The landlord replaced the broken chain with something sturdy enough to anchor a small boat.
“You have… exciting… parties,” he grumbled as he screwed the new plate into the wall. “The neighbors talk.”
Mira smiled tightly. “I’ll invite you next time,” she said.
He snorted. “I prefer my teeth where they are,” he said, patting his stomach. “And my doors intact.”
When he was gone, she and Aleksandr inspected the new hardware together.
“He did… decent work,” Aleksandr said, running his fingers along the chain. “For… a mortal… with a hangover.”
“You smelled that too,” she muttered.
“I smell… everything,” he said. “Part of… the curse.”
She closed the door, engaged the chain, and leaned her forehead briefly against the cool wood.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“No,” she said. “But… functional.”
He accepted that, which she appreciated.
“Tea?” he offered.
She huffed a tired laugh. “You’re learning,” she said.
“I am… trainable,” he said gravely.
They moved around each other in the small kitchen with an ease that had crept up on them: passing mugs, spoons, the sugar jar, without bumping or hesitating.
“Domestic immortality,” she muttered.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, handing him his cup. He’d started taking his coffee with a little milk. She suspected it was less about taste and more about the way it changed the smell, made it less cloying.
They settled at the table. Papers were spread in precarious piles: drafts of Yulia’s next pieces, copies of city planning documents, Irina’s terse notes in neat, old-fashioned Cyrillic.
Mira picked up one of the notes again, rereading.
— Possible weakness: Kalugin’s vanity. Invite to “cultural preservation” forum. Place him on stage. Let him talk.
“You know,” she said, “if we keep inviting him to things, he might start thinking we *like* him.”
“That is… the point,” Aleksandr said. “He will… relax. Show… teeth… he thinks are… charming.”
“You realize this means I have to be polite to him,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Tragedy.”
She flicked a pen cap at him. He caught it without looking.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown: Dr. Okonkwo? This is Irina’s associate. Kira. Got your number from Dima. Need to talk. Tonight. 21:00. Old tram depot.
Mira sighed. “We’re very popular,” she said.
“Who?” Aleksandr asked.
“Kira,” she said. “Wants a chat. Tram depot. Tonight.”
His expression tightened. “Alone?” he asked.
“Message doesn’t say,” she said. “But probably. She has… a vibe.”
“Hungry,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said. “Like a stray dog that bites first.”
He frowned. “Do not… go… alone.”
“You going to come sit on a rusty tram and glower?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said simply.
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it.
“Fine,” she said. “We can make it a date.”
His eyes widened a fraction.
“Date,” he repeated.
Heat climbed her neck. “You know what I mean,” she said. “Stakeout date. Not… roses and candlelight.”
He tilted his head. “I could… get… roses,” he mused. “Candlelight… is… trickier. Open flame…”
She swatted his arm with the back of her hand. “Shut up,” she said, smiling despite herself.
His gaze softened.
“You… should laugh… more,” he said quietly. “It… suits you.”
She looked away, flustered.
“I laugh plenty,” she muttered.
“Not… like that,” he said.
Her cheeks warmed.
“Drink your tea,” she said. “Before I throw it at you.”
***
The tram depot was a rusted skeleton.
Once, it had housed the city’s pride: sleek, red-and-cream trams that rattled along the old routes, bells dinging cheerfully. Now, it was a corrugated metal shell with holes punched in the roof and graffiti on every available surface. The tracks inside were twisted with age; a few decommissioned tram bodies sat on them like beached whales.
Kira sat on the roof of one, legs swinging, cigarette burning between her fingers.
“You’re late,” she said as Mira and Aleksandr stepped into the cavernous space.
“We’re… fashionable,” Mira said.
Kira snorted. “Irina said you were… mouthy,” she said. “I like it.”
She flicked ash onto the tram roof and hopped down, landing lightly despite the height.
Up close, she looked younger than Mira had first thought—maybe early thirties when turned. There were faint silver scars around her neck, half-hidden by the collar of her jacket.
Mira’s eyes caught on them. “Those…?”
“Old… mistake,” Kira said, following her gaze. “Some men… think… ropes… can… hold… us. They… were… wrong.”
Mira filed that away.
“Why here?” she asked. “It’s… dramatic.”
Kira shrugged. “Good sightlines,” she said. “Bad acoustics. Hard for… eavesdroppers. And… I like… the ghosts.”
She meant it literally. Mira could feel them too: the faint echo of commuters, of ticket punches and arguments and flirtations, nested in the rust.
Kira’s gaze slid to Aleksandr.
“So,” she said. “You are… the famous… sleeping prince.”
He rolled his eyes. “I am… not… a prince.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, eyeing his posture. “All you old ones… stand… like… you still… expect… servants.”
He lifted one shoulder. “Habit,” he said.
She smirked.
“Why’d you ask us here?” Mira cut in. “Irina could have said whatever she needed in one of her charming, vaguely threatening notes.”
Kira took a drag from her cigarette, exhaled a thin stream of smoke.
“Because,” she said, “Irina is… cautious. Oleg is… stubborn. Sergei is… bored. And I am… curious.”
“About…?” Aleksandr prompted.
“You,” Kira said simply. “You two. This.” She gestured between them with her cigarette. “We… do not… often… see… our kind… attach… themselves… so… quickly… to one… of yours.”
Heat crept up Mira’s neck. “We’re not—”
“We are… working,” Aleksandr said at the same time.
Kira laughed. “Sure,” she said. “Working. With… handholding. And… blood… exchanges.”
Mira scowled. “Is this an HR meeting?”
“In a way,” Kira said. “We are… curious… where… your… loyalties… fall.”
“Mine?” Mira said. “Or his?”
“Both,” Kira said. “Separately… and… together.”
Mira crossed her arms. “I’m not… your employee,” she said. “My loyalties are to… the city. My work. The truth. And… to my friends.” She jerked her chin toward Aleksandr. “He happens to… currently be… in more than one of those categories.”
Kira’s gaze sharpened. “You consider him… a friend,” she said.
“Yes,” Mira said. “And… more.” The words slipped out before she could edit them.
Aleksandr’s hand brushed hers—just a feather touch, but it steadied her.
Kira studied them.
“We lose… ourselves… in… humans,” she said softly. “It is… one of our… oldest… stories. And one of our… newest. The endings… vary. The pattern… does not. We… give… too much. Or… not… enough. They… age. We… do not. They… die. We… remain. It is… messy.”
“I’m a historian,” Mira said. “I like… messy.”
Kira’s mouth twisted. “Careful,” she said. “Messy… has… teeth.”
“I’ve noticed,” Mira said dryly.
Kira dropped the cigarette, crushed it under her boot.
“I didn’t ask you here to… warn,” she said abruptly. “Irina does… that. I asked… because… I want… something… from you.”
Mira’s hackles rose. “There it is,” she muttered. “What?”
Kira’s eyes flicked toward the open bay doors, where the snow dusted the ground.
“You remember… the boy… on the table,” she said to Aleksandr.
“Yes,” he said.
“And the… thing… in the tank,” she said.
“Yes,” he said again, jaw tight.
Kira looked at Mira.
“And you… *felt*… it,” she said. “Through… him.”
“Yes,” Mira said, throat dry.
Kira nodded, as if confirming something.
“I want… you… to do… that… for me,” she said.
Mira blinked. “Do… what?”
“Take… my… blood,” Kira said. “See… what… I… saw. Once. In… another… lab. Another… place. Before… Kalugin. Before… this. So you… understand… what… we… fear. And what… we… owe.”
Mira’s mouth went dry. “Why… me?” she asked. “Why not… show… Irina. Or… Sergei. Or… your… board.”
“We do not… show… each other… our… scars,” Kira said. “It makes… us… weak. But you… are… outside. And… inside. You… walk… with one foot… in our… world… and one… in… yours. You… can… carry… it… differently.”
Aleksandr stepped between them slightly. “It is… not… a… trick… I… share… lightly,” he said. “Nor… should you.”
Kira snorted. “He is… protective,” she said to Mira. “Cute.”
Mira bristled. “I don’t… make decisions… about my brain… based on… cute,” she said. “What exactly… would I be… seeing?”
Kira’s jaw tightened.
“Men… in… coats,” she said. “Old… regime. White… coats. Needles. Pens. They took… some of us… during… the war. Tested. Prodded. Called it… science.”
“Human… scientists,” Mira said. “Experimenting… on… vampires.”
“Yes,” Kira said. “We do not… talk… about it. It is… shameful. To be… caught. To be… used. But… Kalugin… is not… new. He is… recycling… old… sins.”
Mira’s stomach lurched. “Where?” she asked. “Where… did this… happen?”
Kira’s eyes went flat. “Siberia,” she said. “Of course. They called it… a… research… facility. We called it… hell. I got… out. Some… did not.”
“And you think… showing… me… will…” Mira trailed off.
“Make you… understand… why… we… hesitate,” Kira said. “Why… we… burned… some… evidence. Why… we… made… ugly… bargains. Why… we… fear… not… the hunters… but… the men… with… *pens.*”
Mira exhaled.
“I already… understand… some of that,” she said quietly. “My… people… have… our own… camps. Our own… experiments. Our own… bargains.”
Kira’s eyes flickered. “Yes,” she said. “That is… why… I… asked. We… share… a… language. Of… violation.”
Silence stretched, heavy and humming.
“If I… do this,” Mira said slowly, “it’s because… *I* choose. Not because… Irina… wants… leverage. Not because… you… want… absolution. Because… I think… it helps… us… fight.”
“Yes,” Kira said. “On… your… terms. Not… theirs.”
Mira looked at Aleksandr.
He met her gaze, eyes dark.
“I do not… like this,” he said. “Not… because… of… her. Because… of… what it… will do… to you.”
She swallowed.
“You said… messy… has… teeth,” she murmured. “We’re already… bleeding. Might as well… know… whose… bite… got us… here.”
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.
“If you do… this,” he said softly, “I want… to be… there.”
She snorted. “Jealous?” she tried to tease.
“Concerned,” he said. “And… perhaps… a little… possessive.”
Kira snickered. “At least he’s… honest,” she said.
Mira rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said. “We’ll… do it… later. Not… here. Not… on a… tram.”
“Shame,” Kira said. “The aesthetic… would have been… great.”
“Come by… the apartment,” Mira said, ignoring Aleksandr’s small stiffening. “Tomorrow. Late. Bring… something… sugary. I have a feeling… I’ll need… a lot of… calories.”
Kira’s mouth curled. “Dessert… and… trauma,” she said. “My favorite… combination.”
“Don’t get too excited,” Mira muttered.
Kira’s gaze softened, just a fraction.
“You are… braver… than… most… of us,” she said. “Or… stupider.”
“Both,” Aleksandr said.
“Family trait,” Mira said. “Adopted.”
Kira laughed, short and sharp.
“We’ll… see… if you… survive the… initiation,” she said.
She hopped back onto the tram roof with an easy leap, vanished into the rafters like a shadow.
Silence dropped after her.
Mira exhaled.
“You’re… angry,” she said to Aleksandr.
“Yes,” he said.
“At her?” she asked. “At… Irina? At… me?”
“Yes,” he said again.
She huffed. “Helpful.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“I am… angry… that they… did this… to us,” he said. “Men… in… labs. Men… in… uniforms. And… ours… who… looked… away. I am… angry… that you… keep… offering… yourself… as… the… vessel… for all this… poison.”
“I’m not… a vessel,” she said. “I’m… a… conduit. There’s a difference.”
“Semantics,” he said softly. “You said… before… you are… not… my… Elizaveta. Do not… become… theirs.”
The words hit oddly.
“I’m not… doing this… for them,” she said. “I’m doing it… so we don’t… repeat… everything… they’re… too… ashamed… to admit.”
He stepped closer.
The tram depot was all echoes and shadows. His body heat—or lack thereof—brushed her.
“You keep… forgetting… one… thing,” he said quietly.
“What?” she asked.
“You are… finite,” he said. “They… and I… often… forget… what that… means. How quickly… you… burn. How… bright. How… brief. We… pile… weight… on you… because… you… carry… it. Until… you… break.”
She swallowed.
“I won’t… break,” she said, not entirely sure if she believed it.
He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the faint dark smudge under her eye.
“You might,” he said. “And… that… would be… allowed. You are… not… obligated… to… hold… all… of this.”
She snorted, a small, helpless sound. “You picked… a historian,” she said. “We’re… professionally… obligated… to… hold… everything.”
His mouth twitched.
“Then let… me… hold… some,” he said.
Her breath hitched.
“You already… are,” she said.
He kissed her.
Not hard. Not claiming. Just a soft press of his mouth to hers, there in the echoing shell of the depot, the taste of cigarettes and rust in the air.
Her hands fisted in his coat. His other palm splayed warm-cool at her hip.
The kiss deepened, breath catching, teeth grazing for a heartbeat. The hunger—that constant buzz in him—flared, but he kept it leashed, careful.
She pulled back first, lips tingling.
“Slow,” she whispered, echoing their shared mantra.
“Slow,” he agreed, forehead resting against hers.
Outside, snow fell silently onto tracks that hadn’t seen a tram in years.
Inside, in the hollow of old steel and forgotten routes, two impossible people stood very close and tried to map a path neither history book nor vampire council had ever written.
***