By noon, the nonprofit’s office felt like the eye of a storm.
Phones rang nonstop. The shared email inbox pinged with press inquiries, hate mail, threats disguised as “concerns of a patriotic citizen,” and at least three badly written propositions.
Dima stalked between desks like a harassed heron, tie askew, glasses pushed up on his forehead.
“You’ve broken the internet,” he told Mira as she walked in, Aleksandr at her shoulder in his borrowed turtleneck and coat. “Or at least the part of it that still cares about history.”
“Yulia did most of the breaking,” she said, shucking off her scarf. “We just handed her the hammer.”
“Kalugin’s people are calling it ‘fake news,’” Dima said. “Of course. They’ve hinted at lawsuits. Defamation. Theft. Treason. My personal favorite.”
“We expected that,” Mira said. “What about… other reactions?”
Dima’s mouth twitched. “The anti-corruption crowd is thrilled. Other NGOs are cautiously supportive. A few journalists are sniffing around, trying to get scraps Yulia didn’t print. And…” He rubbed his face. “There are… emails from people who claim to have… seen things. In the nineties. Bits of the clean-up. Names. Locations.”
Mira’s pulse quickened. “Useful things?”
“Some,” he said. “Some are cranks. But there are enough consistent details to… warrant digging.”
Aleksandr moved to the whiteboard, where someone—Dima—had already scribbled headlines and arrows. He scanned quickly, absorbing.
“Any reaction from… them?” he asked.
Dima made a face. “Define ‘them.’”
“Men like Kalugin,” Aleksandr said. “And… the others.”
“Kalugin’s PR team released a statement,” Dima said. “Full of words like ‘outrageous’ and ‘malicious.’ They also called for ‘a thorough investigation into the possible theft of confidential state documents.’”
“Of course they did,” Mira muttered.
“And the others?” Aleksandr pressed.
Dima hesitated. “We had… a visitor,” he said. “This morning.”
Mira stiffened. “Who?”
Dima glanced at Aleksandr. “Maybe you should… explain,” he said. “Since you… recognized something in her I didn’t.”
Aleksandr frowned. “Her?”
As if summoned, the office door opened.
She walked in without knocking.
She was short, maybe in her late fifties, with iron-grey hair cut in a blunt bob and a face that might have been pretty if it weren’t so uncompromising. She wore a dark, well-tailored coat that looked simple until you clocked the stitching. Pearl earrings. No makeup beyond a slash of red lipstick.
Her eyes were the same pale, sharp grey as Elizaveta’s.
“Good afternoon,” she said in Russian that was very precisely enunciated, with an accent that was not quite local. “I hope I am not… intruding.”
Mira’s skin prickled.
“Hello,” she said slowly. “Can we… help you?”
The woman’s gaze flicked over her, then caught on Aleksandr.
It sharpened.
“Well,” she murmured. “He woke well.”
Something in the timbre of her voice did something strange to the air.
Mira’s heart rate spiked. She saw Aleksandr go very, very still.
“Who,” he said quietly, “are you?”
The woman smiled. It looked like something she did rarely.
“Do I really look so… old?” she asked.
He stared.
Then, in a voice that sounded like it had been dragged over stones, he whispered, “Irina.”
Mira blinked.
“You know her,” she said.
He nodded slowly, eyes never leaving the woman’s face.
“She was… one of us,” he said. “Once removed. Our maker’s… sister’s… get. She liked… numbers… more than blood. She left… before the war. For… Vienna. We thought she was… gone.”
“Reports of my demise,” Irina said dryly, “were… premature.”
She stepped fully into the office, closing the door behind her with a click.
Dima hovered by his desk, clearly trying to decide whether to offer coffee or a crucifix.
Mira found her voice. “You’re… a vampire,” she said bluntly.
Irina’s eyes slid to her, calm. “Such an… ugly… word,” she said. “But yes. I… am.”
“And you just… stroll into NGOs now,” Dima muttered. “Great.”
Irina’s gaze took him in, cataloguing, then moved back to Aleksandr.
“You look… well,” she said. “For someone who spent a century in a box.”
“You… bargained for that,” he said. “With… your… ‘council.’”
“Council is… dramatic,” she said. “We are… a syndicate. A… board. We manage… our own. Or we try. Your maker was… very… resistant to management.”
“So he taught us,” Aleksandr said.
She smiled thinly. “Yes. I imagine he did.”
Mira stepped closer to Aleksandr, not quite between him and Irina, but near.
“You knew about him,” she said. “About… Aleksandr. You knew he was… sleeping.”
Irina inclined her head. “We… sanctioned it,” she said. “Under certain… conditions.”
“Like leaving him alone,” Mira said. “Until he woke.”
“Yes,” Irina said. “That was one of them.”
“And now that he has?” Mira asked.
Irina’s lips pressed together. “Now,” she said, “you have… complicated… things. More than you know.”
“Sorry?” Mira said, eyebrows up. “Should we have left him in the ground?”
Irina studied her. “You are… not what I expected,” she said.
“Good,” Mira said. “I like disappointing expectations.”
Irina’s gaze flicked to Aleksandr again. “She is… very… attached,” she observed.
Heat rose in Mira’s cheeks. “She is… right here,” she said. “And she’d appreciate it if everyone stopped speaking about her in the third person.”
Irina’s mouth twitched. “My apologies.”
She turned fully to Mira.
“You are… Dr. Okonkwo,” she said. “The… archivist.”
“Historian,” Mira corrected automatically.
“Same… obsession,” Irina said. “You pry… into… what others wish forgotten.”
“Yes,” Mira said. “You read Yulia’s article.”
“Of course,” Irina said. “It landed on… certain desks… very quickly.”
“I’m sure it did,” Mira said. “You here to… threaten us?”
“On the contrary,” Irina said. “I am here to… warn you. And… perhaps… offer… an arrangement.”
Dima groaned. “More arrangements. Fantastic.”
Aleksandr took a step forward. “Where were you,” he asked, voice low, “when they burned the coffins.”
Irina’s eyes flickered.
“Not here,” she said. “By… design.”
“Whose?” he demanded.
“Mine,” she said calmly. “And… Elizaveta’s.”
He froze.
“What?” he said.
“She knew,” Irina said. “She saw… what was coming. She came to us. To me. She asked for… options. For… ways… some of you might survive. She chose… the stone… for you. She chose… fire… for the others.”
Mira’s stomach dropped. “She… *chose*?”
Irina nodded once. “It had to look… complete,” she said. “No survivors. No… lingering… bloodlines. The new regime…. needed a… clear break. The… older… among us… insisted. One… sleeper… we could… manage. Six… we could not.”
“You *managed* them by… killing them,” Aleksandr said, each word a shard.
Irina didn’t flinch. “We… allowed… their deaths,” she said. “We did not… arrange them. The humans did that. We simply… stepped back. And made sure you were… below… when it happened.”
His hands curled into fists.
“You call that… protection?” he said. “Abandoning them to… human… mobs?”
“They were… already dead,” Irina said quietly. “In the only way that matters for your… kind. Your maker… chose his theater. He chose… to draw attention. He chose… to make enemies. We tried… to rein him in. He refused. There is only… so much… one can do… when an older predator will not… leash.”
“Leash,” he repeated, incredulous.
Mira’s tongue felt thick. “Elizaveta knew,” she said. “About… all this. About… you. Them. The… ‘board.’”
“Yes,” Irina said. “She was… smarter… than most of us. She understood… scale. She made… ugly… bargains… to keep as much… as she could. She saved… him.” She nodded at Aleksandr. “She could not… save… them all.”
A harsh, humorless laugh escaped Aleksandr.
“So she… sacrificed… our maker. Lev. The others. To… keep your… council… happy.”
“She sacrificed… them,” Irina said evenly, “to keep… *you*… alive. They were… already targets. You were… an afterthought. Until she… insisted.”
He sank slowly onto the edge of Mira’s desk, as if his knees had decided they weren’t up to this.
“She said…” He swallowed. “She said… when I woke… we would be… somewhere stupid and beautiful… arguing about… politics we would never follow.”
Irina’s gaze softened, almost imperceptibly.
“She lied,” she said. “To make you… sleep.”
Silence.
Mira’s chest ached for him in a way that felt too big for her ribs.
“I’m sorry,” she said helplessly.
He lifted his head, eyes bleak.
“You did not… light the pyres,” he said.
“Neither did you,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
Irina cleared her throat gently. “We do not… have time… for… full… mourning,” she said. “Others have… seen the article. Read… the files. They will move.”
“What ‘others’?” Mira asked. “Give me… names.”
Irina’s lips curved without humor. “We do not… give… each other’s names,” she said. “We are… discreet… monsters.”
“How many of you are there?” Mira asked. “Here. In this city.”
Irina tilted her head, considering.
“Enough,” she said. “To cause… trouble. Not enough… to feel safe.”
“That’s vague,” Dima muttered.
“It is… intentional,” Irina said.
“What do you… want?” Aleksandr asked. “You did not come here… to… reminisce… and… warn. You have… an angle.”
“Yes,” she said.
She folded her hands on the back of an empty chair, knuckles pale.
“Kalugin,” she said, “has been… a problem… for some time. For us. He… blurs… lines.”
“Between what and what?” Mira asked.
“Between… our… quiet… predation… and his… loud,” Irina said. “He treats… people… as… resources… without… subtlety. He draws… eyes. He thinks… our old… rules… do not… apply to… new money.”
“He works with… some of you,” Aleksandr said slowly.
“Yes,” Irina said. “You know this. You can smell… their… touch… on him. But he also… keeps things… from us. Builds… his own… little… empire… of shadows. That threatens… our… equilibrium.”
Mira frowned. “So… he’s… freelancing… vampirism?”
“In a sense,” Irina said. “He shelters… young… reckless… ones. He… buys… loyalty… with… blood… and… status. He promises… sunlight… and… power.”
“Sunlight?” Aleksandr said sharply.
Irina’s mouth tightened. “Science… is a… toy… men like him… like… to break,” she said. “He funds… experiments. On… us. He calls it… innovation. We… call it… hubris.”
Mira’s stomach turned. “Experiments… how?”
Irina’s gaze flickered. “You do not… want to know.”
Mira held her stare. “I *ask* questions for a living,” she said. “Don’t tell me what I want.”
Irina’s lips pressed together. “He… captured… a few… of ours,” she said eventually. “With… promises. With… drugs. With… force. He… tested… limits. UV. Fire. Chemical… cocktails. Some… did not… survive.”
Aleksandr’s jaw clenched. “And you… let this… happen.”
“We… did not… sanction it,” Irina said. “But by the time we… knew… fully… it was… tangled… with… other… powers. Human… ones. We needed… leverage… to… move… without… exposing… ourselves.”
“And the documents in the ice house,” Mira said slowly, “give you… leverage.”
“Yes,” Irina said. “If used… correctly. They… tie… Kalugin… and his… allies… to… old… crimes. They… threaten… his… legitimacy. They… make… him… vulnerable… to… his own… kind.”
“Why should we… help you?” Dima asked. “You’re… just… another… power… structure.”
“Because,” Irina said simply, “our interests… align. For now. You want… the estate… preserved. We want… Kalugin… weakened. You want… truth… aired. We want… old… debts… paid… without… exposing… what we are… to… every… blogger… with a… camera.”
“You say ‘we’ a lot,” Mira said. “Who is… ‘we’?”
Irina smiled faintly. “You will… meet… some… of us. Eventually,” she said. “If you… survive.”
“That’s not… reassuring,” Mira said.
“It is… honest,” Irina said.
She straightened.
“I propose… this,” she said. “You… continue… your… noisy… crusade. You… leak… selectively. You… let… Yulia… tug… on… threads. We… pull… on… others. Quietly. We… make… sure… your… evidence… reaches… the… right… desks… without… disappearing. In return…” She looked at Aleksandr. “You… do not… ally… with… Kalugin. Or… his… strays. You… do not… sign… any… blood… oaths… you… do not… understand.”
“Were you… worried I might?” he asked, sardonic.
“You are… newly… woken,” she said. “Hungry. Angry. Lonely. That makes… for… bad… decisions.”
He flinched only slightly at lonely.
“And in return?” Mira said. “For… helping you… check… your… rogue.”
Irina smiled without humor. “In return,” she said, “we… stay… our hand. For now. We… do not… move… against… him”—she nodded at Aleksandr—“for… old… grudges. We… let… him… find his… footing. Under… your… hand… instead of… someone else’s.”
“He’s not… *under* my hand,” Mira said reflexively.
Irina’s gaze flicked between them. “Not… yet,” she murmured.
Heat blasted Mira’s cheeks. “That’s not—”
Aleksandr coughed. “You are… proposing… a… probation,” he said. “For me.”
“A… trial,” Irina said. “We watch. We… assess. We decide… whether you are… a… liability. Or an… asset.”
“And if you… decide… wrong?” he asked quietly.
She met his eyes. “Then,” she said, “we… correct.”
The word hung in the air like a guillotine.
Mira stepped forward, heart pounding. “He’s not… your… project,” she said. “He’s not… some… rogue… employee… to be… disciplined.”
Irina’s gaze swung to her. “He is… ours,” she said simply. “By blood. By… history. You woke… a piece… of our… world. That comes… with… obligations.”
“His obligations are… to himself,” Mira snapped. “And to the people he chooses. Not to some… vampire board of directors.”
“You speak… as if you… can… protect… him,” Irina said, not unkindly. “From… us. From… Kalugin. From… what… he is.”
Mira’s throat tightened. “I can… try,” she said.
Irina looked at her for a long, measuring moment.
“You remind me… of… Elizaveta,” she said quietly. “She… thought she could… outmaneuver… everyone. For a time… she did.”
“And then she died,” Mira said. “Because you… let her.”
Irina’s jaw clenched. “Elizaveta… chose… her death,” she said. “On… her… terms. She walked… into the… fire. We only… made sure… no one… saw… her… walk… back… out.”
The image punched the breath from Mira’s lungs.
“She turned to ash,” Irina said. “By her own… design. She did not want… to live… in a world… where… this”—she gestured vaguely at the cluttered office, the city beyond—“was… her… eternity.”
“She left… me,” Aleksandr said, voice raw.
“She left you… a chance,” Irina said. “You… are… her… last… argument.”
Silence.
Dima cleared his throat. “So, to summarize,” he said, because of course he would, “you want a… loose… alliance. We share… selectively. You… exert… pressure… we can’t. We… don’t… cozy up to Kalugin. In exchange, you… don’t… kill… our… vampire.”
Irina’s lips twitched. “Yes,” she said. “That is… the… crude… version.”
Mira looked at Aleksandr.
His face was shuttered. But his eyes… were not.
“We need them,” she said quietly. “At least… for now.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And they need… us,” she added. “Or they wouldn’t… bother.”
“Yes,” he said again.
He looked at Irina.
“I will not… be your… pawn,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Pawns… are… boring. Knights… are… useful.”
He snorted. “You always… liked… chess…”
“And you always… preferred… cards,” she said. “We make… do.”
She extended a hand—not quite a handshake, more a… offer.
“Truce,” she said. “For now.”
Aleksandr hesitated.
Mira could almost see the calculus in his eyes: hatred, grief, hunger, need. The weight of Elizaveta’s choices. The knowledge that going it completely alone—in this century, in this city—was suicide.
He took Irina’s hand.
Her grip was cool. Firm. Older than his by… how many decades? Centuries?
“Good boy,” she murmured.
He stiffened.
Mira bristled. “Don’t call him that.”
Irina’s gaze cut to her, amused. “Territorial,” she observed.
Mira opened her mouth to argue. Closed it again.
“If we feel you… straying,” Irina said to Aleksandr, still holding his hand, “we will… remind you. Gently. At first.”
“How very… comforting,” he said dryly.
She released him.
“I will be… in touch,” she said. “Do not… trust… every… pale… face… you see… in a crowd. Not all… of us… are as… patient… as I.”
She moved to the door, coat flaring slightly.
“And Dr. Okonkwo?” she added, pausing with her hand on the knob.
“Yes?” Mira said, jaw tight.
“Be… careful… whom you… love,” Irina said. “Our kind… does not… age… as yours… does. We… do not… break… in the same… places.”
Heat flooded Mira’s face. “That’s not—”
Irina smiled, a flash of teeth.
“We will… see,” she said, and left.
The office felt colder after she was gone.
Dima sat heavily in his chair. “Well,” he said faintly. “We’re negotiating with vampire unions now. Great.”
Mira turned to Aleksandr.
He was staring at his hand, flexing his fingers slowly, as if they’d gone numb.
“You okay?” she asked.
He looked up.
“No,” he said. “But… I am… awake.”
She exhaled. “We have… a lot… of plates… spinning.”
“Yes,” he said. A glint of old, dangerous amusement flickered in his eyes. “Let us… see… how many… we can keep… in the air… before we.. start… throwing… them.”
She almost smiled.
“Just… don’t… throw them at me,” she said.
He tilted his head. “Only… if you… deserve it.”
“Which I never do,” she said.
“We will… see,” he echoed Irina, but his tone held something warmer.
As the afternoon bled into evening, the three of them—immortal, lawyer, historian—leaned over the table, mapping a war with pens and paper and fragments of stolen truth.
Outside, the city moved, oblivious. For now.
***