Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

The vampire—fuck, he didn’t have any other word for what these blood-crazed things could be—hissed. Atlas fought his flinch. Let it strike. Then he’d get his knife and gut it while it fed.

He didn’t plan for the explosion of agony as it struck. Its fangs slid into the sensitive skin of his neck like hot brands. A scream loosed from him in that flash of adrenaline. He scrambled for his knife, but it stuck in its sheath as he drew it. Rather than the stab and drag he’d planned in his head, he only managed a glancing slice against the vampire’s ribs.

It ripped its fangs free on a roar of fury. His blood streamed hot on his neck and he tightened his grip on the handle and struck again and again, praying to whatever god was listening for the sun to rise—

He reached for his sidearm, but it wasn’t there. Gone. Ripped away in the fight. No knife. No defense. He pulled his arms up, protecting his face and neck. He twisted and fought, choking and screaming from the weight on his body, still caught in the memory. A memory he’d forced down for so long that it never rose that completely, even in his nightmares.

“Fuck!”

The weight vanished and Atlas rolled to his side, heaving up bitter bile as tears and snot ran down his face from his uncontrollable sobs. He scrambled, digging for purchase against the ground. Retreat. Back against the wall, prevent others from sneaking up from behind, stay quiet so they couldn’t find him—

“Fuck, Atlas!”

Bits and pieces came back. A metal desk at his back. A steady ache in his wrist. The need to protect Bea.

“Can I do anything?”

“No,” he whispered past a raw throat. A gentle touch against his foot. He lashed out, kicking as hard as he could, and when he connected snarled through bared teeth, “No!”

“You’re here, Atlas,” someone said. “You’re not there. You’re here and you’re alive and...and, fuck, I didn’t know you’d let me in like that. Is that what happened to yo—”

He knew that voice, knew it was... Cristian. And as long as Cristian was alive, his promise to not let Decebal go after Bea was alive too.

“Car,” Atlas interrupted, trying to ignore his roiling nausea. He clawed his way to his hands and knees, forced wobbling joints to obey, rose through nothing but spite and sheer force of will and the knowledge that after this was over, Bea would be safe. He didn’t look back to see if Cristian trailed after him. He abandoned the workshop and rushed to the car, collapsing in the driver’s seat, still shaking and shivering as the adrenaline faded.

Later. He could break later.

The rear door opened and Cristian slipped inside, a loose roll of papers clutched in hand.

“Was it enough?” Atlas rasped.

“Yes,” Cristian whispered. “I’ll live.”

At the confirmation, Atlas called the doctor’s number again. The instant she picked up he rasped, “He’s fed. We’re heading back.” He hung up and put his phone on silent.

There was nothing left to do but drive. He pushed the speed limit, not enough to get pulled over, but enough to help him focus on the road ahead while reality set in. A vampire sat behind him, healing thanks to his blood running through its veins. How many nights had he woken up from nightmares, promising his dead brothers in arms he’d find a way to avenge them? And instead of staking Cristian, he’d ensured he’d live.

Cristian only tried to talk to him once. “What I saw,” he started.

Atlas turned on the radio. Without stations in range, the radio could only spit static at them through the speakers. Atlas turned up the volume until the static scraped over his skin like a metal rasp. However sensitive his hearing, Cristian’s was even more so. To be safe, he turned it up even more, until he couldn’t hear Cristian’s breathing over the noise.

Cristian didn’t try to speak to him again.

They arrived back at Decebal’s mansion with a few hours left in his shift. People spilled from the house, but Atlas ignored them and the itching under his skin. He looked back at Cristian in the rearview mirror and said, “No one touches my sister.”

“No one, I swear.” Cristian’s grip on the papers tightened. “But Atlas—”

“I quit.”

He abandoned the car. Cristian couldn’t follow after him, too busy assuring the others of his safety. The distraction worked. Atlas didn’t respond to Helias’s call. He didn’t look back at the house, unwilling to risk catching Decebal’s notice. He got into his own car and tore away down the private lane, leaving it all—the beautiful house, the hefty salary, and the monsters who’d tricked him into believing he’d had a purpose—behind him for good.

Chapter Eight

Whitethorn existed in one of the most underwhelming buildings in Scarsdale. The faded white paint

of the squat office and its darkly tinted windows gave no clue to the business inside. Even the careful lettering on the front door—nothing but the company’s name and address—was crafted with utter neutrality. Only someone with training would notice the carefully placed cameras, the security pads for entry into side doors, the garage, and the fortified rear parking lot. Only people who had heard of Whitethorn through word of mouth would ever consider stepping foot past the threshold and, even then, only half would probably go through with it. Those were the clients Beatrice Kinkaid catered to. The rich or the desperate...sometimes both.

Atlas sure as shit didn’t fit into the first category, despite his recent generous paychecks. The latter category though... Well, how else could he explain why he found himself parked in front of the dark building hours before dawn, scrawling a note to Bea on the back of a receipt off his floor.