Two weeks of crisis had a way of stretching and folding time.
By the end of the fortnight, Mira felt like she’d lived a year.
Yulia’s article spawned others. A bigger independent outlet picked it up, then a foreign paper. International attention brought a thin layer of protection, like ice on a river: still breakable, but slower.
Kalugin’s lawyers filed blustering complaints. The city announced an “internal review” of the Morozov case. A parliamentary committee scheduled a hearing “on historical transparency.”
“It’s theater,” Dima said, wearily triumphant. “But it’s theater in *public.* That’s… something.”
Kalugin himself stayed behind glass: statements through spokespeople, photo ops at charity events, no direct comments.
Lebedev sent no more texts.
Irina sent information.
Hints. Names. Times. A list of government offices where certain files had been “misplaced.” Addresses of abandoned warehouses where Kalugin had conducted his “experiments.”
Mira went to one of those warehouses with Aleksandr and Dima.
The walls inside were stained in patterns that weren’t all rust. Heavy metal tables with straps still bolted to the floor. The faint smell of chemicals long since evaporated.
Aleksandr moved through the space like someone walking a battlefield.
“Here,” he said, fingers ghosting a ring in the grime where something had once sat. “UV array. Cheap. Inefficient. Here…” He touched a scabbed patch on the wall. “…fire. They tried… different… delivery methods.”
“You okay?” Mira asked quietly.
He smiled without humor. “I was… not here,” he said. “But… some things… are… shared.”
She didn’t press.
She saved her pressing for another night.
It was raining, a thin, icy drizzle that turned the streets into reflective strips. The apartment was warmer than usual, the radiator’s clanks for once productive.
Mira sat cross-legged on the floor, papers spread around her in a chaotic halo, laptop open. She’d fallen into a rhythm: cross-reference, annotate, email Yulia with a new angle, flag something for Dima.
Aleksandr lounged on the sofa with a book—one of hers, a translated volume of modern poetry. He read with his whole attention, brow furrowed, occasionally making a small approving or disapproving sound.
“What?” she asked once, when he huffed.
“This line,” he said, tapping the page. “They speak of… war… as if it is… metaphor. It is… not. It is… mud… and… bone.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s… fair.”
“Also,” he added, “the enjambment is… lazy.”
“Critic,” she murmured.
The rain tapped against the window.
She shifted, stretching out one leg, wincing as a knot pinched in her calf.
“You have been… sitting… too long,” he observed.
“I’m aware,” she said.
“Come,” he said.
She blinked. “Come… what?”
“Here,” he said, patting the sofa. “Stretch. You will… cramp… like old woman.”
She snorted. “I *am* an old woman, in activist years.”
“You are…” He considered. “Stubborn… in any… metric.”
She rolled her eyes, but her back ached and the idea of the cushions was tempting.
She stood—groaning theatrically—and moved to the sofa, flopping down near his feet.
“Don’t hog,” she said, nudging his ankle.
He shifted obligingly, making space.
“You should… move,” he said. “Your blood… sits… too much.”
She glared at him. “You’re the last person who gets to lecture me on circulation.”
He smiled faintly. “I am… familiar… with the… consequences… of… stagnation,” he said.
Her fingers dug into a knot in her calf. She hissed.
“Here,” he said, setting the book aside. “Allow me.”
She stilled. “Allow you… what?”
“To… assist,” he said. “With… the knot.”
His expression was neutral, but something in his eyes… wasn’t.
“That’s… not… necessary,” she said quickly.
“It is… efficient,” he said. “You will be… useless… tomorrow… if you cannot… walk.”
“I can walk,” she said. “I’m just… stiff.”
“You are… stubborn,” he said. “Give me… your leg.”
The words landed heavier than they had any right to.
She swallowed.
It was… a calf massage. Not a blood pact. This was not… a scene from one of the novels Dima accused her of reading.
“Fine,” she said, with more bravado than she felt.
She swung her legs onto the sofa, stretching them toward him.
His hands closed around her calf.
She made a small, involuntary sound.
His grip was firm, cool. He pressed his thumbs into the tight muscle, working slowly upward in you-know-exactly-what-you’re-doing strokes.
“You carry… more… than you… should,” he murmured.
“The world?” she said, trying for light.
“Yourself,” he said. “You… curl. In.”
Her breath hitched as he found the worst knot and applied pressure.
“Relax,” he said.
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “You have… centuries… of practice.”
“Relax,” he repeated, and there was a note in it that bypassed her brain and went straight to her muscles.
She exhaled.
His touch moved up, kneading, then down, then back. Not sexual. Not quite. But intimate in a way that made her skin hum.
“You did this… before,” she blurted, because distraction was necessary. “For… others.”
“Yes,” he said. “Soldiers. Lovers. Prey. They all… cramp.”
“Lovers,” she repeated, because her brain was clearly suicidal.
He smiled without looking up. “Yes,” he said. “We are… allowed… such… things.”
“How many?” she asked, then bit her tongue. “Never mind. You don’t have to—”
“Enough,” he said. “And… not enough.”
She snorted softly. “Dramatic.”
He shifted to her other leg.
“Have *you*,” he asked, tone casual, “had… many?”
“Many… what?” she said, though she knew.
“Lovers,” he said, deliberately pronouncing it the way Irina had, as if it were a role, not a number.
“Nosy,” she muttered.
“Curious,” he corrected.
She stared at the ceiling.
“I’ve had…” She grimaced. “Some. Men. Women. Mistakes. Brief… things.”
“No… long… burning… romance?” he asked, somewhere between teasing and serious.
She thought of a grad school girlfriend who’d left for another country. Of a fellow activist who’d cheated with a donor. Of the quiet nights alone with her laptop and case files.
“Not with… people,” she said, surprising herself.
He huffed. “Ah,” he said. “But with… buildings.”
She laughed. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m… very married… to my work.”
He kneaded a particularly stubborn knot. She sucked in a breath through her teeth.
“Are you… jealous?” she teased. “Of… houses?”
“Of… anything… that has… more… of your… attention… than I do,” he said lightly.
Her laugh stumbled.
“That’s…” she began.
“Joke,” he said.
“Is it?” she asked softly.
He paused.
His fingers tightened fractionally, then resumed.
“No,” he said quietly. “Not… entirely.”
She turned her head to look at him.
His gaze stayed on her leg, but his jaw was tight.
“What are we… doing?” she asked.
He finally looked up.
“Negotiating,” he said. “Boundaries. Hungers.”
“Including… this?” she asked, gesturing vaguely between them.
He smiled, but it was a careful thing. “Especially… this,” he said.
She swallowed. “We said… no biting,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “We did.”
“And… we haven’t talked about… anything else,” she said.
“No,” he said. “We have not.”
He shifted slightly closer, his knees brushing her hip now.
“What do you… want?” he asked, voice low.
It was unfair. He had centuries of practice. She had… half a lifetime of misplaced attachments and a brain currently being melted by his hands.
“I want…” She stopped. Started again. “I want… not to regret this.”
“This,” he repeated.
“This… you,” she said. “Us. Whatever… it is.”
He nodded slowly.
“I cannot… promise… no… regret,” he said. “Life… is… regrets. But… I can… promise… no… lies. No… glamours. No… tricks. What you… feel… will be… yours. Not… mine… in your… head.”
“That’s… something,” she said.
He let go of her calf.
Her legs felt oddly empty without his touch.
He shifted, drawing his own legs up, mirroring her.
“May I,” he asked, “tell you… what I… want?”
She nodded, throat dry.
“I want…” He searched for words. “To… touch you… with… more… permission. I want… to taste you… eventually. Not… for hunger. For… you. I want… to hear… you… say my name… when you are… not… angry.”
Heat flooded her.
“That’s…” she said faintly. “Very… direct.”
“I have had… time… to… imagine,” he said.
“And you’re… okay with…” She gestured vaguely at her own chest. “…this being… short. For me. Compared to you.”
He went very still.
“Mira,” he said slowly. “Do you think… I have not… learned… the cost… of loving… mortals?”
“I…” she began.
He held up a hand.
“I have… outlived… too many,” he said. “Brothers. Lovers. Children who were never… quite… mine. That is… the… curse. We… stay. You… do not. It hurts. Every… time. It would be… easier… not to… choose… again. But…”
He spread his hands, helpless.
“Here you are,” he said simply. “And here… I am. Awake… when I should… not be. In your… house. On your… sofa. With your… pulse… keeping me… honest.”
Her eyes stung.
“You sound… like you’ve… already decided,” she said.
“I have… decided… to… try,” he said. “If you… will.”
Fear and want tangled in her chest.
“You’re… dangerous,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “So are you.”
She laughed, a short, startled sound. “I’m… a historian.”
“You are… changing… the… trajectory… of… old… monsters,” he said. “With… paper. That is… dangerous.”
She stared at him.
“You want…” She took a breath. “You want me to… say yes. To… this. And… also… you expect me to… say no. Because it’s… the sensible… thing.”
“Yes,” he said, absolutely honest.
She thought of Irina’s warning: *Be careful whom you love.*
She thought of Lebedev’s smirk. Of Kalugin’s shadow. Of Elizaveta walking into fire rather than into this future.
She thought of herself, twenty years from now—grey at the temples, lines deeper, maybe still fighting, maybe tired. And him, unchanged, maybe holding someone else’s calf, someone else’s head.
Regret *was* inevitable. One flavor or another.
She reached out.
Her hand found his, fingers threading.
His breath hitched.
“We go… slow,” she said. “We… talk. A lot. We… keep… the work… first. We don’t… let this… derail… the fight.”
“Agreed,” he said, voice low.
“And… no… biting… until… I say,” she added, because power mattered.
He smiled, a flash of fangless mischief. “Yes, *doktor*,” he murmured.
She squeezed his hand, hard. “And you… remember,” she said. “I am… not… your… Elizaveta. I am… not… your… replacement. I’m… myself. If this… works… or fails… it’s on… its own… terms. Not as… a… patch.”
His expression sobered.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “You are… not… hers. You are… yours. That is… why…”
He cut himself off.
“Why what?” she prodded.
“Why I am… here,” he said, almost impatient. “She would have… told me… to sleep. You… broke… the stone.”
She exhaled, a shuddering release of something she hadn’t known she was holding.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Then… yes. We… try.”
He didn’t lunge. He didn’t pull her in.
He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her knuckles, cool and precise.
The gesture, so archaic it almost looped back to obscene, sent a shock straight to her core.
“Thank you,” he murmured against her skin.
“For what?” she asked, dazed.
“For… giving… me… something… to regret,” he said wryly.
She laughed, bright and helpless.
“You’re such… a pessimist,” she said.
“I am… a… realist,” he replied.
She shifted closer, shoulder brushing his.
They sat like that for a while, not speaking, fingers laced, the rain marking time against the glass.
They had no illusions: there were developers, and vampire councils, and experiments, and boys in tunnels, and articles like lit matches in dry forests.
But in that small, stubborn space between battles, they had a choice.
They were making it.
“I have… a thought,” he said eventually.
“That’s… dangerous,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But… hear me.”
She hummed.
“You said… no biting… until… you say,” he said. “I will… honor that. But… there is… another… exchange.”
She tensed slightly. “Aleksandr…”
“Hush,” he said, surprisingly gentle. “Not… that. Not… now. Later… perhaps. I mean… something… else.”
He turned, studying her neck.
She shivered.
“Your… blood… tells… stories,” he said. “Mine… does too. There is… a way… to… share… a… little… without… teeth. A… drop. On… the tongue. Not… enough to… harm. Enough to… taste. To… see.”
“See… what?” she asked, wary and intrigued.
“Memory,” he said. “Impressions. Feelings. We call it… the… red… thread.”
She swallowed. “You want me… to drink yours.”
“For now,” he said. “Yes. Safer… for you. You will… feel… some… of me. My… world. It may… help you… understand… what we… fight.”
“What about… you?” she asked.
He smiled crookedly. “I know… what you… fight,” he said. “I have… read… your… grants.”
She elbowed him. “Ass.”
He chuckled.
“We can wait,” he said. “Until… you are… ready. Or… never. It is… only… a thought.”
She considered.
Letting him into her mind mentally had been… one thing. Taking him into her body, even in such a tiny quantity, was another.
But the idea of seeing through his eyes—of understanding his past, his losses, his context—without him having to narrate every horror…
“Later,” she said. “Once we… survive… the hearing. And whatever… Lebedev… is cooking. And… after… we talk… to Yulia… about… the next wave.”
He nodded. “Later,” he echoed.
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
He went very still, then relaxed, resting his chin lightly on her hair.
“You’re getting… comfortable,” she murmured.
“I am… terrified,” he said conversationally.
“Good,” she said. “Me too.”
“Excellent,” he said. “We will make… terrible… decisions.”
“Slowly,” she added.
“Slowly,” he agreed.
The rain tapered off.
In another part of the city, under colder lights, Lebedev sat in a conference room, a copy of Yulia’s article in front of him, Kalugin at the head of the table.
“This… historian,” Kalugin said, tapping the page with a manicured finger. “She is… inconvenient.”
“We can… manage her,” Lebedev said.
“And Morozov?” Kalugin asked.
Lebedev hesitated.
“He is… an… unknown,” he said carefully.
Kalugin smiled thinly. “I like… unknowns,” he said. “They make… interesting… data points.”
He looked at the man sitting in the shadows near the corner of the room.
“Don’t you agree?” he asked.
The figure shifted, the brief gleam of too-sharp teeth catching the fluorescent light.
“Yes,” a voice said, old and hungry. “Let us… see… what he is… made of.”
Back in the apartment, oblivious for now to the unseen teeth turning toward them, Mira and Aleksandr sat close on the sofa, fingers laced, preparing to step together into a future written in ink, blood, and the stubborn refusal to sleep.