Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

“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.