“Ioana,” he whispered, “what else could it have been?”
“I—I can’t,” she stammered. “I won’t—”
Movement on the dance floor. Cristian had noticed them both and was extricating himself from his partner. Atlas wanted to urge him to stay down there, to not come up and interrupt his attempted interrogation of Ioana, but it was too late. Cristian ascended the stairs to join them.
“Something wrong?” he asked, looking between Ioana and Atlas.
Ioana lifted a hand to her face, trying to hide herself from his view. Atlas gave up all pretense and stepped between her and Cristian, offering her what little shelter he could. “No,” he lied. “Did you have a good feeding?”
Cristian rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked away from Atlas. And from the dance floor, where the woman continued to watch him. “Sure. I suppose so.”
“We’ve got plenty of time if you want to find someone else to—”
“This is not a conversation I want to have with you, Mr. Kinkaid,” Cristian interrupted.
“Then what do you want to do, Mr. Slava?”
“Come with me. I want a drink.”
“From the vein or the bar?” he asked without thought.
Behind him, Ioana sputtered. Dinu howled from the booth, and even Vasilica laughed. Cristian, who’d frozen, recovered quickly enough. He gave his friends the finger and managed to get his voice even enough to tell Atlas, “From the bar. The bar, you utter bastard.”
Atlas followed after him as they worked their way through the crowd. He scanned the nearest faces, irritated by the close press of bodies against his and envious of the way Cristian slid through them with minimal contact. They made it to the bar, a beautiful metal thing with a thick wooden top that was worn from use, but well polished. It looked like it had been plucked from some ancient keep, a splash of Old World elegance in the midst of the contemporary splendor.
The barman approached with a smile for them both. He knew Cristian well, and Atlas left them to their conversation in favor of people watching. He caught Andrei on the edge of the crowd, slipping off with a young man, maybe to feed, maybe to enjoy each other’s company. He didn’t know, nor did he care much. It was enough to linger here, leaning against the bar, knowing Cristian was safe for now.
Cristian’s earlier partner sidled out of the crowd, eyes fixed on the back of Cristian’s head until she noticed Atlas standing beside him. She drew up, eyed them both, then shook her head with a smile and gave Atlas a farewell wave. Her good-natured forfeit surprised an answering grin from him, and he waved back to her before she disappeared once more into the crowd.
“It didn’t mean anything,” Cristian murmured. He wasn’t looking at the woman, and Atlas wasn’t sure what to make of his half-lidded gaze, or the emotion he saw in it and couldn’t quite recognize.
“Wouldn’t be my place to complain if it did,” Atlas countered.
“I suppose not.” Cristian reached behind the bar and snagged a thin straw to fiddle with. He began folding it. “What were you and Ioana talking about?”
“I’m not sure. But I think she may know what attacked me all those years ago. I was describing it to her and she recognized something and then...she shut down.”
“Hmm.” Cristian abandoned his poor attempt at a straw star. “She’s never mentioned anything to me.”
“Does she know you’re asking around about them?”
“No.” He peered up toward their balcony, far too serious for Atlas’s tastes. “And I haven’t heard from anyone else I contacted. I know Father and my aunt said they don’t exist, but if there’s this much silence around the topic...there’s more to this. I’ll talk to Ioana. Maybe I’ll have better luck with her than you did.”
“Later,” Atlas urged. “I think I scared her.”
“That would be a trick,” Cristian muttered.
He was too lost in thought to notice the bartender’s approach. Atlas nodded his thanks to the man, who set Cristian’s order down on a thick, dark crimson napkin before moving away. “I know. Think we should be worried?”
Cristian plucked up his drink with a frown. “No. If she’s scared, I know we should be worried.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Nothing,” Cristian declared a few nights later when he slid into the backseat of the car
with two heavily loaded duffel bags.
“What?” Atlas turned around in his seat, only to lose his train of thought at the sight of Cristian in worn jeans that clung tight over his thighs and a soft t-shirt that hugged his shoulders. His forearms were on display again. It wasn’t like Atlas hadn’t seen them before, but every time, he found himself distracted by the curve of the muscle, the taper of the wrist, the dusting of hair that caught the light. It was infuriating.