Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

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.