Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

s. And then they were past the rear corner of the house and the rest of the chaos lay before them.

Decebal’s grounds security had fallen first, judging from the bodies scattered on the edges of the gardens. Even with their losses, the scene didn’t look like a battlefield, which was the most disturbing part. The house, ablaze with light, had a few broken windows. The truest sign of the violence were the groups gathered in small clusters, vampires working together to keep a strigoi or two at bay as they tried to kill them without dying in the process.

Atlas kept to the far edge of the paved drive and accelerated. He flinched, but avoided swerving, when a strigoi launched out of the shadows and hit the rear panel as they passed. Cristian swore for him and turned around in his seat, attention caught by the most intense fighting near the door of the house. Atlas kept his eyes on the road. He could only spare a quick glance out the window, catching a flash of Decebal in mid-fight, his fangs buried in a strigoi’s throat. And then they were at the gate and careening down the private road. Atlas gave the car more and more gas, letting the roar of its engine drown out the lingering sounds of the fight in his head.

It wasn’t until they were on the main road, speeding toward Scarsdale proper, that Cristian dared to ask, “What now?”

“We leave town.”

“Father’s sending someone to help us get out. Where do we wait for them in the meantime?” Cristian peered out the window at the picture-perfect houses flashing by. They stood untouched by death or destruction, and he curled his lip and gave up on them soon enough. “Rapture?”

Atlas glanced back in the rearview mirror. No cars behind them. A lucky break at last. “No. Too obvious a choice. The Wharrams know your father’s world. They’ll expect you to go there.”

“Shit,” Cristian whispered. “You’re right.”

A familiar intersection lay ahead. Atlas tapped his finger on the steering wheel, mind spinning. Between the intelligence he’d handed over and her own research, Bryony would know all of the Vladislavic haunts. She and her underlings would know Whitethorn; they’d found Atlas there, after all. But there was one place she hadn’t seemed to pin down yet.

He signaled and got in the turn lane, following it onto the quiet, residential street.

“Umm, Atlas, where are we going?”

“My place.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Atlas had no doubt the strigoi and their sire would find him and Cristian eventually. All it would take was a raid of Bea’s office to get his address. He’d wanted to call and warn her, but his phone was dead from his plunge into the water, and he’d had to ask Cristian to complete the task for him. Even with that delay, a break-in at Whitethorn would take time. If Decebal had managed to reach his contact before joining the fight, Atlas and Cristian would hopefully be gone before anyone came to look for them at the apartment. There was no point suffocating on the what ifs of the situation. All he could do was secure his apartment as best as he could, keep Cristian safe, and wait for extraction. Ensuring a safe exit from a dangerous situation was what he’d done in the Marines and there was a comfort in returning to those same habits now, even if they were heavily adapted because he was on his own.

“How can I help?” Cristian asked.

Okay, not on his own. In a partnership. It felt unexpectedly good to acknowledge that, and even better when considering the benefits of Cristian’s vampirism, not that he’d ever tell the man.

“We don’t have much time,” Atlas said. “I want us packed and ready to leave whenever you hear from your father’s contact.”

He left Cristian standing in the living room and went to his tiny hall closet. He grabbed a backpack he’d used for overnight jobs and tossed it behind him into the hall. It took a minute to wrestle out the storage tote he’d stuffed in the back corner of the closet.

Bea had taken it on herself to pack up his service items after his discharge. He trusted her, so there was never a reason to look in this particular tote. Now, he stared down at it, loath to open the lid and face his past, but there wasn’t time to agonize. He needed to act, not mourn.

He pulled off the lid. The plastic scent of the tote mingled with faded shoe polish and musty nylon. His assault pack was there on the top. He dragged it out and closed the tote up again, shoving it unceremoniously back into the closet and closing the door on it.

When he returned to the living room, bags in hand, he found Cristian inspecting Snafu. The plant sat in its usual drooping glory, despite the fancy pot he’d transplanted it into. Hopefully Bea would take care of it while he was gone.

Cristian glanced back over his shoulder at Atlas. “This plant is dead.”

“Half dead,” Atlas protested. “That’s more alive than you.”

Cristian made a face of long suffering. “Vampires aren’t dead, you ass. We’re a different, living species. If anything in here is half dead, it’s you. That river water makes you reek.”

“I know,” he agreed. He tossed the bags on the couch. “We can put everything we need out here and then divvy it up between bags.” He made an expansive wave toward his apartment. “Dig around and grab anything you think will be useful. I’m going to shower.”

“Fine,” Cristian agreed. “I’ll tell you when Father calls.”

Atlas went to his bedroom. He grabbed briefs and socks, a loose pair of jeans, and a zip-up hoodie he hoped wouldn’t bind against the butterfly bandages across his back. He rummaged through his other drawers, tossing anything he thought he might want, or that might fit Cristian, on the bed. They’d need at least one temporary change of clothes. Hopefully they could buy anything else they’d need wherever they ended up.

In the bathroom, he peeled off his wet and bloody clothes and stepped under the spray before it finished warming. The soap stung his new injuries, but he felt human again when he stepped out a few minutes later and dried off. Ned hadn’t had time to dress the scratches over his ribs. Stretching confirmed that most of the scratches were long, but shallow. They were easy enough for him to handle on his own, so he dug around in his kit and patched himself up.

Cristian had been busy while Atlas was gone. The couch was littered in several small piles of potential supplies, and the man didn’t even look up from his work when Atlas reentered the room.

“I’m not done yet,” Cristian warned, can opener in hand. He closed the kitchen drawer he’d pulled it from and crossed to toss the tool into a miscellaneous pile. Atlas spotted matches, paracord, and other odds and ends he’d kept out of habit. At least it would pay off now.