Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

“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.