Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

The doctor, who said to call him Ned, got Atlas to walk him through what happened while he helped him peel out of his jacket so he could get a better look at the claw marks. “Yeah,” he muttered as he peeked under strips of the shredded dress shirt, “we’ll want to close those up. Butterflies should work though. How’s your shoulder?” He prodded at it, nodding when Atlas grunted. “Bruised, but not out of joint. So that’s a plus.”

“Sure,” Atlas said.

“How much of that river’s in your lungs and stomach?”

?

??No idea, honestly. I wasn’t really worrying about a secondary infection.”

Cristian snorted, drawing Atlas’s attention. It wasn’t that funny, but seeing him wearing a genuine smile went a long way to making up for the rest of the sight. He was a mess. His hair was tacky with sweat and blood. Bruises littered his jaw and cheeks. His shirt hadn’t been removed yet, but Atlas knew there would be worse injuries under the mauled fabric. Now, out of the heat of battle, he noticed the rips in Cristian’s slacks and the way he curled on himself to protect his back.

“Ribs?” Atlas croaked at Cristian as Ned started to clean the worst of the claw marks with saline-soaked gauze.

The gauze wasn’t enough, so Ned wrapped a gown around Atlas’s stomach with the order, “Hold this,” and began irrigating the wounds with saline instead. Atlas clamped his jaw against a whimper at the familiar pressure of liquid over broken skin. He was back in the hospital, with people cleaning what was left of him so the surgeons could step in.

“Definitely bruised,” Cristian said from far away. “Yours?”

“Fine,” he ground out. The cool trickles down his back made goosebumps rise until they pulled on the opened skin.

“I don’t believe you, you glory hound. Prove it. Breathe for me.”

He wasn’t in the hospital. He was here, in Decebal’s house, and Cristian was with him. Cristian was concerned, since his statement was taunt and hidden worry in one. He focused on Cristian’s challenge. He took a breath, but it was too quick and shallow. It let him feel the changing path of the saline over his skin and he clenched his fingers tighter into the fabric of the gown.

“Slower,” Cristian warned. “Anyone can hyperventilate.”

The teasing helped. He managed another breath, slower this time, and another after that. Each inhalation got deeper, more measured, and the misery and dizziness faded bit by bit. Once he had himself back under control, he glanced over to Cristian and asked, “How’s the rest of you?”

“I’ve had better nights.”

“That’s an understatement,” Doctor Dosou interrupted. She wore a deep frown as she lifted sections of the jacket, keeping as much pressure on it as she could. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit the artery. It isn’t healing like it should.”

“I’ll be fine, Héléne,” Cristian promised around a pained smile. She ignored it, so he directed it to Atlas, who was equally unimpressed.

“You’re still recovering from the juniper, and I don’t think the bags will be able to do much more,” she warned, poking a spot that made Cristian swear and go even paler than he already was. “You need a donor.”

Of course, that was the statement Decebal walked in on. Atlas tried to straighten in his seat and immediately regretted it. Decebal paused at his side long enough to take in the injuries on his back and the way Ned was bandaging them before striding over to his son. He hissed when Héléne lifted the jacket to expose Cristian’s wound and crossed his arms over his chest. “Who?” he asked.

Cristian grimaced. “I’ll use the bags—”

“This is not up for debate. Pick. Someone,” Decebal bit out.

“I’ll grab Lucy,” Héléne said.

Cristian protested when she rushed out, or started to, since Decebal roared out his name with a thunderous tone that made Atlas flinch. Cristian shut up. “What attacked you?” Decebal asked.

“Strigoi,” Cristian said.

“This is not the time for lies, Cristian—”

Cristian jumped down from the operating table, waved off Ned’s yelled orders to stay put, and stalked to one of the cabinets. Ned swore and worked faster to finish adding the last butterfly bandages to Atlas’s wounds. Cristian opened doors until he found some of the small paper cups.

“What are you doing?” Atlas asked as Cristian selected one.

Cristian winced and peeled away the jacket just enough to scrape the edge of the cup over his skin, collecting a trickle of blood. He held the cup out to Decebal. “Look.”

Atlas wasn’t sure of the significance of the gesture until Decebal snatched the cup from his son’s grip and drank the offering. Atlas started up from the bed, but a piercing look from Cristian held him in place despite his worries of what memories Decebal might be seeing.

Blood gone, the man closed his eyes. His body tensed. His fingers twitched, his eyes flickered and rolled under the lids, and Atlas was about to shove Ned toward him when he took a deep, shuddering inhalation and broke out of the momentary stupor.