Mira woke to the sound of her alarm drilling into her skull.
She fumbled for the phone, squinting at the harsh light. 06:03 glared back at her in rude digital numbers.
For a second, disorientation clung like cobwebs.
Stone. Cold. Eyes like winter water.
Then reality slotted into place.
She sat up abruptly, heart beating faster, and listened.
Silence.
Too complete.
She flung her legs over the side of the bed and padded barefoot to the door, every nerve on high alert. What if he’d left? What if he’d changed his mind and gone back to the crypt? What if he’d—
She stopped herself before the what-if could complete the shape of teeth on her throat.
She eased the door open.
Aleksandr lay on his back on the sofa, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. In the washed-out light creeping around the edges of the curtains, he looked even more unreal: skin almost luminescent, hair a dark scatter on the pillow.
He turned his head at the sound of the door. Their gazes met.
“You snore,” he said.
She blinked. “I do not.”
“Only a little,” he amended. “On the exhale. Like… a kettle just before it whistles.”
Heat rushed to her face. “If you’re going to insult my sleep sounds, you can find another couch.”
“It is… endearing,” he said, lips quirking. “Human.”
“Better than lying there like a corpse,” she retorted.
“I have had practice,” he said.
She stepped fully into the living room, rubbing at her eyes. “How do you… feel?”
“Hungry,” he said honestly. “Otherwise… functional.”
She winced. “We have to address that.”
“Yes,” he said. “We do.”
They looked at each other for a long moment, the problem a third presence in the room.
“We need rules,” she said finally. “Ground rules. About… feeding.”
His eyes darkened, but he nodded. “Agreed.”
“No biting me,” she said. “Ever. Unless I say so. Explicitly. And even then, we… negotiate.”
His brows rose. “‘Unless you say so.’ You… leave that door… open.”
She swallowed. “Who knows what the future brings. But… not now. Not while you’re… like this. Starving.”
“You speak as if there will be a time I am not,” he said.
“There will,” she said firmly. “We’ll figure out a way for you to… get enough. Safely.”
“You intend to… put me on a… rationing schedule,” he said, amused. “Like sugar during wartime.”
“If that’s what it takes, yes,” she said.
He studied her face. “You are serious.”
“I am,” she said. “I am not… naive, Aleksandr. I know what you are. I know what you could do if you lose control. I’ve seen… enough. Men with less excuse than you. But I am also… stubborn. We will not let this turn into… a trail of bodies.”
“And if someone… offers?” he asked. “Willingly. You spoke, in passing, of… women who liked being bitten.”
She flushed. “I did not.”
“In my time,” he said. “There were such. Men, too. They… took pleasure in it. In the danger. In the feeling. They came to us willingly. We took what they offered. Carefully.”
Mira thought of certain online subcultures she’d stumbled across while researching vampiric folklore. Forums where people shared fantasies of fangs and submission; classified ads that read like badly written erotica.
“I’m… aware that’s a thing,” she said. “But we don’t exactly have a… vetted donor list lying around.”
He smiled faintly at the modern word choice. “We could… find one.”
She stared. “You want me to… put out a call? ‘Looking for adventurous blood donors, must be into historical vampires and complicated politics?’”
He tilted his head. “Stranger things exist on this… internet, I am sure.”
“You haven’t even seen the comment sections yet,” she muttered.
He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. The movement drew her attention, unintentionally, to his neck, the way his collarbones cut sharp shadows in the early light.
“What do you suggest, then?” he asked. “I will not… survive on lentils and nostalgia.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek.
“There are… clinics,” she said slowly. “Blood banks. They… throw some away. Expired. Maybe… I can convince someone to… misfile a bag or two.”
“Steal,” he said, tone neutral.
“Reallocate,” she said.
He laughed softly. “Ah. You are truly… of this century.”
“Do you have moral objections?” she challenged.
“To stealing blood from a system that often takes more than it gives?” he said. “No. To relying on it? Perhaps. Tastes… differ. Bagged blood is… old. Cold. Removed from the… body. But it would… quiet the worst of it.”
“Good,” she said. “We start there.”
“And if that is not… enough?” he asked.
“Then we… adjust,” she said. “But we don’t start by hunting.”
“Hunting is… what I am,” he said quietly.
“It’s what you were,” she countered. “Now you’re also… a client. An… activist. A witness. A pain in my ass. You get to have more than one identity.”
He blinked, then smiled slowly. “Activist,” he repeated. “You make me sound… respectable.”
“Don’t get used to it,” she said.
He sat back. “Very well. I agree. No biting you. No hunting without… consent and oversight. Bagged blood when you can steal it. I will… try.”
“Good,” she said, relief loosening something in her chest. “Now we just have to… actually pull it off.”
“Details,” he said.
She snorted. “Details are where I live.”
She moved to the kitchen and started coffee, the familiar ritual—scoop, water, switch—anchoring her. The smell filled the apartment, rich and bitter.
Aleksandr inhaled sharply. “What is that?”
“Liquid sanity,” she said. “Coffee.”
“We had coffee,” he said. “It did not smell like… this.”
“Industrial roasting,” she said. “Global supply chains. Exploitation. Late-stage capitalism. The usual.”
He stood and came closer, drawn by the scent. “May I… taste?”
She eyed him. “It has… no blood.”
“Not everything has to,” he said.
She poured a small cup and handed it to him.
He sipped cautiously, then his eyes widened.
“It is… very… aggressive,” he said.
“Wait until you add sugar,” she said.
He took another sip, grimaced, then laughed. “Your century… likes to be shouted at. Even by its beverages.”
“Accurate,” she said.
Her phone buzzed.
Dima: Early meeting got moved. Developers making noise. Can you get to the office by nine? With… our guest? Or at least with an update?
She sighed. “Duty calls.”
“Developers,” Aleksandr said, with a grimace. “Worse than… Bolsheviks, perhaps.”
“Different tools,” she said. “Same appetite.”
She typed back quickly.
Mira: We’ll be there. Keep Lebedev talk hypothetical.
Dima: My favorite kind.
She pocketed the phone and looked up.
“Field trip,” she said. “We’re going to my office.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The government knows you… exist. They will see me.”
“The government already knows *I* exist,” she said. “They pretend not to see me when I’m inconvenient. As for you… we’ll put you in some of my colleague’s old clothes. Lose the coat. The less you look like you stepped out of a Tolstoy novel, the better.”
He glanced down at himself, mildly offended. “What is… wrong with Tolstoy?”
“In this context?” she said. “Everything.”
***
The small nonprofit’s office occupied the second floor of a building that had once been a post office and now housed a rotating cast of underfunded NGOs and an accounting firm that somehow always paid rent on time.
Mira had dressed Aleksandr in jeans—stiff on his frame—a black turtleneck, and a borrowed jacket. He looked like someone’s brooding, overeducated cousin from abroad. The effect was disconcertingly effective, marred only by the way he moved—too precise, too aware of his body in space.
“You look like a theater director,” she muttered as they climbed the stairs.
“I will take that as… a compliment,” he said.
Dima met them at the office door, key in hand.
He looked Aleksandr up and down, then at Mira.
“It’s worse with modern clothes,” he muttered. “He looks like he’s going to seduce the entire board of directors and then drink their blood.”
“Only the bad ones,” Aleksandr said.
Dima sighed. “They’re *all* bad.”
Inside, the office was a mess: desks cluttered with papers, maps pinned to walls, a whiteboard scrawled with deadlines and slogans. A battered coffee machine wheezed miserably on a side table.
Mira felt an odd pride showing it to Aleksandr. This, more than her apartment, was where she lived.
He stood just inside, taking it in.
“This is your… work,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Such as it is.”
Dima shut the door, checked the blinds reflexively, then turned.
“Ground rules,” he said, pointing a finger at Aleksandr. “You do not… glamour anyone. You do not eat anyone. You do not… stare too long at my interns. They’re fragile.”
Aleksandr tilted his head. “Interns.”
“Students,” Mira translated. “Cheap labor.”
“Ah,” Aleksandr said. “Serfs.”
“Don’t say that in front of them,” Dima groaned. “We’re supposed to *pretend* we’re egalitarian.”
Mira dropped her bag on her desk. “Updates?”
Dima rubbed his face. “Lebedev works for a security firm that doesn’t officially exist. They contract with developers, oligarchs, anyone who needs ‘problems managed.’ He’s been seen around city hall more than once. He’s careful. There are no… obvious paper trails. But his phone pinged near the estate last night.”
Mira stiffened. “He was watching.”
“Probably,” Dima said. “Maybe he saw you. Maybe he didn’t. But he knows you’re… active. Which means his bosses do too.”
Aleksandr folded his arms. “His bosses… are who?”
“Shell companies,” Dima said. “Offshore. Layers within layers. But there’s one name that keeps popping up in connections. Arseny Kalugin.”
Mira’s stomach sank. “Of course.”
“Who is this… Kalugin?” Aleksandr asked.
“Developer,” Mira said. “Oligarch. Think… feudal lord with better PR. He’s been buying up historic properties all over the city. Turning them into luxury apartments, hotels, private clubs. He loves… exclusivity.”
“And… secrets,” Dima added. “His people show up around places that have… whispers. Old bunkers. Abandoned labs. Former party dachas. Now your estate.”
“Our estate,” Aleksandr said quietly.
“Right,” Dima said. “Sorry. *Your* estate.”
“He thinks there is… money,” Aleksandr said. “Or something… else.”
“Maybe both,” Mira said. “If the rumors are right, your family hid… more than cash.”
Aleksandr’s expression went flat. “Rumors.”
Mira met his gaze. “Vaults. Art. Documents. Blackmail. Names. Things the Soviets would have wanted destroyed, and the new rich would pay a lot to own.”
He stared at her for a long moment.
“Elizaveta… did not tell me… everything,” he said slowly. “On purpose. She said… ignorance was protection. If I did not know where every… stash… was, they could not pull it from my mind if they took me. But…” He exhaled. “I know… some.”
He moved to the large map pinned on the wall—the estate and surrounding streets, marked up with Mira’s notes in colored pen. He traced a line from the house to the river, fingertip hovering over a particular bend.
“There,” he said. “There was an… ice house. Before electricity, we stored blocks from the river for summer. We… repurposed it. It does not appear on official plans.”
Mira’s pulse picked up. “What’s there?”
“Documents,” he said. “At least… there were. Land deeds. Letters. Names of officers who took… money… to look away. Information about… people who survived… who should not have.”
Dima whistled softly. “Leverage.”
“Yes,” Aleksandr said. “And… art. Some. Not… masterpieces. But… enough. Portable… value.”
“Does Lebedev know about that?” Mira asked.
“Not… from me,” Aleksandr said. “But if someone… talked. Or if they found… fragments…” He trailed off. “Kalugin may want the money. But there are others who would pay… to erase… those names.”
Mira felt cold.
“State security,” she said. “Old and new.”
Dima nodded grimly. “They rebrand, but the faces don’t change much.”
“We need to get there first,” Mira said.
Dima looked at her as if she’d suggested a casual stroll into a tiger’s mouth. “Of course we do,” he said. “Why *wouldn’t* we break into a secret ice house full of politically explosive documents while being watched by a private security firm and possibly the descendants of the KGB?”
Aleksandr’s mouth curved. “You wanted… adventure.”
“I wanted a quiet life,” Dima protested.
“No, you didn’t,” Mira said. “You wanted to litigate and feel morally superior.”
He glared at her. “This is not the time to psychoanalyze me.”
She smiled thinly. “It’s how I cope.”
Aleksandr stepped back from the map.
“I can… draw a plan,” he said. “From memory. The tunnels. The entrances. What may have collapsed. But you should know… I do not remember… everything. The draught… blurred… some edges.”
“We’ll take whatever you can give,” Mira said. “We can add… modern intel. Satellite images. Planning records. Kids’ Instagram photos. It’s all… data.”
He eyed her. “This is… exciting to you.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Terrifying. But… yes.”
He shook his head, half in disbelief, half in reluctant admiration.
“You are… very strange, Dr. Okonkwo.”
“Takes one to know one, Count Morozov,” she said.
He flinched at the title.
“I am… not a count,” he said. “We did not use… those.”
“What did you use?” she asked.
“Master,” he said, after a pause. “Among… ours. *Gospodin* among… others.”
Mira wrinkled her nose. “Too loaded. I’ll stick with Aleksandr.”
He inclined his head. “As you wish.”
Dima made a strangled sound. “If you two start flirting any more obviously, I’m going to start charging you couples’ therapy rates.”
“We are not—” Mira began.
Aleksandr looked faintly amused. “We are… negotiating terms,” he said. “Not… courtship.”
“Yet,” Dima muttered.
Mira glared. “Focus, please.”
Dima held up his hands. “Fine. Ice house. Tunnels. Kalugin. Lebedev. Blood banks. How do we not die?”
Aleksandr’s lips twitched. “Very carefully.”
***
That night, they hit the hospital.
It felt wrong, even in intent, but Mira forced herself to think in terms of harm reduction. Better a bag than a person.
They went in separately.
Mira, in her scrubs—leftover from a brief student job in a medical archive, still miraculously fitting—walked through the staff entrance with a practiced air of exhaustion.
Aleksandr waited outside, invisible in the shadows of a disused ambulance bay, hood up, collar turned.
Inside, Mira’s badge—borrowed from an old friend who owed her a favor—got her into the lower level where the lab and storage rooms hummed.
She smelled antiseptic, stale coffee, the faint iron tang of blood.
Her heartbeat ticked up.
“You’re not stealing,” she muttered under her breath. “You’re… reallocating.”
She found the refrigeration unit with less trouble than she’d expected. It was a big, white thing, humming faintly, its digital display glowing a reassuring 4°C.
She opened it.
Rows and rows of plastic bags hung like strange fruit, labels facing outward: O+, A-, rare negative types. Some on the end of their shelf life. Some just delivered.
Her fingers shook as she scanned the dates.
She picked three: one close to expiring, one mid-range, one fresh. It felt like a terrible kind of shopping.
She tucked them into the insulated lunch bag she’d brought, heart pounding loud enough that she was sure someone would hear.
No one did.
In the corridor, a nurse pushed a cart past, humming under her breath. A doctor argued softly with someone on the phone about test results. Life and death and bureaucracy churned as usual.
Mira walked out with her bag, face composed, legs wobbly.
Outside, in the alley by the bay, Aleksandr’s head came up the second he smelled it.
She saw the change in him—pupils dilating, nostrils flaring, shoulders tightening.
“Easy,” she said, holding up a hand. “Not here.”
His jaw clenched. His gaze locked on the bag as if it were a lover.
“Where?” he asked, voice rougher.
“Car,” she said. “Dima’s. Around the corner.”
They walked.
She was hyperaware of his presence, the way the air seemed to thicken around him. The bag thumped lightly against her leg with each step.
In the back seat of Dima’s car, parked on a quiet side street, she unzipped the bag.
The smell hit her too—faintly, like old pennies and something metallic. For him, it must have been a drumbeat.
His hand moved, then stopped, fingers curling into the seat.
“May I?” he asked.
She blinked. “You’re… asking?”
He met her eyes. “We made… rules.”
She swallowed. “Yes,” she said. “You may.”
He took one bag with a kind of reverence. The plastic crackled under his fingers. The dark red inside sloshed faintly.
“How…?” he began.
“Teeth,” she said, throat dry. “I think. I didn’t bring… straws.”
He huffed a short, humorless laugh. “Straws are for… other things.”
He lifted the bag, pressed it to his mouth, and bit.
His fangs—she saw them clearly now, long and sharp and obscene against the plastic—slid through with ease. Dark liquid welled, then flowed.
He drank.
It wasn’t… pretty.
He tried, she could see, to be neat, to keep it controlled. But a small bit of red escaped, trailing down his chin. His eyes slid half-closed, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His throat worked greedily.
Mira watched, transfixed and uneasy.
This was what he was. The polished manners, the old-fashioned charm, the patience—all of that sat on top of this: raw need.
He finished the first bag quickly, fingers tightening involuntarily once as if he could squeeze more out of it. When it sagged empty, he let it fall into the bag, breathing unnecessarily hard.
His eyes opened.
They glowed.
Not literally—not like in bad movies. But there was a clarity there now, a sharpness that had been softened by hunger before. His skin, too, seemed less grey, more… there.
“Better,” he said, voice a little hoarse.
She held up a second bag. “Another.”
He hesitated. “You will need these… for later.”
“I’ll get more,” she said. “Consider this… initial investment.”
He smiled faintly. “You are very… generous. With other people’s blood.”
“You’re drinking it, not me,” she pointed out.
He took the second bag. Drank more slowly this time, savoring. When he spoke again, some of the old rhythm had returned to his words.
“It is… different,” he said. “Cold. Thin. No… heartbeat. But… not… bad.”
“Comforting,” she said weakly.
He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing a faint red streak. She reached automatically for a tissue, then stopped herself, unsure of the intimacy.
He noticed.
“If you… wish,” he said quietly.
Her throat worked. She leaned in, hand steady, and wiped the smear away with the soft paper.
His eyes followed the motion, dark and intent.
The air in the car thickened.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“Don’t… thank me for giving you what you need to not murder people,” she said, voice a little too high.
“You are not… accustomed to being needed,” he observed.
She sat back, heartbeat tap-dancing. “Not like this.”
He looked down at the empty bag in his hand.
“I owed you… for waking me,” he said. “Now I owe you… for this.”
“You don’t—” she began.
He cut her off with a look. “We will… argue about accounting later,” he said. “For now… we have… another hunt.”
“The ice house,” she said.
He nodded. “And whatever waits… between us and it.”
She shivered, and not from the cold.
Outside, the city lights watched.
Inside, in the intimate dark of the car, the line between ally and danger blurred by a fraction.
***