The snow finally came three days later.
It didn’t fall in picturesque flakes, drifting past windows in romantic slow-motion. It came sideways, driven by a vicious wind that scraped bare branches against buildings and turned alleys into wind tunnels.
Mira watched it from her office window, fingers curled around a mug of herbal tea that did nothing for the knot sitting under her sternum.
“I told you,” Dima said without looking up from his screen. “The first snow is always angry. It’s the city’s way of saying, ‘You stayed? Idiot.’”
She made a noncommittal noise.
The office was quieter than usual. One intern was out sick, the other at the archives. It was just the three of them: her, Dima, and Aleksandr, who sat in the corner by the radiator, leafing through a stack of old photographs with the focused air of someone trying very hard not to pace.
His hair fell into his eyes as he bent his head. The dark turtleneck he wore fit him too well. Mira tried not to notice the way the fabric clung to his shoulders.
“You’re not reading,” Dima said, not glancing up. “You’re brooding.”
“I do… both,” Aleksandr said mildly.
“Take it somewhere else,” Dima muttered. “Your brooding is interfering with my panicking.”
“Progress,” Aleksandr said. “Before, you… panicked… alone.”
Mira sipped her tea, hiding a smile.
Yulia’s second article had dropped that morning.
WHERE DO THE DISAPPEARED GO? it asked in bold letters. The subheading was less sensational but more brutal: INVESTIGATION LINKS PRIVATE SECURITY CONTRACTS TO UNREGISTERED MEDICAL FACILITIES.
She hadn’t named the cannery yet. She had, however, laid out a persuasive case that Kalugin’s companies were funneling money into “research centers” with no oversight, and that people who went to work there often did not come home.
The backlash had begun before Mira had finished her first cup of coffee.
The phone calls. The emails. The snarling statements on state television from pundits accusing “foreign agents” of trying to smear patriotic businessmen.
“Predictable,” Irina had said in a brief, crackling call. “And… useful. He is… rattled.”
He had reasons to be.
The parliamentary hearing had led to a formal investigative commission—not as sharp-toothed as Mira would have liked, but better than nothing. International heritage groups had sent sternly worded letters about the Morozov estate. A petition demanding a halt to all demolition plans had gathered nearly fifty thousand signatures.
On the other side, security around the estate, the cannery, and Kalugin’s glass headquarters had thickened. Cameras sprouted where before there had been none. Men like Lebedev appeared more often in Mira’s peripheral vision.
And then there had been the break-in at her apartment.
She hadn’t gone back to sleeping with the door unlocked since.
“Stop,” she muttered to herself, dragging her gaze away from Aleksandr’s profile and back to the document on her screen.
It was a draft of a legal memorandum arguing for an emergency injunction to prevent any “modification” of the Morozov crypt pending the outcome of the investigation. The language was dry, the sentences long. It should have been soothing. It wasn’t.
Her phone buzzed.
Yulia: You alive?
Mira: More or less. You?
Yulia: Bored. No one’s tried to break into my apartment this week. I feel neglected.
Mira snorted.
Mira: Give it time. You read the follow-up statement from Kalugin’s office?
Yulia: “Baseless accusations… smear campaign… foreign-backed…” etc. I could recite it in my sleep. He added a line about “respecting the city’s heritage” though. That’s new. You pissed him off.
Mira: He sent men to my building. I’m not impressed by his vocabulary.
Yulia: Speaking of that. You going to tell me what really happened that night, or are we sticking with “minor vandalism” for the record?
Mira’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard.
Mira: Two idiots with a gun and a crowbar tried to get in. They failed. No one died. That’s all you need for now.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Yulia: You know I hate you when you’re responsible.
Mira: Join the club.
She set the phone down, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
“You look like your brain is chewing on itself,” Dima said. “Take a break.”
“I can’t,” she said. “If we don’t get this injunction in today, they’ll ‘accidentally’ start work in the cemetery tomorrow.”
He made a face. “Yes, yes. Dead nobles. Sacred bones. Bureaucratic arson. But you’re no good to them if you crash face-first into a photocopier.”
“I’ll aim for something softer,” she muttered.
A movement in the hallway outside made her tense automatically.
The door opened a second later.
Not Lebedev. Not Irina.
A boy. Seventeen, maybe eighteen, with a fringe that tried to cover his eyes and a backpack slung too low. His cheeks were raw from the wind.
Kostya.
He froze when he saw Aleksandr, Mira, and Dima all look up at once.
“Uh,” he said. “Hi.”
Mira’s shoulders dropped a fraction from their ear-adjacent position.
“Kostya,” she said. “You’re supposed to be at school.”
He shrugged, trying for nonchalance and landing somewhere closer to defensive. “Half-day,” he said. “They had a meeting. All-staff. ‘Security protocols.’”
“They say why?” Dima asked.
Kostya snorted. “Because some idiot graffitied the head teacher’s car. Again.” His gaze flicked briefly to Mira. “Not me. This time.”
“And you decided to spend your free afternoon at a historic preservation NGO,” Aleksandr said lightly. “As all boys your age do.”
Kostya shuffled his feet. “I, uh… saw the article,” he said, looking at Mira. “The one about the… disappeared. My aunt… she… cleans… at one of those clinics. The ones they mentioned. She says people come in… and sometimes they don’t go home. The workers. Not just the patients.”
Mira’s stomach knotted. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” she asked gently.
He lifted one shoulder. “She told my mom. My mom told her not to talk. My grandfather said it’s like the old days. You see something, you look away. I…” He glanced at Aleksandr again. “After… the cemetery… I couldn’t… not.”
“You did good,” she said. “She still works there?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But she doesn’t… go near the… basement. She says… the air… feels… wrong. Heavy. She thinks she… hears… things… when she’s mopping. Like… crying. But when she checks, there’s no one there.”
Dima cursed softly under his breath.
“Can she talk to Yulia?” Mira asked.
“She’s… scared,” Kostya said. “She doesn’t want to lose her job. She says… it’s better… not to… know… too much. She thinks… I’m stupid… for even… coming here.”
“You are,” Dima muttered. “But at least you’re brave.”
Kostya flushed.
Aleksandr watched him with a measuring gaze.
“You came anyway,” he said. “That is… not… nothing.”
Kostya shifted, pleased despite himself.
“I thought you should… know,” he mumbled. “Since you’re… like… doing something.”
“Doing several stupid somethings,” Dima said. “But yes. Thank you.”
“Also…” Kostya hesitated. “There were… guys. Outside our building. Two nights ago. Not… police. Not… from the neighborhood. My grandfather says he’s seen them… near the hill. The Morozov place. Watching. He thinks… they’re waiting. For… something.”
Mira glanced at Aleksandr.
He had gone very still, again.
“Do you… recognize… any of them?” she asked Kostya.
He shook his head. “They’re… boring,” he said. “Short hair. Black coats. The kind of faces you forget. But they… move… like…” He gestured vaguely. “Like they’re… not… scared. Of anything.”
“Security,” Dima said. “Private. Not state. Kalugin’s. Or… his… friends’.”
“Or… ours,” Aleksandr said quietly.
The room chilled a degree.
Mira blew out a breath. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you, Kostya. We’ll… pass this to Yulia. And to… some other people.”
Kostya eyed her. “Other… people like… him?” he asked, nodding at Aleksandr.
“Yes,” she said simply.
Kostya swallowed. “Is he… going to… kill them?”
Aleksandr snorted. “Not… today,” he said.
Kostya’s eyes widened. “You can—”
“Kostya,” Mira cut in gently. “Go home. Do your homework. Do not go near the cannery. Or the hill. Or anyone in a black coat who isn’t your mother.”
He scowled. “My mom doesn’t wear—”
“Hyperbole,” she said. “Stay away from this. For now. Let us… old people… freak out on your behalf.”
“You’re not old,” he muttered, but he backed toward the door. “If you need… anything,” he added awkwardly, “I… my friends… we can… watch. Stuff. From… far away.”
She smiled, genuine. “We’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “And… Kostya?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks,” she said.
He flushed again, nodded, and fled.
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Mira slumped in her chair. “Kids these days,” she muttered.
“Have… more… sense… than we did,” Aleksandr said.
Dima exhaled through his nose. “He’s going to get himself killed,” he said.
“Not if we can… help it,” Mira said.
“Add that to the list,” Dima said. “‘Keep teenage idiots alive.’”
“It is… always… on the list,” Aleksandr murmured.
Mira rubbed her temples.
“Okay,” she said. “We need to push Yulia to look into the clinic where Kostya’s aunt works. Carefully. And Irina needs to know Kalugin’s goons are sniffing around the hill more. And—”
Her phone buzzed again, insistent.
Irina: Tonight. 22:00. The hill. Bring him.
Her pulse spiked.
“What is it?” Aleksandr asked.
She held up the screen.
“Your boss wants a meeting,” she said.
“She is not… my boss,” he said.
Dima sighed. “You’re both going up the hill in the snow at ten at night,” he said. “Of course you are. Why would anyone ever choose pajamas and Netflix.”
“You can stay home,” Mira said.
“Someone has to be at the office to answer the phone when you inevitably get arrested or vanish,” he said. “I’ll be here. Miserable. Warm.”
“Good,” she said, standing. “I’d hate to have all the fun.”
***
By the time they reached the estate, the snow had softened to a steady fall, coating the cracked drive in an uneven white.
The lion statues at the gate wore lopsided caps.
“Festive,” Mira murmured.
Aleksandr’s breath fogged faintly even though he didn’t need to breathe. He tilted his head back, letting the flakes melt on his face.
“I always liked… snow,” he said.
“Even when you were… human?” she asked.
“Especially… then,” he said. “It made… everything… quieter.”
They moved through the trees in near-silence, boots crunching softly.
The house loomed, ghostlier than ever.
Irina waited on the front steps, coat dark against the drifted white. She looked like a painting: some stern matriarch out to scold the weather for misbehaving.
“You are… late,” she said.
“We’re… fashionable,” Mira said.
Irina’s gaze flicked to Aleksandr, then back to Mira. “You… told her,” she said to him quietly. “About… the red… thread.”
Mira bristled. “He didn’t—”
“She asked,” he said.
Irina clicked her tongue softly. “Of course she did,” she said. “And you… obeyed.”
“It was… my choice,” Mira said sharply. “Not his… doing.”
Irina’s eyes held a faint glint that might have been respect. “Yes,” she said. “I can… smell… him… on you.”
Heat flushed Mira’s cheeks, entirely unrelated to temperature. “It was… one drop,” she said. “Not—”
Irina waved a hand. “I am… not… your… grandmother,” she said. “I do not… care… who you… share… fluids… with. I care… that you… understand… the… consequences.”
“Which are…?” Mira said, crossing her arms.
“A… stronger… bond,” Irina said. “Easier… for him… to… feel… you. Harder… for others… to… compel… you… without… going through… him.”
“So it’s… protective,” Mira said.
“And… possessive,” Irina said. “Do not… confuse… the two.”
Aleksandr shifted. “I am not—”
“You are,” Irina said, not unkindly. “We all… are. It is… our… curse. And our… charm.”
Mira exhaled slowly. “You called us here for a lecture on vampire ethics,” she said. “Or is there… news.”
Irina’s mouth twitched. “Both,” she said. “Come.”
She led them around the side of the house, toward the cemetery.
The snow muffled their steps. The graves were small, irregular white mounds, stone crosses poking through like fingers.
At the far edge of the hill, where the land sloped toward the new developments, figures waited.
Three.
One, Mira recognized: the youngish-looking vampire who’d sat beside Irina at the hearing, all sharp suit and sardonic eyes. His name, she’d learned, was Sergei.
The other two she did not know.
One was a woman with hair cropped nearly to her skull, wearing a leather jacket over a thin dress despite the cold. Her eyes were dark hollows in the half-light. She smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and something metallic.
The last was older—appearing in his fifties, maybe—with salt-and-pepper hair and a long, lined face. He wore a heavy coat and a flat cap pulled low. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but his gaze was very sharp.
“Mira,” Irina said, gesturing. “These are… some of… ours. Sergei you… remember. This is… Kira. And… this… is… Oleg.”
Kira nodded once, eyes raking over Mira with open curiosity.
Oleg simply inclined his head. His presence felt… heavy, in the way a storm front did before the first crack of lightning.
“You brought… him,” Oleg said, voice roughened by centuries and cigarettes.
“He is… not… a dog,” Mira said through clenched teeth. “He has a name.”
Oleg’s gaze shifted to Aleksandr.
“Yes,” he said. “He does.”
Something passed between them. Old recognition. Old annoyance.
“Oleg,” Aleksandr said. “I thought… you’d finally… taken that… walk… into the sun…”
“And I thought… you’d… be… dust… by now,” Oleg said. “Yet… here we are. Both… disappointed.”
Sergei snickered.
Irina cut through it. “Enough,” she said. “We… have… business.”
“What’s this?” Mira asked, gesturing at the small gathering. “The… board meeting?”
“Something like that,” Irina said. “We… do not… often… gather… like this. It is… inefficient. But… Kalugin… has… earned… the… honor.”
“We are here,” Oleg said, “to decide… how far… we are… willing… to go.”
“Define… ‘we,’” Mira said under her breath.
“You,” Sergei said, grinning at her. “Get to be… the… conscience… in the room.”
“That’s… terrifying,” she muttered.
“You have… seen… the lab,” Oleg said to Aleksandr. “Through… her. And… yourself.”
“Yes,” Aleksandr said.
“And you… still… think… words… and… paper… are… enough?” Oleg asked Mira.
She met his gaze. “Words and paper brought you here,” she said. “Not… chance. Not… instinct. Evidence. Leverage. If we go in guns blazing without softening the ground, we die and he cleans up. If we make it… uncomfortable… for his human allies to keep being… allies, we cut off some of his protection.”
“She has… a point,” Sergei said. “Annoying.”
Oleg grunted.
“So,” Irina said. “We… agree… on… two… fronts. Public. And… private.”
“Public is… yours,” Kira said to Mira. Her voice was low, a little rough. “Press. Protests. Those… bright… lights. Private… is… ours.”
“And where do I sit?” Aleksandr asked.
“Between,” Irina said. “As… usual.”
He exhaled.
“So what do you need… from us… tonight?” Mira asked. “Beyond… freezing… our… toes off.”
Kira’s mouth quirked. “We need… to know… how far… you are… willing… to… *cooperate*,” she said. “Information. Access. Distraction.”
“You want me to… be a… decoy,” Mira said.
“In… part,” Oleg said. “Kalugin… watches you. He… cares… about… your… noise. That… is… useful. While he… is… staring… at… you… we can… move… at… his… edges.”
“And if he decides to… remove… the… distraction?” she asked quietly.
“That,” Irina said, “is… what… he… is… for.” She nodded at Aleksandr.
He made a face. “I am… not… a… bodyguard.”
“You’re acting like one,” Mira muttered.
“Only… because you… keep… running… toward… danger,” he retorted.
Oleg snorted, something like amusement creasing his lined face. “Like… Elizaveta,” he said.
Mira’s breath caught.
“You knew her,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “She was… worse.”
Mira smiled despite herself.
“High praise,” she said.
Oleg’s gaze softened minutely. “Do not… die… like… her,” he said. “Not… yet.”
“I’ll… do my best,” she said.
He grunted again. Approval? Warning? Both?
Snow fell more thickly now, fat flakes catching in eyelashes and hair.
“Tomorrow,” Irina said, “we… begin… to… pull. You”—to Mira—“coordinate… with your… journalist. Push… the… cannery… without… naming… everything. You”—to Aleksandr—“be… seen… with her. At… meetings. At… protests. Let… him… know… you… stand… together. And we…” She gestured at the others. “We… will… move… in… the… dark.”
“What about… the boy… on the table?” Mira asked quietly. “And… whatever… is… in… that… tank.”
Irina’s jaw tightened. “We… do not… forget… them,” she said. “But we… do not… rush… in… blind. When we… move… it has… to be… once. And… clean.”
“Clean,” Kira muttered. “Nothing… about this… is… clean.”
“No,” Irina said. “But we… make… it… *ours.* Not… his.”
Oleg stepped forward suddenly, closer to Aleksandr.
“You,” he said. “If… we… do this… you will… owe… us. Not just… her. Us.”
Aleksandr’s shoulders squared. “I… already… owe… you,” he said. “You… let me… sleep. You… did not… crack… my stone… during… your… purges.”
“We… left you… because Elizaveta… made it… annoying to… do anything… else,” Oleg said. “Now… we… leave you… awake… for the same… reason.”
“I will… pay… my… debts,” Aleksandr said. “But I… will not… be… your… dog.”
“No,” Oleg said. “You… will be… our… knife.”
The words settled on the snow like another layer.
Mira’s hand found Aleksandr’s under her glove, fingers intertwining.
He started, then squeezed back.
“If he’s your knife,” she said, voice steady despite the shiver in her, “then I’m the one… who chooses… when… he’s… drawn.”
All three elders looked at her.
Irina’s mouth curved slowly.
“Perhaps,” she said, “we… woke… the right… human.”
Snow thickened, muffling the city sounds below the hill.
Above, in the dark canopy of bare branches, crows shifted, restless.
A war was being planned among graves and snowflakes.
Mira looked at Aleksandr, felt the cool pressure of his hand in hers, and understood with a clarity that was equal parts terror and exhilaration that whatever line they were walking, it was now drawn in more than ink.
It was drawn in blood.
And she was the one holding the pen.
***