Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

“Ioana told me nothing,” Cristian went on, as if Atlas knew what he was talking about.

Atlas did not. “Nothing about what?”

“Your lovely interlude at Rapture,” Cristian said. “I might have lied and said you were worried you’d upset her with your conversation and had asked me to check in on her. Don’t worry. I made sure you came across as thoughtful rather than needy.”

“I’m so grateful,” Atlas mumbled and started the car. Cristian hadn’t given him a destination, but duffel bags meant a visit to Nell, and Atlas had gone there enough he could probably drive the route in his sleep.

“What were you two even talking about?” Cristian asked.

“Feeding,” Atlas said.

Behind him, Cristian went so still he could have been mistaken for a statue. “Oh? Anything in particular?”

“I learned feeding from the vein is different than a bag.”

“Blood is a carrier for emotion and memory,” Cristian said. “Outside the vein it loses those things and becomes sterile quickly. It’s why donors are so important to us.”

“And the bond, right? Is that why donors get to choose what’s shared during a feeding? She said that I would always be able to see into your head, but could keep you out of mine if I wanted.”

“That’s true,” Cristian said carefully. “What happened between us at Hahn Lake was my fault. You seemed calm and reached back quickly, and I assumed you wanted us to share in the bond.” His next words were so soft Atlas strained to catch them. “Once I saw what you were thinking of, I knew you hadn’t meant to let me in at all. I wish I’d broken it off sooner.”

Retreating from the conversation was tempting, but seemed wrong considering Cristian’s genuine apology. Atlas took a breath, and said, “It wasn’t just your fault. I didn’t know feeding you would be different from what I felt during the attack.”

“Atlas,” Cristian whispered, his voice low and aching.

He rushed on, desperate to get them back on track. “When I told Ioana the bond wasn’t there, wasn’t even offered, between me and the creature, that’s when she froze. It was...it was like she knew what I was talking about, but when I tried to ask her about it, she said she wouldn’t talk about it.” He tapped his hands on the steering wheel as they drove through the dark streets. “What do vampires fear the most? Other than the sun, obviously.”

“The Council?” Cristian guessed. “A bunch of ancient beings happy to kill you if you break their rules is fairly frightening.”

Atlas shook his head. “No, not frightening enough.” He made another turn, this one a little sharper than normal so he could slip in under the yellow light. The duffel bags slid into the door with an odd, crinkling sound. “There’s got to be something else, something so scary no one will talk about it... Like a...a bogeyman, or something.”

Cristian snorted in amusement. “A bogeyman? Please, Mr. Kinkaid, don’t make me lau—”

He cut off so suddenly Atlas twisted around to check he was okay. Cristian stared vacantly out the window at the passing buildings, lost in his own head.

“Mr. Slava?” Atlas asked, refocusing on the road. The riverfront and warehouse loomed ahead of them, but Cristian hadn’t noticed yet. “Cristian?”

“When I was young,” Cristian said slowly, “Andrei used to tell me stories he had heard when he was a boy. Mother hated it. They were always dark and bloody and would keep me up all day. He loved telling them to me over and over again. Except one. There was a story he only told me once. It was about monsters, vampires who gave in to the bloodlust and changed. You could always tell they were out hunting because of the screams they’d make from the darkness.”

Atlas remembered the odd wails echoing around their convoy in the forest. His skin prickled and he rubbed a hand over his jacket sleeve, trying to will the sensation away.

Cristian didn’t notice his unease. Every word he spoke stuck into Atlas. “If they caught you, they would drag you off into the night and eat you. Or, if the sire wanted, they might turn you so you become a strigoi too.”

Strigoi. Atlas mouthed the word, feeling out the syllables. Finally, a name for his nightmare. “Why would strigoi be in Scarsdale?” he asked, proud when he didn’t flinch as he said the word.

“That’s what I can’t figure out,” Cristian replied with obvious frustration. “It would be nearly impossible to keep them a secret here. Father does a regular census of vampires in our territory. He tracks violent crimes and assaults. He bought out most of the local medical groups and doctors so he’d know if anyone came in with injuries. He hired an advertising firm to encourage donors from other territories to visit Scarsdale on vacation. He runs the fucking blood drives at the local high schools, Mr. Kinkaid. We have a regular surplus so no one has to go hungry. That’s what was attacked at the clinic.”

He ran a hand through his hair and laughed. “My father’s one of the most hated vampires on the Council because he runs his territory well enough no one can demand to absorb it.” His eyes widened. “If there are strigoi here, and if he can’t prove he’s not responsible for their creation, the Council will happily overthrow him. No one, even his allies, would stand by anyone who creates such creatures.”

Atlas’s throat was dry. He wiped his clammy palms on the thighs of his slacks. He tried to breathe and calm the rising nausea. “Who would benefit from his fall?”

“Everyone?”

“No, I meant who would...what did you say? Absorb his territory?”

In his heart, Atlas knew Cristian’s answer, but it still lodged like a poisoned arrow when he heard, “Mother’s family. The Wharrams.”

He thought he’d known what evil was. He’d thought Decebal fit the description, thought Cristian was a monster, and he agreed so easily to a deal with the devil. Bryony played his anger and guilt with an artistry he’d had no hope of comprehending. She’d used him, just as she was using those creatures who nearly killed him. They were all nothing but tools at her disposal, and he had no idea how to go about fixing the damage she’d already done.