Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

Unlocking the doors took several fumbling tries. He flung himself inside and tried to start the ignition, but a flash of movement beyond the windshield distracted him. Cristian was grappling with the strigoi. They snarled and ripped at each other, so fast he could barely track their movements. He only knew that Cristian was fighting for all his worth, unable to keep up with the attack.

The engine turned over.

Cristian screamed. Atlas looked up, saw Cristian bowed backward, one of the creature’s clawed hands buried deep into his right shoulder, while its other hand raked at his exposed chest and stomach. Cristian reached behind him and dug his fingers into its eyes, forcing it to relinquish its hold before it could draw him in for a bite.

Atlas slammed his hand down on the horn in warning, then threw the car in drive. The engine roared as he floored it.

Cristian dove away from the strigoi. He hit the ground and rolled with the momentum, moving himself fully out of the way. The strigoi took a step toward him, right into the illuminated path of the headlights, and Atlas steadied himself. The front of the car crunched into it and sent it flying over the broken pavement. He accelerated again. This time, the bumper caught it as it tried to rise, and forced it back down to the ground. Atlas swallowed down bile when the car lurched and the thing underneath the tires crunched and popped. He flung the car into a quick reverse, and roared back to meet Cristian.

He threw himself into the backseat of the car, bleeding on his fancy jacket. The door barely had time to close before Atlas was gunning their way down the narrow street in reverse, twisted in his seat so he could see their path. There was no point looking back. The thing might be dead. If it wasn’t, his goal was to get Cristian away. They could figure out what the hell to do after they were both safe.

“Cristian, you okay?” Atlas asked as he spun them onto the blessedly empty cross street. He put the car back in drive and finally risked a single glance down the long stretch to the warehouse. There, far away, a crumpled, unmoving form. Thank God.

“Not sure,” Cristian admitted. “Hurts.”

Atlas tossed his phone back to him. “Call the doc. Make sure she’s waiting for us.”

Cristian grunted his assent and sat up. Atlas ached at the low hiss of pain he heard. He tugged at the inside of his lip with his teeth, trying not to allow himself to be drawn back to the memory of the first attack, when he could hear the confused groans of his platoon members bleeding out around him. Hearing Cristian’s voice helped, even as he recounted the details of their fight. The grim narration was easy to ignore if he simply focused on the rasp of his words.

The rustle of fabric made him glance back in the mirror. Cristian held his jacket to his neck, the skin of his wrist and knuckles white from the pressure he was putting against the deep puncture wounds. Atlas returned his eyes to the road and pressed down harder on the gas pedal.

“I’ll find out. In the meantime, put my father on,” Cristian ordered. He leaned forward, closer to Atlas, and asked, “Where are you injured?”

Atlas took quick stock, shifting in his seat so he could feel the movement of different limbs. “Shoulder’s bruised. Mostly scratches over my back and ribs.”

“Were you bitten?” The question wavered with genuine fear, enough that Atlas fumbled to reach back to reassure him.

“No,” he said, squeezing awkwardly at Cristian’s elbow. “No bites.”

“Finally, some fucking luck,” Cristian muttered. Into the phone, he said, “Neither of us were bitten. Atlas got clawed though. I can smell the blood.”

No point making an argument he’d lose. He could feel the blood welling up under his jacket, its warmth noticeable against the cold, soaked fabric of his clothes. “You’re worse off,” he said before giving one last squeeze and taking his hand back.

“I’ll be fine.” Cristian stayed perched near the console, watching out the windshield, as he listened to the doctor and waited for his father to come on the line.

Decebal’s voice carried through the phone, even with it pressed to Cristian’s ear. He was speaking in Romanian, and Atlas assumed Cristian would respond the same way. He didn’t. Instead, he held the phone out, turned it to speaker, and said, “We’re both here.”

Decebal switched back to English effortlessly. “How long until you’re back?”

“Five minutes?” Atlas guessed. He glanced at the speedometer and winced. “If we don’t get pulled over.”

“I’m sending some of our people to recover the body,” Decebal said.

“They’ll see it from the end of the road,” Cristian said. His fangs caught the light when he grinned. “Atlas ran it over with the car.”

“Effective,” Decebal said, as if Atlas hadn’t destroyed the front of one of his luxury cars. “And Deborah?”

Atlas didn’t recognize the name. Cristian made a thoughtful noise though. “She never showed. Send Ioana to check her office. I’m worried.”

“As am I. I will see you soon.”

The tires screeched as they turned onto the road leading to the house. Four dark cars passed them in a rush. Decebal’s people must have been given some kind of warning, because all the cars hugged the side of the road as they zipped by so Atlas didn’t have to slow or stop. The security gate was still open and he slid inside before it closed.

“Garage,” Cristian told him. “They’ll be downstairs waiting for us.”

They were. Doctor Dosou and a man Atlas assumed was another doctor were actually in the garage as they parked. The second they emerged from the car, she hurried forward with her companion, gloves already in place. “Atlas,” she called, “this is Doctor Ned Dalphin. He’s going to work on you. Cristian, you’re with me.”

The doctors herded them into the medical office, but didn’t bother separating them out into different rooms. Instead, Atlas took a seat on an extra surgery bed in the corner of the room, while Cristian got the operating table under the better lights.