“And Cri—Mr. Slava?”
“He’s there as well,” Helias assured him and led him inside.
A funeral pall hung over the place. No familiar faces moved past him. No laughter or jokes came from the billiards room. Every door was shut. The only noise was the echoing click of his shoes over the tiles on his way to the stairs. He put his hand on the polished wood railing of the staircase, prepared to ascend to the study, when Helias cleared his throat. Atlas glanced back.
Helias remained near the front door, his hands crossed in front of him. The distance between them seemed vast, unless someone considered the speed with which Helias could have closed it and ripped out Atlas’s neck. With that knowledge, the length of the hall was comically short. Nevertheless, Atlas had to admire Helias’s gesture. The man wasn’t pretending for him. He was simply doing his best to put Atlas at ease, even though he knew it was an impossibility.
“I am pleased to see you looking so well,” Helias said, pitching his voice a little louder to carry down the hall. “Please know our doctors are available to you if anything changes.”
Atlas nodded and took a steadying breath before continuing his climb. Decebal’s study door at the end of the narrow hall stood open for the first time since Atlas had started the contract. Probably to warn them of his approach. When he reached the threshold though, he discovered it was for another reason enti
rely.
“Mr. Kinkaid,” Decebal said.
He sat at his desk, his hands pressed flat against the smooth surface. Cristian was there as well, sitting perfectly still in one of the wooden chairs dragged near the window. Their careful positioning left the majority of the room open, and gave Atlas a clear path between the door and a comfortable chair set out for him near the desk.
He entered the room and started to close the door behind him, but Decebal waved it off. “Please,” he said, brow crinkling, “leave it open.”
“I don’t mind—” Atlas began, only to be interrupted by Cristian, who said bluntly, “Yes, you do. You’ll feel better if you have an escape route.”
The statement sucked the air from the room. Atlas gave a jerky nod and stood behind the chair, keeping it between him and the vampires. Neither seemed offended by his choice. Hell, Cristian could have been a statue for all he was moving.
Decebal cleared his throat, drawing Atlas’s attention. “I wanted to thank you for saving my son.”
“It’s what you pay me to do, sir.”
“No, Mr. Kinkaid. I pay you to prevent my son’s kidnapping. I did not pay you to take on a rogue vampire. I did not pay you to defend my son with your own life. And I did not pay you to act as an emergency donor, a sacrifice which kept him alive.”
Atlas braced for Cristian to share the truth: that his first reaction was to sit back and watch Cristian die, to welcome the loss of a vampire from the world. But Cristian didn’t speak. He sat there in the silvery moonlight with a faint flush risen to his cheeks, watching Atlas, and letting his father talk instead.
“You have proved yourself a singular man,” Decebal went on. “I kept information from you, lied to you, in the hopes it would keep my family safer. Our territorial disputes were never supposed to touch you. I assumed no one would dare break the laws governing our kind. I see now that was a naive hope.”
“Is that what happened last night?” Atlas asked. “It was a territorial dispute?”
“I believe so. You may be aware of what we are now, Mr. Kinkaid, but you have little understanding of the complexities of our world. There are many vampiric families, and as many attitudes about our relationship with humans. I recognize the best traits you have to offer and believe we can learn from you and work with you. The Wharrams, my wife’s family, are much more...traditional. They treat humans as cattle for the most part, though they consider some useful enough to tie into servitude. My wife escaped that life and had no desire to see her son poisoned by it. It was her last wish. Her family did not take kindly to the reality that Cristian would be raised with her progressive view. And they have taken even deeper offense to the fact that my territory thrives because of the human partnerships I have cultivated.”
“The men who were killed at Hahn Lake... You believe the Wharrams were responsible for their deaths?” Atlas guessed.
“I do.” Decebal tapped his fingers against the desk, but didn’t remove his hands. It was definitely a conscious effort and attempt to show his peacefulness. “It was a message meant for me. They did not know I was sending Cristian in my stead. If not for your quick thinking, they would have walked away with an unexpected prize, one I would be unable to reclaim on my own.”
It was a painful admission. Here in Scarsdale, Decebal’s reign was unopposed, but beyond this place, beyond whatever territory he held, he was facing true challengers. Maybe that was why Jasper’s employer was preparing to move against him now. If Decebal was distracted by the threat posed from the Wharrams, it would be a perfect time to strike.
Decebal didn’t know the riot of thoughts running through Atlas’s mind, but he did read Atlas’s thoughtfulness. “You acted courageously. I will not forget your loyalty to me or my family. I wish for you to stay on with us, but needed to give you the truth before asking you to make such a decision.”
“I appreciate your candor,” Atlas said, digging his fingers into the back of the chair, “but I don’t know if I have much of a choice to make.”
“Pardon me?”
The embroidery on the chair was made of delicate stitches in silky threads. Only handmade pieces exhibited that level of mastery. Such wealth beneath his fingertips, and Decebal probably didn’t even notice it. Atlas traced the edge of a floral design and asked, “Isn’t this the part where you tell me I can either continue working for you, or I refuse and become a meal?”
Decebal stared at him, aghast. Atlas refused to be cowed, despite his crass question. His stubborn honesty must have come across because Decebal glanced to Cristian, only to find his son still watching in silent contemplation.
Atlas took pleasure in knowing he had truly shocked Decebal. The man looked down at his hands on the desk and muttered something in Romanian. Cristian’s response to his father was short, cutting, and whatever it was, it dug in under Decebal’s skin. He exploded into a furious lecture, similar to what Atlas had heard his first night in the house. His words didn’t get a rise from his son though. Cristian let it wash over him, around him, and never once shifted his attention to his father. After a moment, the words ran dry and Decebal slumped deeper into his chair.
He cleared his throat. “I apologize. My son informs me you are deadly serious.” He lifted his chin and the stern businessman returned, making Atlas straighten on instinct. “Choice, Mr. Kinkaid, is the cornerstone of my world. Without it, there is nothing. No family, no loyalty, no respect. Yes, I wish to retain your services, but I will not force you into it.” His flash of a smile came out as more of a grimace. “You are an intelligent man who I do not need to threaten into silence.”
No, he really didn’t. Atlas was perfectly aware of the threat Decebal posed to him. Worse, of the threat posed to Bea. “No, sir,” Atlas agreed. “I understand you clearly.”