Mira didn’t sleep that night.
Not because she was replaying the kiss—though, if she was honest, that ran on a loop behind her eyes every time she blinked—but because of the man by the kiosk.
“He followed us,” Aleksandr said when they were safely in the apartment, curtains drawn tight. “For two blocks. Then… he vanished. Not… fast. Just… gone.”
“Can your… kind… do that?” Dima had asked, pale around the mouth.
“Some,” Aleksandr had said. “Older. Or… with tricks.”
Irina, reached through channels Mira didn’t ask too many questions about, had responded with a single line:
Not mine.
Which left few comforting options.
Now, hours later, Mira sat at the kitchen table with her laptop open, the glow painting her face tired blue. She was supposed to be drafting a memo for Yulia about the next batch of documents. Instead, she was staring at a blinking cursor and listening to the faint sound of water in the pipes as Aleksandr showered.
When he emerged, towel around his neck, damp hair pushed back, she lost her train of thought entirely.
“You’re prowling,” he observed, leaning in the doorway.
“I’m… working,” she said.
“You are… staring… at the same line… for ten minutes,” he said.
“Stop watching me,” she muttered.
He smiled. “No.”
He crossed to the small counter, reached for the coffee tin, then seemed to think better of it and instead poured himself a glass of water.
“You should… try to sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow… will be… worse.”
“Comforting,” she said. “Does no one in your… species… know how to soothe?”
“We have… different… methods,” he said. “Most involve… exhaustion.”
Her cheeks heated.
He noticed.
“You blush… very easily,” he said, amused.
“Only when ancient vampires make innuendo in my kitchen,” she said.
“Innuendo,” he repeated, savoring the word. “Useful. I like… the… way… it… curls.”
“Stop tasting my vocabulary,” she said, but her lips twitched.
He sobered.
“Seriously,” he said. “Sleep. I will… watch.”
She snorted. “That’s supposed to help?”
“Yes,” he said, without irony. “It did… before.”
She turned in her chair, studying him.
A week ago, the idea of sleeping with a vampire in the next room would have seemed… absurd. Unsafe. Now, after his gentle hands at her temples and the way he’d coaxed her mind into quiet, it seemed… less so.
“Okay,” she said finally. “But if I wake up with… bite marks…”
“You will not,” he said firmly. “We have… a… truce… with your… neck.”
She shook her head, stood, stretched. “Such romance,” she said. “*Be still, my beating heart.*”
He grinned, teeth flashing. “That,” he said, “is… the problem.”
***
She didn’t know what woke her.
One second, she was in the thick, grey soup of nearly-restful sleep. The next, she was sitting bolt upright, heart pounding, the room too dark.
Her phone screen read 03:17.
Something was *wrong*.
The silence in the apartment was different. Not the usual night hush. Thicker. As if sound itself had swallowed.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, toes finding the familiar roughness of the old rug.
“Aleksandr?” she whispered.
No answer.
Her stomach dropped.
She moved to the bedroom door, opened it a crack.
The living room was dim, lit only by the wash of streetlight sneaking around the edges of the curtains. The sofa was empty.
“Aleks?” she called, louder, throat tightening.
“Here,” his voice came, low, from the corner by the window.
Her eyes adjusted.
He stood pressed against the wall, body half-turned, like a predator listening.
“We have… visitors,” he said.
She froze. “What?”
He held up a hand, finger to his lips.
Her own breathing sounded too loud in her ears.
Then she heard it: the soft scrape of something against the outside of the door. A pause. A whisper. A metallic click, faint but unmistakable.
Someone was at her lock.
Adrenaline flooded her.
She moved instinctively toward the small drawer by the kitchen where she kept the heavy flashlight and the cheap pepper spray Dima had insisted on buying her years ago.
“Stay,” Aleksandr said quietly.
“I am not a dog,” she hissed, even as her hand closed around the spray.
“You are… not… expendable,” he said.
The lock turned with a smoothness that meant tools, not keys.
The door eased inward, slow.
Mira’s mind ran through options in a frantic spiral: call the police (too slow), call Dima (useless in the immediate), call Irina (not sure she wanted *that* caliber of help in her home).
The chain caught. The door opened only a few centimeters, metal links taut.
A soft male curse.
“Cut it,” another voice murmured. “Quietly.”
Aleksandr moved.
He crossed the room in a blur she could feel more than see, a rush of air and cold.
The chain snapped inward with a metallic yelp as the door was shoved, then abruptly bounced back as if it had hit something unyielding.
“Shit,” someone hissed in the hall. “Push—”
The door slammed shut from the *inside* with a force that rattled the frame.
“Not… polite,” Aleksandr said, voice low and very, very different.
Mira flattened herself against the wall near the kitchen, out of the direct line of sight from the peephole.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
“Two,” he said. “Humans. Cheap aftershave. Glock. Knife. Scared. Paid.”
“How do you know—”
“Their hearts,” he said. “Their… smells. Hush.”
A fist thudded against the wood.
“Open up, devushka,” a man’s voice called, fake-friendly. “Police. Routine check.”
Mira’s gorge rose. She knew that tone. Authority dressed in casual.
Aleksandr’s lip curled.
Mira swallowed, forced her voice to steady.
“Show me your badges,” she called.
A pause.
“We don’t have to show you shit,” the second man snapped. “Open the door or we break it.”
“Official,” she muttered.
“Kalugin’s, not the state’s,” Aleksandr said.
“How can you be sure?” she whispered.
“They smell of… him,” he said. “His… cologne. His… money.”
Her hand tightened on the pepper spray.
“What do we do?” she whispered.
“Let me… handle it,” he said.
Her gut twisted. “No killing.”
“That depends,” he said quietly, “on them.”
The chain groaned as someone on the other side heaved.
The cheap screws in the wall plate whined, one popping.
They didn’t have much time.
Mira’s phone buzzed on the table.
She snatched it up, thumb fumbling.
Lebedev: GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR. NOW.
Her eyes widened.
“Too late,” she muttered.
“Away,” Aleksandr ordered.
She retreated to the corner by the kitchen, back pressed against the cold tile, heart hammering.
The chain ripped free with a screaming of metal.
The door flew inward.
Two men in dark clothes burst through—one tall and thin, one shorter, heavier. Both wore black gloves. The taller one held a crowbar, the shorter one a gun, low at his side.
They froze for half a heartbeat, shocked by the relative neatness of the apartment, the woman in sleep shorts clutching a phone, the man in the corner who didn’t look nearly surprised enough.
“Evening,” Aleksandr said.
The shorter man recovered first, lifting the gun.
He didn’t get to aim.
Aleksandr moved.
Later, Mira would struggle to describe it in detail. Her human eyes weren’t built for that kind of speed. One second, Aleksandr was a dark shape by the window. The next, he was *everywhere*.
He hit the shorter man first, not with fangs, not yet, but with a fist to the wrist that snapped bone with a crack. The gun clattered, skidding under the table.
The man yelled, high and shocked, more at the pain than at the impossibility of what he was seeing.
The taller one swung the crowbar on instinct.
Aleksandr caught it mid-arc.
The metal might as well have been cardboard. He wrenched it from the man’s grip and tossed it aside, the heavy bar embedding in the drywall with a thunk.
“Who sent you?” he asked, voice like ice.
The taller man’s eyes were wide, pupils blown. “What the— what are you—”
“Who?” Aleksandr repeated.
The shorter one fumbled for his belt with his good hand, trying to yank something free: maybe a knife, maybe a second gun.
Aleksandr slammed him against the wall.
The plaster dented.
The whole building seemed to inhale.
Mira stepped forward, adrenaline overriding fear.
“Wait,” she snapped. “You kill them, we lose information.”
Aleksandr’s jaw tightened.
The taller one, seizing the distraction, bolted for the door.
He didn’t make it.
A shadow moved in the hall.
The man hit an invisible wall and bounced back, sprawling.
A familiar, sardonic voice drifted in.
“You know,” Lebedev said, stepping into the doorway, “for smart people, you pick very *breakable* doors.”
Mira’s brain did an unhelpful loop: *Lebedev in my hallway, Lebedev in my hallway, Lebedev—*
The shorter attacker groaned, the taller one scrambled, the gun glinted under the table.
Aleksandr’s lips peeled back from his teeth.
“You brought… them,” he said to Lebedev, voice low and dangerous.
Lebedev held up both hands, unarmed. “If I’d brought them, they wouldn’t be this incompetent,” he said. “These are… freelancers. Kalugin’s… side project. He’s impatient. He sent someone to… retrieve… you.” He nodded at Aleksandr. “And maybe… discourage… her.”
“Lucky us,” Mira said, fingers white-knuckled on the pepper spray.
“Out,” Aleksandr said to Lebedev. “Now.”
“Trust me, I have zero desire to be in a small room with you when you’re like this,” Lebedev said. “But if you intend to… interrogate… our guests, might I suggest not doing it where the neighbors can hear the screams?”
The taller man moaned. “We—we’re police, you can’t—”
“Please,” Lebedev said with withering contempt. “I’ve been arrested by real police. You couldn’t file a report if your life depended on it, which it currently does.”
Mira swallowed.
“Basement,” she said abruptly.
Both men looked at her.
“There’s a storage room in the basement,” she said. “No one uses it. Old laundry area. Thick walls. One door. If we’re going to… talk to them, better there than here.”
Dima would have a stroke if he knew she was suggesting extra-judicial interrogation with vampires and mob enforcers. But the cops—real or fake—would arrive too late to do anything but take statements and maybe, if she was very lucky, not arrest her for excessive force.
“Efficient,” Aleksandr said.
Lebedev tilted his head, impressed despite himself. “You’re getting the hang of this.”
“Shut up,” she snapped.
Aleksandr moved again, faster than fear.
In one smooth sequence, he disarmed the taller man of a small knife he’d almost gotten to, twisted his arms behind his back, and zip-tied his wrists with a plastic tie pulled from somewhere in Lebedev’s coat.
The shorter man, gasping, cradled his broken wrist, eyes rolling.
“Please,” he babbled. “We—we were just told—”
“You will… tell us,” Aleksandr said. “Later.”
He grabbed the man by the collar, hauling him up as if he weighed nothing.
“Lebedev,” Mira said sharply. “If you’re in my apartment, you’re… involved. Help.”
He grimaced, but stepped in, grabbing the taller man by the arm.
They moved quickly down the stairwell, Mira locking her door behind them with shaking hands.
Lyudmila Petrovna’s door on the fourth floor cracked open as they passed. One narrow eye peered out.
“Everything okay, Mirochka?” she called.
“Plumbing problem,” Mira said, as evenly as she could. “We’re… fixing it.”
Lyudmila sniffed. “Make them *really* fix it this time,” she said. “Not like last winter.”
“Yes, Lyudmila Petrovna,” Mira said.
Lyudmila’s gaze flicked to Aleksandr hauling a man down the stairs one-handed. She frowned.
“He’s not from the building,” she said.
“Guest,” Mira said. “Helping.”
Lyudmila’s eyes narrowed, then softened a fraction as they lingered on Aleksandr’s face.
“Keep the noise down,” she said. “Some of us sleep at night.”
“Yes, Lyudmila Petrovna,” Mira repeated.
The door shut.
In the basement, the concrete floor was cold under Mira’s bare feet. The old laundry room smelled of damp and detergent ghosts.
Lebedev shoved the taller man into a metal chair. Aleksandr more or less dropped the shorter one onto another. Both groaned.
“You’re enjoying this,” Mira said to Lebedev.
He grimaced. “I’d enjoy it more if there weren’t *cameras*,” he muttered, scanning the ceiling. “We’re lucky. This building’s too poor to have bothered.”
“Charming,” Mira said.
The shorter man tried for bravado. “You don’t know who you’re—”
Aleksandr was on him in an instant, one cold hand around his throat—not choking, just a warning.
“Names,” he said. “Now.”
The man swallowed convulsively. “We—we were told—”
“By who?” Mira cut in. “Kalugin? One of his people? A woman? A man? Be specific.”
The taller one glared at her. “You think you’re safe,” he spat. “You think your papers make you—”
Lebedev stepped forward and, with efficient brutality, slapped him hard across the face.
“Talk,” he said. “Or I let *him* handle this.”
He jerked his chin toward Aleksandr.
The man looked at Aleksandr’s eyes—dark, inhuman—and paled.
“A guy,” he stammered. “Middleman. Said… good money to… scare a… historian. Maybe break a few bones. And… bring a… guy… to an address.”
“What address?” Mira demanded.
He hesitated.
Aleksandr’s fingers tightened on his collar.
“The lab,” he gasped. “The… one by the river. The old fish cannery. I swear, that’s all—”
“Kalugin’s… playground,” Lebedev muttered. “Of course.”
“And you?” Mira asked the shorter man. “Same instructions?”
He nodded frantically. “Yeah. Scare you. Grab him. They said… he was… old. They didn’t… say he was… a fucking—”
He cut off as Aleksandr’s hand flexed.
“A fucking… what?” Aleksandr asked mildly.
The man shook his head, eyes huge.
Mira stepped closer, the pepper spray cool in her hand.
“Do you understand,” she said, very quietly, “that you just tried to break into a woman’s home at night with a gun and a crowbar? That if I call the *real* police, you’re going away for a long time? That if I *don’t,* it’s because I think we can get more out of you than a confession?”
Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead.
“We—we didn’t know—” he began.
“That I’d have company?” she snapped. “That’s the only thing you regret right now? Not that you scared the shit out of someone in the middle of the night?”
He swallowed. “We—we needed the money,” he muttered. “He pays good.”
“Not good enough,” Lebedev said. “He sends you after a vampire with a *pistol.* He wants you to die.”
Both men flinched.
Mira shot him a sharp look. “Subtle,” she said.
“I tried that at your hearing,” he said. “It didn’t work.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
“All right,” she said. “You’re going to sit here and think about how much you like breathing. Then we’re going to decide what to do with you.”
“We can’t… just… leave them,” Dima’s voice said in her ear when she patched him in, having called him while they’d been moving. “Mira, this is… we’re… not… equipped… to—”
“You want me to call the cops,” she whispered back. “Tell them two armed men broke in, we subdued them, we happen to have an undocumented… person… in the flat and an off-the-books corporate fixer in my basement? That’ll go great.”
On the other end, Dima swore creatively.
“Fine,” he said. “Irina.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said, because she hadn’t wanted to be the one to suggest bringing the vampire syndicate into her building, but she’d also known from the second the door swung open that this was beyond her NGO’s usual scope.
“I was already on my way,” Irina’s cool voice said a moment later through the shared channel.
Of course she was.
She arrived twenty minutes later, stepping into the basement room with the unhurried poise of someone entering a gallery, not a makeshift interrogation.
She glanced once at the tied men, once at the dents in the plaster, once at Aleksandr.
“You are… not… subtle,” she observed.
“They… broke… into her… home,” he said. “I was… sleeping.”
Irina’s mouth twitched. “You have always been… cranky… when woken,” she said.
She moved closer to the taller man, tilting his chin up with two fingers.
“Freelancers,” she said. “Low level. No… mark. Not… ours.”
“Kalugin’s,” Lebedev said.
Irina’s gaze flicked to him. “Ah,” she said. “The… waiter.”
He bristled. “I prefer ‘consultant.’”
She hummed, dismissive.
“These,” she said, nodding at the men, “are… insects. The question is… what do we do… with insects… who sting… where they are not supposed to.”
“We… don’t kill them,” Mira said firmly. “They’re… stupid, not… masterminds. Let them go with a warning. Scare them enough they never come near me again.”
Irina arched an eyebrow. “You are… very… forgiving.”
“I’m… pragmatic,” Mira said. “If their bodies show up somewhere, Kalugin knows *exactly* where they died and why. He’ll adjust. If they stagger home babbling about… what they saw… he thinks they’re drunk or crazy. And maybe he thinks twice about sending more amateurs.”
Irina’s expression turned thoughtful. “You are… learning,” she said. “Good.”
She turned back to the men, eyes going very, very cold.
“Look at me,” she said.
They did, helplessly.
Mira felt it even from where she stood: the subtle shift in atmosphere, like pressure dropping before a storm. Irina’s pupils dilated, then shrank to pinpoints. Her gaze seemed to *hook* into the men’s.
“Listen… carefully,” she said, her voice softer and somehow bigger.
“You came to this building. You broke a door. You saw… nothing… of interest. No one… worth… remembering. You were… turned away. Hard. By… a man… you will never find… again. You will… leave now. You will… tell your… contact… that you saw… nothing. That you found… no one. That this… address… is… boring. Do you understand?”
Their mouths moved. “Yes,” they whispered together.
“You will… forget… our faces,” Irina went on. “Our names. You will… avoid this street… for the rest… of your… short… lives. If someone… pays you… to come back… you will… say no. You will… not… know… why. You will… just… be tired. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” they chorused.
Mira’s skin crawled and tingled all at once.
“Good,” Irina said.
She released them.
They blinked, dazed.
“Take them,” she said to Lebedev. “Dump them… three blocks away. Not… together. Do not… get pulled over. Do not… talk to them.”
Lebedev opened his mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it. “Come on,” he said briskly, grabbing one man under the arm.
“Wait,” Mira said.
He stopped.
She walked up to the taller man, met his unfocused eyes, and slapped him. Not as hard as Lebedev had, but hard enough to sting.
“That,” she said, “is for my door.”
His cheek reddened slowly. “S-sorry,” he mumbled, not quite sure what for.
She stepped back.
“Okay,” she said. “Get them out of my building.”
When they were gone, the room felt suddenly larger.
Mira slumped against the wall, the adrenaline leaving her limbs like water.
Aleksandr was at her side in two strides.
“Sit,” he said.
She obeyed before she could think of a reason not to.
Her hands shook.
He crouched in front of her, cool hands hovering near her knees, not quite touching.
“Are you… hurt?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Just… shaken.”
Her mind replayed the gun, the crack of bone, the way Aleksandr had moved, inhuman and precise.
“Are you… afraid… of me?” he asked quietly.
She looked up, met his eyes.
He’d meant to sound casual. He didn’t.
“No,” she said. “I’m afraid of… a lot of things right now. You’re not… high on the list.”
His shoulders loosened a fraction.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” she asked.
“For… stopping me,” he said. “Before I… forgot… our… agreement.”
“You were… close,” she said.
“Yes,” he admitted. “It has been… a long time… since I had… permission… to… break… bones.”
She huffed a small laugh. “We’ll put that on your CV,” she said. “Skills: grant writing, stalking, violence.”
He smiled, small.
Irina watched them with something like amusement.
“You two are… making… my life… more… complicated,” she said.
“Good,” Mira said, surprising herself with the bite in it. “Welcome to the club.”
Irina’s eyes crinkled.
“You will… need… better security,” she said. “Your landlord’s… chains… are… decorative.”
“We’ll talk to Dima,” Mira said. “Doors. Cameras. Maybe… a safer place for… meetings.”
“And for… you,” Irina said. “Kalugin… will not… stop. He will… escalate. We can… deter… some… of his… toys. Not all.”
“Noted,” Mira said.
Irina glanced at Aleksandr.
“You,” she said, “need to… eat.”
Mira stiffened instinctively.
He inclined his head. “Soon,” he said. “Not… here.”
“Good,” Irina said. “We do not… shit… where we… sleep.”
Mira wrinkled her nose. “Charming proverb,” she muttered.
Irina shrugged. “Truth… rarely… smells… nice,” she said.
She left without further farewell, steps light on the concrete stairs.
Silence fell.
Mira realized, suddenly and with absurd clarity, that she was still in her sleep shorts and an old T-shirt with a faded slogan from a student protest ten years ago.
Her bare legs were cold.
Aleksandr’s gaze, which had politely stayed mostly on her face, flicked once down, then up, lingering briefly on the exposed stretch of thigh.
“Stop,” she said weakly.
He looked appropriately chastened. And faintly amused.
“You could have… died,” he said softly.
“So could you,” she shot back.
He huffed. “Unlikely,” he said.
She stared at him.
“That lab,” she said. “By the river. That’s where they wanted to take you.”
“Yes,” he said.
“You’re thinking of… going there,” she said.
“Yes,” he said again.
She exhaled. “Of course you are.”
“We need… to see,” he said. “What Kalugin… is doing. To… ours. To… humans. To… both.”
“I know,” she said. “I just… hate being right about the ‘worse tomorrow’ thing.”
He smiled faintly.
She dragged a hand over her face.
“Okay,” she said. “Tomorrow, we fortify this place. Call the landlord, pretend we’re just very concerned about break-ins. Dima can help with the official complaint. Then… we plan a field trip to the cannery.”
He nodded.
“You should… sleep,” he said.
She laughed, a little hysterically. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I can… help,” he offered. “Again.”
She thought of his hands at her temples, his voice in her head.
“I don’t… know if I want you in my brain… after that,” she said honestly.
He considered. “Fair,” he said.
He stood, offered his hand.
She took it, letting him pull her up.
“We can… just… lie down,” he said. “We do not… have to… sleep.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “That sounds… like the opposite of helpful.”
He smiled. “In the same room,” he clarified. “Different… pieces… of furniture. I will… watch the door. You will… know… I am… here.”
Warmth spread through her chest.
“Okay,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”
He squeezed her hand once before releasing it.
“We will get… better doors,” he said.
She snorted. “Add that to our list,” she said. “Along with ‘bring down an oligarch’ and ‘negotiate with vampire mafia.’”
He smiled, sharp and fond.
“An ordinary… week,” he said.
***