The ornate meeting room wasn’t used often, which was fortunate since the doctor had already thrown a blanket over an end of the oversize table and had claimed the rest of the space with medical supplies.
“Put him here,” she ordered Atlas. He set Cristian down on the blanket and stepped back in line with Helias, who watched with a concerned expression.
“His father’s on his way,” Helias said to no one in particular.
Doctor Dosou didn’t react. She reminded him a bit of Bea, radiating an air of competence and confidence as she worked. Her thick hair was plaited to form a neat, conservative crown, similar to styles he’d seen women in his grandma’s apartment wearing. He found himself watching the flashing movements of her fingers, drawn by the bright polish of her nails. Her movements were soothing until she checked Cristian’s pulse. The way she frowned at it left Atlas clenching his fists helplessly.
“I am seeing you far too often,” she chided him as she continued the exam.
Cristian groaned when her penlight hit his eyes. “Hurts,” he said.
“Where?”
“Head.”
“Cristian,” Doctor Dosou cajoled, “I know you can give me more detail than that. You never shut up.”
Cristian cracked a faint smile. He tried to obey, his words halting and deliberate. “My eyes burn. It hurts to look anywhere. Head feels slow. Gums are aching.”
“Mhmm.” Doctor Dosou continued her work, though she asked over her shoulder, “What were you doing before you started feeling this way?”
Cristian paused, so long and drawn out Atlas cleared his throat and said, “He hasn’t fed yet. He was drinking alcohol with tonight’s partner.” Then he added, “I brought the bottle back with me.”
“Get it for me,” she said.
He lingered for a moment, hating the thought of leaving Cristian’s side. Helias must have sensed something wrong because he said, “I can get it if you’d prefer—”
“No,” Atlas interrupted, without tearing his eyes from Cristian. “I’ll get it.”
He forced himself into motion eventually and headed for the car.
He had the bottle in hand when two more cars came roaring up toward the house. The first parked near Atlas’s car. The driver didn’t have time to get out before Decebal exited the vehicle. The second car parked a bit askew thanks to Dinu’s driving. Dinu stuck near Andrei. Vasilica and Ioana got out of the back, with Cristian’s partner of the night between them. Decebal ignored the unexpected guest and hurried over to Atlas.
“Where’s my son?” he asked.
“The sitting room. Helias and the doctor are with him.”
Decebal bit out a Romanian command to the others, who nodded, then looked at Atlas. “Come.”
He obeyed. In the sitting room, Doctor Dosou and Helias stood away from Cristian, talking in hushed voices. Helias pulled Decebal aside and spoke to him rapidly, again in Romanian so Atlas couldn’t follow, not that it mattered. He only had eyes for Crist
ian.
He’d managed to sit up. His feet dangled over the end of the table, moving now and then when he wove and tried to keep his balance. Atlas joined him, bumping his shoulder lightly to catch his attention. Cristian sighed and leaned against him, steadying himself. When the doctor noticed Atlas’s return, she stepped away from Helias and Decebal, gave Atlas a weary smile, and held out her hand for the bottle. “This is it?”
“It is.”
She took the bottle from him and moved toward her equipment, setting to work testing the vodka. The shuffle of feet behind him spurred his protective instincts. He turned, keeping Cristian against his back and blocking him from the sight of the door. The rest of the group made their way into the room. The man from the club put up a futile resistance against Vasilica’s submission hold. But it was Andrei who held all of Atlas’s attention. Ioana stayed behind him, carefully cutting off his escape, while Dinu led him on with blissful ignorance.
Andrei noted the closeness between Atlas and Cristian, and his lip curled. “I thought you were smarter than that, Cristian,” he rumbled, drawing Decebal’s attention away from the conversation with Helias. “I warned you, did I not?”
At his back, Cristian pulled away from where he’d been resting his head between Atlas’s shoulder blades. Atlas didn’t dare look away from Andrei, but he did ask Cristian, “What is he talking about?”
“I was angry you were late. He said you wouldn’t be around much longer anyway,” Cristian whispered, “so it was better to move on now. Was he right? Are you leaving, Atlas?”
Rage—white hot, incandescent—flared to life inside him. After the attack, everyone had spoken for him. His nurses and doctors, his COs, the mental health experts tasked with trying to put a shattered man back together, the written reports discussing his breakdowns and his refusal to change his story. Even those at his private discharge hearing had spoken for him, rather than risk him speaking for himself. They’d filled the rotten air of that room with worthless platitudes like We realize you spoke while under immense stress and We know you’ll agree this is the best course of action to take and We’re sure you won’t say anything to hurt your country. They crafted contracts out of unuttered intentions and dismissed him when he refused to put his name to them. He was haunted by the ghosts of words he never said.
Andrei, the man he suspected was the Wharrams’ other mole, stood across the room from him. But hearing the Wharrams’ quiet promise of retribution for his turning them down echoed in Cristian’s voice made Atlas realize his answer was about far more than a contract. This was his last chance to stop the true monsters.