The parliament building had always looked to Mira like a bad remake of history.
Too much marble, too many columns, a clumsy attempt to echo imperial grandeur with socialist bulk and then slap a modern security system on top. The flags out front snapped in the wind, bright colors against a low, sullen sky.
Cameras clustered like metallic crows on tripods along the steps. Microphones bobbed in the hands of reporters. Police in dark uniforms and lighter expressions watched the crowd with the bored alertness of people whose real job began after the speeches ended.
“You don’t *have* to go in,” Dima said quietly beside her, adjusting his scarf. “You’ve already submitted your written testimony. You could let the… celebrity deputies… shout about it without you.”
“I’m here,” she said. “He’ll be in there. I’m not hiding while they talk about my work like it’s a rumor.”
“‘He,’” Dima said. “Kalugin, or the undead aristocrat currently hiding in the shadow of a statue?”
She resisted the urge to look.
“I can hear you,” Aleksandr murmured in her ear.
He wasn’t actually that close. He stood several meters away at the edge of the plaza, blending with a small knot of ordinary citizens: a woman smoking nervously, a man with a protest sign rolled under his arm, an old couple muttering about pension reform.
But his voice brushed her through the small earpiece hidden by her hair.
“You insisted on the comms,” she murmured under her breath, mouth barely moving. “You get both sides of the commentary.”
“And I regret nothing,” he said.
From where she stood, she could see only the angle of his jaw and the dark fall of his hair under a cap. He wore borrowed clothes again: nondescript jacket, jeans, scarf, beanie. Even so, he carried himself differently than the others—back a little straighter, eyes a little too alert.
“Remember,” she whispered, “no noble turns of phrase. If somebody overhears you muttering about the tsar, we’re screwed.”
“I would never,” he said, faux-offended. “I am a modern man.”
“You read me poetry last night from a book published in 1922,” she hissed.
“It still *counts*,” he said. “Stop stalling, Mira.”
He was right.
She took a breath, felt it snag halfway, forced it the rest of the way down. Her fingers brushed the folded copy of Elizaveta’s letter in her inner pocket—a talisman, not to be shown, but to be carried.
“You sure you don’t want to come inside?” she asked him, knowing the answer.
“Fluorescent lights,” he said. “Metal detectors. Sunlight. Cameras. And at least four of… ours… in the audience already. No. I will stay… out here. With the… people.”
He said “people” the way someone might say “rain”—a natural phenomenon, not unkind, not entirely trustworthy.
“All right,” she said. “If you see… anything, you ping me.”
“I will,” he said.
“And don’t—”
“Bite anyone,” he finished. “Yes, *doktor*.”
Dima cleared his throat lightly. “Talking to your imaginary friend?”
“My imaginary friend can hear you,” Aleksandr said in her ear, amused.
Mira straightened, tugged her coat tighter, and stepped toward the security queue.
***
The hearing room was too ornate for real work.
High ceiling, frescoes of allegorical figures holding scales and wheat sheaves, chandeliers, too much gold leaf. Rows of polished wood desks curved in a horseshoe facing a raised dais where the committee members sat, each with their nameplate, stack of files, and carefully arranged glass of water.
The public gallery at the back was half-full: journalists, NGO representatives, bored students, a few older citizens who attended every hearing as a hobby.
Mira took her place at the long table facing the deputies. To her left, a representative from a rival nonprofit gave her a quick, tight smile. To her right, Dima settled in with a stack of notes and a look that could only be described as professionally doomed.
In the second row of the gallery, halfway between two pillars, a woman she recognized as Irina sat very straight, hands folded on her lap, looking for all the world like a retired accountant with an interest in civic affairs.
If you didn’t know what to look for, she was invisible.
If you did, the room tilted a fraction around her.
Mira’s gaze slid past her and caught on another figure.
Lebedev stood at the back, near the door, no nameplate, no file. He wore a bland suit and an expression of mild interest. To most eyes, he was just another staffer. To hers, after their coffee, he was a bright, moving danger.
He inclined his head the barest fraction. A courteous acknowledgment. A reminder.
Her earpiece crackled softly.
“You are… in a very noisy cage,” Aleksandr’s voice said. “I see… Irina. And… Lebedev.”
“You’re not supposed to be watching,” she muttered under her breath, eyes on the desk.
“I watch… always,” he said. “Especially now.”
A tap of a gavel brought the low hum in the room down.
The committee chair, a man with silver hair and a patrician nose, cleared his throat.
“Colleagues,” he began, “we are here today to discuss matters raised by recent media publications concerning historical irregularities in the handling of the so-called ‘Morozov case’ and to consider what implications, if any, they have for current policy on heritage preservation and transparency.”
He said “so-called” the way some people said “alleged”: a shield.
He went on, delivering the expected disclaimers: respect for history, no pre-judgment of any named individuals, importance of stability, yada yada.
Mira tuned it out until her name came.
“…Dr. Mira Okonkwo, director of the Society for Urban Historical Memory,” he said. “Please present your statement.”
She stood, pulse thudding, and walked to the lectern.
The typed speech in her hands shook just enough that she had to consciously still it.
She looked up, out at the room.
“At least fifteen cameras,” Aleksandr murmured in her ear. “Two… that do not belong… to any media outlet… I recognize.”
“Comforting,” she whispered.
“What was that, Dr. Okonkwo?” the chair asked.
“Sorry,” she said into the microphone. “I was… adjusting my notes.”
A few polite chuckles.
She took a breath.
“When I first came to this city,” she began, voice steadier than she felt, “the Morozov estate was a story people told each other to pass time on buses. A haunted house. A symbol of old sins. Something half-remembered and half-invented.”
She let her gaze drift, not meeting anyone’s eyes yet.
“Then I went there,” she said. “And I saw not a story, but a structure. Crumbling plaster. Collapsing beams. Vines where walls should be. But also… traces.”
She talked about the frescos. The ballroom. The kitchen. The family crypt, carefully, without mentioning the sealed stone or the vampire she’d found beneath it.
She described the ice house as “a secondary storage area under the old gravekeeper’s cottage.”
She described the metal box as “a locked container that had clearly not been disturbed in decades.”
She described the papers within as “astonishingly well-preserved documentation of financial transactions during a turbulent period in our history.”
She did not use the word “murder.” She let the figures and dates speak.
“The question before us,” she said, “is not only whether crimes were committed in the past. That is for historians and prosecutors to work out, if they are allowed to. The question for this committee is: what do we do when a building holds evidence that the present would prefer not to see?”
She looked directly at the chair.
“Do we demolish first and investigate later?” she asked. “Do we pour concrete over inconvenient archives because they are expensive to maintain? Or do we accept that our city’s beauty is built on bones, and choose to *look* at them honestly?”
A murmur in the gallery.
“Your heart is very loud,” Aleksandr whispered. “Slow.”
She exhaled, shoulders loosening a fraction.
One of the younger deputies—a woman with sharp cheekbones and an even sharper bob—leaned forward.
“Dr. Okonkwo,” she said, “some have suggested that your… discovery… was staged. That you planted these documents in order to create a scandal and advance your organization’s interests. How do you respond?”
Mira expected the question. It still stung.
“If I had the money and influence required to fabricate a cache of historically accurate documents, hide them in a sealed metal box in an unheated underground chamber, and then convince an award-winning journalist to risk her career by publishing them,” she said evenly, “I would not be here asking for preservation funds. I would be on a beach somewhere, drinking better coffee.”
A ripple of laughter.
The deputy’s mouth tightened. “You dodge the point,” she said. “Is it possible that someone else planted them? That your… naive enthusiasm… was used by… actors with other agendas?”
Respectable smear. Use her idealism against her.
“Yes,” Mira said. “It is possible someone wanted them found now, and not earlier. That is how power works: it hides things until revealing them becomes useful. But the facts on the page remain. The signatures. The dates. The amounts. The question is not just *who* wanted this revealed, but *why* so many others worked so hard to bury it.”
Irina’s eyes glinted faintly in the gallery.
The older deputy on the left, one who had been in parliament since before Mira was born, cleared his throat.
“Dr. Okonkwo,” he said. “You speak eloquently about history. But we live in the present. People need jobs. Housing. Development. Is it not… reckless… to risk investment and stability because of… old papers?”
There it was: the eternal trade-off.
Mira smiled mirthlessly.
“My father used to say,” she said, “that the dead are never as quiet as we think. If we build on lies, the ground moves. We’ve seen it. Corruption scandals collapse governments. Secrets exposed at the wrong time crash markets. Ignoring history doesn’t make it go away. It makes it explode later.”
She spread her hands slightly.
“Preserving the Morozov estate, at least long enough for a full, independent investigation, is not about nostalgia,” she said. “It’s about risk management. You are all very keen on that when it comes to budget. Apply it to truth as well.”
“Nice,” Aleksandr murmured. “You should have been… a courtier.”
She barely held back a snort.
The chair glanced at his notes. “Thank you, Dr. Okonkwo,” he said. “We will return to you with follow-up questions. For now, we will hear from representatives of the development sector.”
A man in an expensive suit and an apologetic smile replaced her at the lectern. He spoke of “opportunities” and “adaptive reuse” and “honoring the past while building the future.”
Mira sat, pulse still high, and let the words wash past.
She felt rather than saw someone sit down beside her.
“You did well,” Irina murmured without turning her head.
Mira kept her eyes ahead. “You weren’t up there,” she muttered.
“No,” Irina said. “We… prefer… back seats.”
“You have… something?” Mira asked softly.
Irina slid a folded paper toward her under the table, the motion invisible to the room.
“Lebedev’s… report,” she said. “To Kalugin. About… you.”
Mira’s stomach flipped.
“How—”
“We have… eyes… too,” Irina said. “Do not read it… now. But… know… he… underestimates you.”
“Good,” Mira said, surprising herself.
“Yes,” Irina said. “For now.”
***
Outside, when it was finally over, the air felt sharper.
Journalists swarmed the steps, cameras and recorders thrust forward like blunt weapons. Mira did the practiced dance: three short statements, a few clipped answers, a polite disengage. Dima fielded the more detailed questions about legal implications.
She felt watched.
Because she was.
On the far side of the square, near the statue of some long-dead general, a man leaned against the plinth, hands in his pockets, hat low.
Even without the earpiece, she would have felt the invisible thread between them.
“You looked… very fierce,” Aleksandr said when she got close enough.
“I was… very tired,” she said.
He pushed off the base, falling into step beside her as they moved away from the crowd.
No one glanced twice at them: a woman in a sensible coat, a man in a beanie, moving like any other couple escaping the noise.
“You did not… faint,” he said. “Or throw something. I am… impressed.”
“You sound surprised,” she said.
He smiled. “I prefer… you… like this.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Sharp,” he said simply.
She huffed. “Flatterer.”
“It is not… flattery… if it is… observation,” he said.
They cut down a side street, heading toward a quieter square where their taxi would meet them. A light drizzle still hung in the air, beading on Mira’s hair.
He reached out without quite thinking and brushed a raindrop from her cheek.
She stilled.
His fingers lingered an extra heartbeat.
“You are… wet,” he said, and immediately wished he’d chosen literally any other wording.
Her mouth twitched. “Astute,” she said. “Rain tends to do that.”
He blew out a breath, amused at himself. “You know what I meant.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I do.”
They walked in silence for a few paces.
“Lebedev was there,” she said. “In the back.”
“I saw,” he said.
“And… other vampires,” she went on. “Irina. Maybe more you noticed that I didn’t.”
“Yes,” he said. “Two… I did not know. Young. Hungry. They smelled… of Kalugin.”
Her shoulder brushed his as she turned to look at him. “And they just… sat there?”
“For now,” he said. “This was… words. They prefer… messier… arenas.”
She shivered.
“We keep you… out of those,” he added.
Her brows rose. “*We?*”
“Me,” he amended. “Irina. Your… lawyer. Your… journalist. Your… interns with their… ugly slogans. We.”
She smiled faintly. “Nice to be part of a pronoun,” she said.
He slowed.
They were on a quieter pedestrian street now, old stones underfoot, lamps casting soft yellow light in puddles.
He turned toward her fully.
“You are… the center… of this,” he said. “You know that, yes?”
She blinked. “No,” she said. “The documents are. The house is. I’m just… the loud one pointing at them.”
“You are… more… than that,” he insisted. “You woke… me. You… shook… the archives. You sat… before their… little… court… and… did not… bow. They will… fixate… on you. We have to… decide… how much… of that… we… allow.”
His intensity washed over her, dizzied her.
“How do we… ‘not allow’ it?” she asked. “I can’t… make them… ignore me.”
“No,” he said. “But… you can decide… how much… of yourself… you give. Where you… stand. When you… step back.”
She stared at him.
“That… sounds,” she said slowly, “dangerously like… ‘tone it down for your own good.’”
His jaw tightened. “No,” he said. “Not… tone. Direction. If you… burn… everything… at once, you will have… nothing… left… for yourself. Or… for… us.”
He caught himself on the last word, but it was too late.
Heat prickled her chest.
“You keep saying ‘us,’” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Because… there is.”
She swallowed.
People passed around them, umbrellas bobbing, coats brushing. The world continued, oblivious to the knife-edge she felt perched on.
She took a breath.
“You keep… ending up… in my… pronouns too,” she said quietly.
His mouth curled. “Progress,” he murmured.
A gust of wind pushed a fine mist of rain between them. She shivered.
He lifted a hand, hesitated.
“May I?” he asked.
Her heart stumbled. “Do what?” she managed.
He stepped closer, closing the small distance, and brushed a damp curl away from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.
His knuckles grazed the skin near her temple where he’d touched her before when he’d coaxed her to sleep.
Her pulse jumped.
Underneath all the politics and history, under the weight of old grudges and new alliances, there was this: two bodies in the rain, one too warm, one too cool, orbiting closer.
“You did well,” he said again, softer. “You made… the walls… tremble. They just… don’t know it… yet.”
She snorted. “Flatterer,” she said, but the word lacked bite.
His gaze dipped to her mouth.
“Not… flattery,” he said.
She licked her lower lip, a nervous habit.
His breath caught.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t… what?” she asked, though she knew.
“Do that,” he said. “When I am… this… close… and trying very hard… not to… forget… your rules.”
“My rules?” she echoed, dazed.
“Yes,” he said. “About… biting. And… not… doing… other things… too quickly.”
Something reckless rose in her.
“We said… slow,” she said. “We didn’t say… still.”
His eyes darkened.
“Mira,” he said.
She stood on her toes. Just enough.
Her mouth brushed his.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
His lips were cooler than hers, firm, still.
Then he made a sound—half-groan, half-surrender—and moved.
The kiss deepened without either of them quite intending it. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair, drawing her closer. Her hands found his coat, clutching.
He tasted faintly of coffee and the ghost of blood. She tasted of rain and nerves and something that made his head spin more than any draught.
It wasn’t a perfect, choreographed thing. Their noses bumped. Teeth grazed. But something *clicked* there in the middle of a damp side street, like a lock sliding open.
Heat coiled low in her belly. The hunger in him—never gone, always a background hum—flared, sharp.
He broke away first, breathing harder for once.
“Slow,” he said, voice rough. “We said… slow.”
She leaned her forehead against his, eyes closed.
“That felt… pretty slow,” she whispered. “Compared to… everything else.”
He laughed once, hoarse. “You have… no idea.”
Rain pattered on his beanie, on her hair. Somewhere, a siren wailed distantly. Somewhere else, a tram screeched.
In here, in this small pocket, time bent.
“Taxi,” he murmured eventually, because the practical part of him still existed. “Your… lawyer… will panic… if we vanish… too long.”
She exhaled, stepping back a fraction.
“He panics… on schedule,” she said. “We have… a little time.”
He smiled, softer. “Greedy.”
She lifted her chin. “You like that about me,” she said.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I do.”
He glanced up, scanning the street.
His smile faded.
“Do not… react,” he said quietly, through the link.
Her muscles tensed. “What?”
“Across the street,” he said. “By the closed kiosk. The man… smoking. He has… no reflection… in the puddle at his feet.”
Her blood ran cold.
“Another… of yours,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he said. “I do not… know him.”
“Kalugin?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Or… someone… curious.”
She resisted the urge to turn her head.
“Keep walking,” he said gently. “Hold… my hand. Look… like… lovers.”
Her fingers slid into his.
They walked.
She could feel the weight of eyes on their backs.
The slow burn had just become a beacon.
***