“Yes,” Atlas said, “but I’m going to take precautions. If we’re traveling that far, I want backup. Would Ioana come too?”

“Probably.”

“Does Helias know what you’re planning? Is he going to cover for you if your father asks questions?”

Cristian shook his head. “He’s taken enough risks on me lately. I don’t want him involved in this.” He took one last, long draw on his drink. Atlas grimaced at the thought of all the syrups sitting at the bottom of the cup. When he broke for air, Cristian asked, “So we’re doing this?”

Atlas sighed. “It had better be worth it.”

Chapter Twelve

Desolation House was a small town on the edge of a dark lake. Brochures would have called it quaint and historically accurate, phrases which were signs of inaccurate optimism at best, outright lies at worst. Attempts had been made to restore some of the historic buildings on the main street, though the papered windows and empty sign brackets warned few businesses remained. The roads were cramped, run down, and lacked consistently working streetlights, which forced Atlas to lean forward to scan what the headlights exposed. They almost missed the road for their destination because of it, only making the turn at the last second.

The narrow lane curled around the edge of the dark lake, opening a little wider when it hit a small parking lot. The Mollycoddle pub stood in all its dimly lit, Adirondack-style, faded glory, like an ancient cryptid emerging from the edge of the forest. Atlas couldn’t put his finger on what made his anxiety spike when he looked at the place until Ioana wrinkled her nose and said, “I bet serial killers come here for summer retreats.”

In a single sentence, she hit on everything he instinctively hated about the meeting spot. Too many entrances and exits to cover easily. Poor lighting. Remote location. Trees wrapped it in a dark embrace, reminiscent of a different forest where dangerous things had watched him from the shadows before moving in for the kill.

Cristian ignored Ioana’s complaint and leaned over the console into Atlas’s space, pointing at the black sedan to their left. “That must be her.”

Ioana frowned, but said nothing. She hadn’t said much since she’d been told they were going to go meet one of Cristian’s friends. When she pressed Cristian for an idea of who they were meeting, she’d been summarily shut down. The tension between her and Cristian had hung thick in the car after that, and her rising nerves put Atlas on edge too.

His undefined apprehension shifted to blaring warn

ings at the sight of the woman sliding out of the sedan, and that was before four other figures in dark suits followed after her. She somehow crossed the gravel lot without a single misstep of her stilettos. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight chignon, exposing the graceful curve of her neck. She glanced at him once through the windshield, and there was no escaping the flat look in her eyes. He left the car with Cristian, despite Ioana’s hissed warnings to not get out. Despite standing only a few feet away from the woman, he may as well have been invisible.

“Cristian,” she said, with a faint trace of an English accent. “Shall we go in?”

Atlas balked, reaching out a hand to stop Cristian from moving any closer to her. He knew that voice. It was different in person than it was over the phone, but unmistakable. This was Jasper’s mysterious employer, the woman who intended to usurp Decebal. She was here, on pretense of helping Cristian, and he had no idea of her plans for his father. Worse, Atlas couldn’t warn him of the danger without giving away his own part in the mess.

Movement behind her left shoulder. Atlas tugged Cristian closer. Jasper stood near her, his features partially illuminated by the headlights. He gave no indication he’d ever seen or met Atlas before.

Atlas wasn’t quite as good at hiding his own panicked reaction, since Cristian shifted in his grip and murmured, “Mr. Kinkaid, what’s going on?”

He had to warn Cristian. He couldn’t warn Cristian, not without revealing his own part in the betrayal. Think of something, he commanded himself. Think of an excuse, any excuse, but think of something!

“You said you were meeting a friend,” he croaked. “That usually indicates one other person.”

At the woman’s back, Jasper broke into a wide, disarming smile. “Apologies for the surprise, Mr. Kinkaid. I am Jasper Rhodes, Ms. Wharram’s assistant. She does not travel without security, much like Mr. Slava.”

“Wharram?” Atlas clarified, shocked enough to turn to Cristian.

His lips pressed together and he freed himself from Atlas’s grip with a twist of his arm. “My aunt.”

Atlas had to breathe. He had to breathe and he had to think, but that was so much harder when faced with Cristian’s sacrifice. Cristian knew who he was meeting with, had known the entire time, and considered the knowledge offered worth the risks. Risks Atlas had never seen coming, thanks to his own selfish goals.

Jasper continued on, stepping around the detonated bombshell in the conversation as if he hadn’t been the one to throw it there. “That said, it would probably be best for this meeting to remain between family.” He deferred to Cristian’s aunt. “Shall I wait in the car?”

“No,” she said. “I want you there with us.” Her narrowed gaze flitted over Atlas and dismissed him. “Only you, Mr. Rhodes.”

Atlas had learned to function around Decebal’s wealth, but this woman—this Wharram—reminded him there were those living echelons higher. She was old money, with the apathy born of privilege soaked into her voice.

He opened his mouth to protest her order, but Cristian gripped his hip. Atlas’s breath hitched from the intimacy of the gesture and his protests died out.

“Mr. Kinkaid will wait out here,” Cristian agreed. He may have been looking at Atlas, but his words were directed to his aunt. She nodded and headed inside, Jasper close behind. “Give us some time to talk,” he told Atlas.

His hand falling away from Atlas’s body felt like a goodbye. Like a rift he wasn’t sure they’d be able to close. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, not without revealing his treachery.

“Since this is a family matter,” he ground out, “I’ll wait here, Mr. Slava. Let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

Tags: M.A. Grant Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net