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.