Chapter One
Cristian Slava’s centuries of near immortality meant he feared very little. Vampires, after all, were the solid stones standing in the river of history...steady, unchanging, and always aware of the ebb and flow of humanity buffeting about them. Unfortunately, Cristian mused as he watched his bodyguard in the front seat, Atlas Kinkaid was less a casual current and more of a flash flood, and Cristian had been swept away before he knew what happened.
Cristian had dealt with human bodyguards before, a hazard of being heir apparent to his father Decebal’s territory and business empire. They were easy enough to get rid of, and he’d taken pleasure in placing bets with his friends about how quickly he could get them to quit. It was a game, a rare spot of amusement in the series of miserable decades following his mother’s death. He and his father had both dealt with grief in their own ways. Decebal threw himself into Scarsdale’s revitalization, and Cristian did the bare minimum to keep himself alive. Atlas was supposed to be a temporary bodyguard, the newest in an endless procession of humans who could never keep up with Cristian.
But Atlas could. Hell, Atlas did, and Cristian fell so hard even the ghosts of ancient Rome winced in sympathy.
Somehow fighting with Atlas turned into fighting beside Atlas, and then fighting for Atlas and the terrifying possibility that maybe they could be something more than a bodyguard and his client. That promise of some kind of future together was one of the few things to scare Cristian in a very long time, not because of what could be, but because of the threat of its loss. It was a small consolation to know Atlas felt equally unsure. Cristian doubted anyone else would be able to tell that from the way Atlas was glaring at him in the rearview mirror. They wouldn’t know to read his irritation as a poor attempt to cover his concern. But Cristian did.
“What is this?” Atlas asked, holding up the passport and driver’s license Cristian had handed him a moment ago.
“Documents for our trip,” Cristian said, though that seemed obvious. He dropped both their real IDs into the console cup holder, alongside the phones Beatrice had already confiscated, and tried to relax in the crowded backseat of the sedan. His shoulder was mostly healed after the strigoi attack, but the muscles underneath still ached as they knitted back together under his skin. “They’re for travel only. I refuse to call you Joseph Billings the entire time we’re away from Scarsdale. Once we’re somewhere safer, you’re back to Atlas.”
Atlas’s eyes narrowed even further. “I meant,” he said with far too much exasperation, “why were these in the bag?”
Cristian frowned. Atlas was not a stupid man. He’d been on a Special Forces team in the Marines, he was a key agent at his older sister Beatrice’s Whitethorn Agency, and he could read through Cristian’s bullshit better than almost anyone else. “You know why,” Cristian said. “We need to leave Scarsdale with minimal fuss. Aliases are good for that.”
Beatrice, who’d been unnervingly silent as she drove them to the airport, finally deigned to speak. “Decebal has extra documents made up for all his family members,” she told her brother quietly. “He made yours after you decided to keep working for the family.”
Atlas swallowed and looked away from the rearview mirror, unwilling to let Cristian see his reaction. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t see Atlas’s eyes; he could read the man’s hands just as well. Atlas traced over his fake name with a fingertip before examining his passport and the beautifully forged stamps littering its pages. “How the hell did he pull this off?” he mumbled.
“Vampire,” Cristian said. “We’ve gotten very good at passing through humanity’s hoops.” He patted the duffel bag on the seat beside him. “Hence the cash and Father’s credit card.”
“Mr. Vladislavic requested you use it as often as you need. He’s the only one with access to its records,” Beatrice told Atlas. “It’s a secure system, I promise.”
Atlas grunted in acknowledgment before turning in his seat to look back at Cristian. “Let me see your passport.”
Cristian handed it over without fuss, though he grinned at Atlas’s wrinkled nose as he read the false name. “Daniel Putnam? Really?”
“It’s not the worst I’ve had.” Cristian reached out and slid the passport free of Atlas’s grip. Their fingers brushed together with the movement, and despite Atlas’s best efforts to look unaffected, Cristian keyed on the quickening of his pulse and the blossoming scent of lust sweetening the air like warming sugar. He doubted he’d ever get enough of that scent after learning how it gave away Atlas’s desire for him.
Atlas was a master of self-possession while Cristian was... Well, he didn’t usually worship at the altar of hedonism as wholly as other vampires, but Atlas inspired a dangerous fanaticism. If they’d been alone, he would have stolen a moment to breathe prayers against Atlas’s lips, to close the gap between them because now he could. But they weren’t alone, and the acrid twist of Beatrice’s displeasure in the air as she tried to ignore their interaction kept Cristian chaste.
He held Atlas’s gaze and smiled before returning to his place in the backseat. “Ms. Kinkaid,” he said, amused at the cutting glance she threw him before returning her attention to the road, “did my father have any other orders for our escape?”
“He and I will be your only stateside contacts on this trip. Phone’s in the bag, along with prepaid cards.”
“That will make you a target,” Atlas pointed out grimly.
“No more than I already am,” Beatrice shot back. “I’ve been working with Mr. Vladislavic for a while now and I know my limitations. I’m more concerned about you—”
“We’ll be fine,” Atlas interrupted.
Cristian couldn’t help but glance at Atlas when he heard that. We meant he and Atlas were partners, that Atlas intended for Beatrice to think of them as a unit, and Cristian reveled in the distinction. Beatrice caught Atlas’s implication too, but was far less pleased by it.
“You’ve managed well enough so far, but we may not be able to offer much help once you leave.”
“When we get to—”
“Stop,” Beatrice ordered. “Mr. Vladislavic doesn’t want you to tell us where you’re going. Just call us when you land and let us know you’re alive.” Her full lips pressed together and Cristian could tell she was weighing her next words carefully. Atlas must have sensed it too, since he stayed very still in the passenger seat, watching Beatrice and waiting. After a long moment, she added, “Someone is eager to get their hands on you, so be careful out there.”
She was tactful enough to not blame Cristian directly, but there was no arguing that Atlas was in danger because of him. He couldn’t offer her any comfort the situation would change when they left, not that she’d accept such pretty lies from him anyway, so he left her concerns to Atlas. He forced himself to watch Scarsdale slip by past the window, doing his level best not to listen in on their conversation as they headed for the small, executive airport outside of town.
Some vampires had scoffed at Decebal’s decision to invest in an executive airport, but had quickly apologized for their doubts when they learned how convenient private air travel could be. Publicly, Decebal touted the importance of investing in human infrastructure as a way of improving the quality of life for donors in one’s territory. Privately, he taught Cristian how multiple avenues of escape better protected the family.
No one besides Cristian and Helias knew that Decebal was a silent partner for a charter company, which, like Whitethorn, had the ability to cater to vampiric clients. It would take intense digging by the Council or the Wharrams to uncover that link, which meant Cristian and Atlas could take advantage of the charter’s availability to get out of town quickly.
The curbside loading zone was almost completely empty when they arrived at the airport, which made sense, considering the early morning hour. Beatrice parked and hit the button for the trunk. “Mr. Slava,” she said, “a word, please.”
Cristian nodded to Atlas, who murmured a goodbye to his sister and squeezed her hand once before getting out of the car to retrieve their backpacks.
She didn’t speak until Atlas’s door closed, leaving her and Cristian alone.
“You fed from him,” she said bluntly. She didn’t bother to look at Cristian; her focus in the mirrors was for her brother alone.
“He offered,” Cristian clarified. He didn’t like the judgment in her voice, so he aimed for that tender spot in retaliation. “He knew what he was doing.”
Atlas knew how to ignore or avoid Cristian’s barbs. Beatrice didn’t, and his carefully chosen words landed exactly as he wanted. She turned in her seat, anger snapping her attention back to Cristian, who met her gaze unflinchingly. “I doubt that,” she snarled. “Did he let you into his head? What did you see?”
“Whether he did or not, I wouldn’t betray his trust by telling anyone,” Cristian said. He gave Beatrice a wry smile. “Not even you.”
“I saw the photo album out,” she said. “I don’t know if he can handle going back.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to know where we were going,” Cristian said.
“I have suspicions.”
“That’s not what you’re paid for.”
Her smile was tight and far too polite for the fury in her eyes. “Fuck your father’s money. My brother is the most important thing in my life. I won’t let him get hurt again.”
“Believe me, he is more than capable of holding his own,” Cristian told her. “He’s survived strigoi. He’s helped take down two vampires, one of whom was an elder, in the short time I’ve known him. Atlas can defend himself.”
“I didn’t mean physically,” Beatrice bit out.
“Neither did I,” Cristian said.
His honesty shut her mouth. Cristian waited a moment, curious if she would try to argue further with him. She didn’t.
The trunk closed. She watched Atlas’s progress as he moved their things to the curb.
“You didn’t see him when they brought him home,” she said softly. “I don’t know how he survived it the first time. Not the hospital shit, but everything after. If it happens again...” She swallowed hard and Cristian bit his tongue to keep from making impossible promises. “He can’t go through that again,” Beatrice said at last.
“Whatever he faces, he won’t be alone,” Cristian said. “I promise he won’t be alone.”
“I guess that’s the best I can hope for,” Beatrice murmured. She tilted her head toward his door. “He’s anxious. Better get going.”
Cristian gathered up the duffel and slid out of the car. Atlas stood a few feet away, his assault pack slung over a shoulder, the other backpack in hand as he waited. “Ready?” he asked.
When Cristian nodded, Atlas waved goodbye to Beatrice one last time. As she pulled away, Atlas handed Cristian his backpack and led them into the terminal. It wasn’t until he was inside, away from his sister, that the reality of their situation finally sank in.
Cristian drew up beside him. Tight-jawed and glaring, Atlas stared at the airport terminal. His pulse rose, to the point Cristian wondered if he should say anything. It was one thing to talk about returning to the scene of the attack that had changed Atlas’s life; it was another thing to walk into an airport and get on a plane to go there. He reached out and slid his hand into Atlas’s. He tugged gently, urging them to the counter of the charter. “Come on, Joe. Let’s get going.”
His use of the horrendous pseudonym did it. Atlas’s chuckle was a little late, a little rough and forced, but he started moving. Every step he took after Cristian came a little easier, though he gripped Cristian’s hand tightly. They were nearly to the counter when he finally threw back, “Whatever you say, Dan,” and Cristian knew they’d be fine.
Cristian woke up to Atlas’s gentle nudge and his whispered, “Made it to Germany.”
He swore and rubbed at his eyes, wincing at the stiffness that had set into his joints and muscles while he slept through the first leg of the flight to Brașov.
“You slept hard,” Atlas remarked.
“Needed the rest to finish healing.”
“Glad you got it then,” Atlas said. He may have sounded relaxed, but there were no signs of such physical ease when Cristian looked him over. The dark smudges beneath his eyes and the lines bracketing his mouth were more obvious in the cabin’s dim lighting, and his lightly clenched hands rested in his lap. When he spoke, Cristian could smell the hint of blood on his breath, which meant he’d been worrying at his lip again.
“Did you sleep at all?” Cristian asked.
Atlas frowned and shook his head. “I was thinking.”
“About?”
“How to keep you safe as we travel.” Atlas scrubbed a hand through his hair, mussing it attractively in his frustration. “I like logistics, Cristian. Not having a clear plan is... I’m not sure how to do my job.”
Atlas’s admission distracted him from the attractive picture the man made. He set aside Atlas’s describing this as a job for the time being—he wanted more privacy for that discussion—and considered the underlying truth of the statement instead. He should have predicted this reaction. Forcing the man to return to Romania, without giving him something to distract him as they traveled, would only give him endless hours to relive the worst nightmares of his past.
“I’m sorry,” Cristian said quietly. “We’ll figure it out during the layover.”
“And how is that going to work?” Atlas asked him, brow pinched. “It’s plenty light outside.”
“Ye of little faith,” Cristian teased. “We’ve been doing this for a while. Trust me.”
They touched down on a quiet airstrip and taxied their way to a small building. After a brief wait, they disembarked the plane through a windowless sky bridge. An airport employee waited for them near the end of the bridge and directed them down a flight of stairs. Atlas muttered something under his breath when they came out in a long subterranean tunnel decorated with generic artwork and a slew of German advertisements.
Cristian grinned at him, and said, “Told you.”
“Where are we going?”
“The lounge. It sits between several airstrips. They’ll send someone for us when it’s time to board again.”
Atlas shook his head. “What’s that for?” he asked, trying to read one of the advertisements they passed.
“It’s for a jeweler,” Cristian translated.
Atlas eyed the slender column of the woman’s neck and the thin gold chain resting over her clavicle bone with amusement. “Sure it is.”
Cristian shrugged. “Know your audience.”
They reached the lounge a few minutes later. Theirs and several other similar tunnels converged around it, like the spokes of a wheel. The black walls and dim, warm lighting helped distract from the expansiveness of the area. A bar stood against one wall, manned by a lovely woman in uniform who was preparing a coffee and a glass of warmed blood for the couple sitting on the stools. The man who accepted the coffee was deep in conversation with the woman sitting beside him, who faced out toward their hallway and accepted the glass of blood. She smiled at Cristian as she took a sip of her drink, but it was a reflexive acknowledgment, not an invitation for them to join her and her partner. Cristian stepped a little closer to Atlas nevertheless, just to be sure she understood they weren’t interested in socializing. Black leather and crimson fabric armchairs were set in small, mixed groups across the floor. Farther back, decorative false walls created cubicles and privacy seating. Several vampires had claimed those places, their laptop screens blazing blue-white light as they worked. Along the farthest wall, closed doors led to private bedrooms that could be reserved for the longest layovers, or for vampires who wanted genuine privacy with their donors.
Atlas gave a low whistle as he took in the place. One of the businessmen looked up at the sound and glanced their way. He took in Cristian and Atlas, his gaze lingering on Atlas for longer than was polite. Cristian bristled when the man eyed Atlas’s scarred neck with particular interest, and he placed a proprietary hand at the small of Atlas’s back. The man noticed the movement. He caught Cristian’s stare and gave a faint nod before returning to his work.
“My hero,” Atlas deadpanned.
Caught, Cristian flushed and nudged Atlas into the lounge, to a distant corner that was about as far away from everyone else as they could manage. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ll let you handle yourself next time.”
“Didn’t say I minded,” Atlas said. “Just trying to figure out the new rules.” He settled into one of the fabric armchairs, one that meant his back was against a wall, and took another, slower look around. “Are you sure humans are welcome here?”
Cristian sat in one of the leather chairs that pointed at Atlas’s and groaned as he sank into the comfortable cushion and stretched his legs out before him. He leaned his head back, resting it against the plush back of the chair and let his eyes fall closed. The lounge was deep enough underground that the usual hustle and bustle of the airport didn’t reach him. It was a relief after the flight, and he wondered if Atlas also appreciated this new peace. “Many of us travel with donors, who already know our views on privacy. As long as you don’t try to start a fight or start taking pictures to post online, we’ll be fine.”
“Don’t have any online profiles. And is that what they think I am?” Atlas asked him quietly. “Your donor?”
“Maybe. The man who’d been eyeing you was checking for marks, and the woman at the bar was reading how close we were standing together. They were just curious, but we’ll need to figure out how we want to present our relationship sooner rather than later.”
“And my being your donor makes it easier while we travel?”
“In some ways.”
He finally opened his eyes, only to find Atlas watching him closely. The first time he’d seen Atlas on the day of his interview, he’d been unimpressed. The man reeked of exhaustion and resignation, and his eyes were haunted with ghosts Cristian had no interest in meeting. And then Atlas had stood up to him, had gotten the job, had become an island of steady calm and practicality he didn’t realize he’d longed for, and Cristian hated himself for trusting his first impression for so long. The way Atlas looked at him now, with a gentle concern he couldn’t manage to hide no matter how he tried, and his mouth marred with the start of a frown... Cristian treasured these moments most because Atlas trusted him enough to show his vulnerability. Cristian wished Atlas would trust him more. If they weren’t in public, he might have said as much. Instead, he shoved those emotions down and returned to the issue at hand.
He nudged Atlas’s shin with his toe. “Does that bother you?”
“I’m not sure.”
It hurt more than he thought it would. After the partial feeding they’d shared in Scarsdale, he longed for their relationship to deepen. But he would never manipulate Atlas into moving faster than he wanted. Maybe that’s why Atlas’s ambivalence about donors now rankled. It wasn’t an outright rejection of what they could become someday. It was far worse, a reaction ambiguous enough to give Cristian hope. He’d lived long enough to know how dangerous hope could be.
“Honestly,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, “you pretending to be my donor when you really aren’t is—” He struggled to find the right word. Awful, humiliating, depressing were all accurate, but would make Atlas ask a lot more questions, and receive answers he probably didn’t want to hear yet. Cristian finally went with, “—difficult. Trying to remember what we’re pretending risks distracting both of us at inopportune times.”
“So we stick to the truth,” Atlas suggested. “I’m your bodyguard, you’re my client.”
“Clean and efficient.” Cristian attempted a smile. It was fake, twisted, and Atlas’s frown deepened at the sight. “Don’t look at me like that. If that’s what it takes for us to stay focused and figure out how our unwanted guests arrived in Scarsdale, so be it. Do you want anything from the bar?”
“No,” Atlas said with a shake of his head.
He stayed sitting there as Cristian walked away. Separating himself from Atlas, from the challenge of trying to read the man’s subtle scents, was good. He ordered them both coffee—it felt wrong to not offer Atlas anything—and returned to their quiet corner a few minutes later, holding out the perfect flat white like a peace offering. Even though he’d said he didn’t want anything, Atlas took it with a murmured thanks.
He waited for Cristian to sit down again and figure out how to best hold his mocha before stating, “You didn’t let me finish.”
“Finish what?”
“In public,” Atlas said steadily, “I’m your bodyguard.”
“Yes, Mr. Kinkaid, I am well aware of that.”
“In private, I’m...well, we can figure it out as we go.” He ignored Cristian gaping at him and took a sip of his coffee.
“Figure it out as we go? I thought you wanted clear plans,” Cristian choked out, setting his mocha down on the arm of his chair. “What happened to needing logistics?”
“About how we travel, how we keep you from turning into ash, how we move through different territories, how we defend ourselves,” Atlas said with amusement. “Those are the kind of logistics I need. Maybe now that you know where we stand on the other issue, you can focus on our more pressing concerns.” He took another sip of his coffee, smugly watching Cristian trying to pull his thoughts back together.
Yes, hope would be the end of him.
“Right,” Cristian mumbled, “sure. Where do you want to start?”
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