atlas would get.
He didn’t have time to coax the rest of the answers out. He released the man and snagged the most obvious danger, the vodka, from the table, capping it on his way back to Ioana and Cristian.
Ioana handed over his cell. “Doctor Dosou is prepping for your arrival.”
He reached down to help Cristian up. “He knows something. And be careful. I don’t know what he’s on. Keep Dinu and Vasilica on Andrei. Decebal will want to speak with him. I’m taking Cristian back to the house.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” Ioana promised. “Go to the main house. The doc will be there.”
Cristian groaned when he stood, but let Atlas slip under his arm to help take some of his weight. Having his hands on Cristian, feeling him breathe, made some of hi
s panic cool. It didn’t stop him from wanting to lift Cristian into his arms and carry him bodily from the club though. He resisted the urge—and Dinu and Andrei’s questions—to focus on getting back to his car.
It took a bit of juggling, but he managed to unlock the car and get Cristian inside without dropping the bottle of vodka. He leaned in and placed it on the floor near Cristian’s feet when he did up the man’s seatbelt. Cristian grumbled something, but didn’t do much else. He’d gone even paler than before. Sweat dampened the collar of his crimson dress shirt, and his head lolled back against the headrest. Atlas pressed his fingers against Cristian’s neck, finding the artery, and swore when the reedy pulse barely flickered against his fingers.
He’d driven the route to and from Decebal’s enough times to know the shortcuts, to know which intersections to avoid, and where cops wouldn’t be. Despite all his best efforts, every minute that slipped away felt like a failure. He feared Cristian, like time itself, would slip from his grasp.
“You’re panicking,” Cristian croaked unexpectedly.
Atlas risked a glance over and saw him leaning against the door, watching him intently. “I need you to stay awake.”
Cristian chuckled and his head thumped against the window. “Don’t want to. I’m tired.”
“I know that. He gave you something. I’m taking you home so the doctor can figure out what it was.”
“Didn’t notice anything odd,” Cristian mused. His answers came slow and in an unsteady cadence, but he was talking. Atlas could work with that.
“What happened?” Atlas asked. “Why’d you leave without me?”
“You’re never late,” Cristian said. “Thought you were avoiding me. After last night—”
“I’m sorry,” Atlas whispered. He was so much sorrier than he could express.
Cristian didn’t seem to hear his apology. Or maybe he just ignored it. “Andrei said it’d be better to forget you,” he continued. “He said drinks would help, even offered to buy me a bottle. We went down and he pointed and—I don’t know his name—but he was standing there. I’d never seen him here before. He watched me like I watch you, and came over to buy me a drink.” Cristian looked out the window, and the wistfulness in his voice flayed Atlas open. “It was perfect. I could pretend.”
He turned, so suddenly Atlas worried he was about to be sick or pass out. Instead, he grabbed hold of Atlas’s arm. “It didn’t work. He wasn’t you. I said I couldn’t and that was it. That was it. I wouldn’t do that, not to you.”
The scattered confession hung there between them. Atlas had faced down hostage-takers, armed opposition groups, fucking strigoi, but he couldn’t face Cristian’s bare honesty. He didn’t have time to sort through the mess of emotions it caused. So he stuffed down the confusion and elation and focused on the one emotion he knew would keep him together: guilt.
This was his fault, in more ways than one. He hadn’t been there to keep Cristian safe at Rapture, but it was worse than that. His selfish actions and desire to keep secrets had pushed Cristian away and helped create the dangerous situation they were now in. They couldn’t continue this way. He couldn’t take his focus from the road, not when they were so close to the house and he was starting to push his car to close the distance faster than he’d like, but he reached over and set his hand on Cristian’s knee.
“It’s okay,” Atlas told him. Cristian tried to protest, but Atlas squeezed gently and repeated, more firmly, “It’s okay. We’ll talk about it later, when you feel better, yeah?”
“Will we actually talk?” Cristian asked.
He would be honest about it all. Cristian deserved that much. He’d deal with the fallout after.
“Later,” he promised. “We’re almost home. Can you stay awake a little longer for me?”
Cristian mumbled something. He released Atlas’s arm in favor of holding the hand on his knee instead, and Atlas let him. He reminded himself to breathe every time Cristian’s fingers traced over a scar. He had to take his hand back once, long enough to make the turn to the road leading to the house, and Cristian made a low, miserable sound. The moment he no longer needed both hands, Atlas reached for Cristian again. This time, he tangled their fingers together and wouldn’t let go.
One of Decebal’s men waited by the open front gate. Atlas sped past him, focused on the house and the promise of help waiting inside. He threw the car in park haphazardly by the door, squeezed Cristian’s hand one last time, then got out, hurrying around to help. Cristian was still groggy, but seemed to be doing better upright than he had been at the club. Atlas didn’t waste any more time. He got an arm behind Cristian’s back, another behind his knees, and scooped him up on the rush to the front door. Cristian’s weight in his arms and against his chest grounded him, easing some of his panic.
Helias opened it and waved them inside. “Sitting room,” he said and Atlas obeyed.
The ornate meeting room wasn’t used often, which was fortunate since the doctor had already thrown a blanket over an end of the oversize table and had claimed the rest of the space with medical supplies.
“Put him here,” she ordered Atlas. He set Cristian down on the blanket and stepped back in line with Helias, who watched with a concerned expression.
“His father’s on his way,” Helias said to no one in particular.
Doctor Dosou didn’t react. She reminded him a bit of Bea, radiating an air of competence and confidence as she worked. Her thick hair was plaited to form a neat, conservative crown, similar to styles he’d seen women in his grandma’s apartment wearing. He found himself watching the flashing movements of her fingers, drawn by the bright polish of her nails. Her movements were soothing until she checked Cristian’s pulse. The way she frowned at it left Atlas clenching his fists helplessly.
“I am seeing you far too often,” she chided him as she continued the exam.
Cristian groaned when her penlight hit his eyes. “Hurts,” he said.
“Where?”
“Head.”
“Cristian,” Doctor Dosou cajoled, “I know you can give me more detail than that. You never shut up.”
Cristian cracked a faint smile. He tried to obey, his words halting and deliberate. “My eyes burn. It hurts to look anywhere. Head feels slow. Gums are aching.”
“Mhmm.” Doctor Dosou continued her work, though she asked over her shoulder, “What were you doing before you started feeling this way?”
Cristian paused, so long and drawn out Atlas cleared his throat and said, “He hasn’t fed yet. He was drinking alcohol with tonight’s partner.” Then he added, “I brought the bottle back with me.”
“Get it for me,” she said.
He lingered for a moment, hating the thought of leaving Cristian’s side. Helias must have sensed something wrong because he said, “I can get it if you’d prefer—”
“No,” Atlas interrupted, without tearing his eyes from Cristian. “I’ll get it.”
He forced himself into motion eventually and headed for the car.
He had the bottle in hand when two more cars came roaring up toward the house. The first parked near Atlas’s car. The driver didn’t have time to get out before Decebal exited the vehicle. The second car parked a bit askew thanks to Dinu’s driving. Dinu stuck near Andrei. Vasilica and Ioana got out of the back, with Cristian’s partner of the night between them. Decebal ignored the unexpected guest and hurried over to Atlas.
“Where’s my son?” he asked.
“The sitting room. Helias and the doctor are with him.”
Decebal bit out a Romanian command to the others, who nodded, then looked at Atlas. “Come.”
He obeyed. In the sitting room, Doctor Dosou and Helias stood away from Cristian, talking in hushed voices. Helias pulled Decebal aside and spoke to him rapidly, again in Romanian so Atlas couldn’t follow, not that it mattered. He only had eyes for Crist
ian.
He’d managed to sit up. His feet dangled over the end of the table, moving now and then when he wove and tried to keep his balance. Atlas joined him, bumping his shoulder lightly to catch his attention. Cristian sighed and leaned against him, steadying himself. When the doctor noticed Atlas’s return, she stepped away from Helias and Decebal, gave Atlas a weary smile, and held out her hand for the bottle. “This is it?”
“It is.”
She took the bottle from him and moved toward her equipment, setting to work testing the vodka. The shuffle of feet behind him spurred his protective instincts. He turned, keeping Cristian against his back and blocking him from the sight of the door. The rest of the group made their way into the room. The man from the club put up a futile resistance against Vasilica’s submission hold. But it was Andrei who held all of Atlas’s attention. Ioana stayed behind him, carefully cutting off his escape, while Dinu led him on with blissful ignorance.
Andrei noted the closeness between Atlas and Cristian, and his lip curled. “I thought you were smarter than that, Cristian,” he rumbled, drawing Decebal’s attention away from the conversation with Helias. “I warned you, did I not?”
At his back, Cristian pulled away from where he’d been resting his head between Atlas’s shoulder blades. Atlas didn’t dare look away from Andrei, but he did ask Cristian, “What is he talking about?”
“I was angry you were late. He said you wouldn’t be around much longer anyway,” Cristian whispered, “so it was better to move on now. Was he right? Are you leaving, Atlas?”
Rage—white hot, incandescent—flared to life inside him. After the attack, everyone had spoken for him. His nurses and doctors, his COs, the mental health experts tasked with trying to put a shattered man back together, the written reports discussing his breakdowns and his refusal to change his story. Even those at his private discharge hearing had spoken for him, rather than risk him speaking for himself. They’d filled the rotten air of that room with worthless platitudes like We realize you spoke while under immense stress and We know you’ll agree this is the best course of action to take and We’re sure you won’t say anything to hurt your country. They crafted contracts out of unuttered intentions and dismissed him when he refused to put his name to them. He was haunted by the ghosts of words he never said.