Back at her apartment, with the stolen documents spread across her small table, Mira felt as if she were standing at the edge of a cliff.
Names leapt out at her from the pages, tying threads between past and present with alarming clarity.
Here, a list of informants in 1922—factory workers, priests, teachers—some of whose descendants now sat in parliament or ran major media outlets. There, an agreement between an early revolutionary committee and a certain noble family guaranteeing their estates would be spared in exchange for funds.
On one crumbling page, a list of payments made in the early nineties to unnamed “consultants” for “resolution of residual Morozov issues.” The amounts were large.
“These,” Dima said, tapping the latter with one finger, “are… murder invoices.”
“You’re sure?” Mira asked.
“Look at the dates,” he said. “Early ‘92, late ‘93. That’s when the last of the old guard either fled, died of ‘natural causes,’ or… disappeared. These payments line up too neatly.”
Aleksandr’s jaw was set.
“They tried to… finish us,” he said. “Again.”
“They succeeded,” Dima said quietly. “Mostly.”
“Mostly,” Aleksandr repeated. “But not… entirely.”
Mira felt the tension between them like a wire.
“These are… dynamite,” she said, gesturing to the documents. “We can blow up… careers. Maybe even trigger investigations.”
“And get arrested for… theft of state documents,” Dima said. “Or worse.”
“These aren’t… official,” she countered. “They were hidden. Covered up. The state doesn’t even know they exist, or if they do, they’ve pretended not to. We’d be bringing… the truth.”
“The people implicated now are not the ones who signed these,” Dima argued. “They’re the children. The protégés. The inheritors. The system protects its own.”
“So we blackmail,” Aleksandr said bluntly.
They both looked at him.
He met their gazes without flinching.
“You are thinking it,” he said to Dima. “Don’t… flinch… from the word. We use these as… leverage. To make them… back away… from the estate. From us.”
Dima exhaled slowly. “I went into law to fight people who did that. Not to become them.”
“And how has that worked,” Aleksandr asked mildly, “for your buildings? Your… causes?”
Dima’s mouth twisted. “Poorly.”
“You wield words in court,” Aleksandr said. “In my time, a man wielded a sword. The fact remains: sometimes, to protect what matters, you must point something sharp at those who would take it.”
“These papers could get *us* stabbed,” Dima said. “We are… small. They are… not.”
Mira chewed her lip, mind racing.
“What if we… go public,” she said. “Not with everything. Just… enough. A… leak. Anonymous. To a journalist who isn’t in anyone’s pocket. Make it messy. Make it visible.”
“They will… deny,” Aleksandr said. “They will… smear. They will say the documents are… forgeries.”
“Let them,” she said. “We’ll have the originals. The ice house. We’ll know the truth. Even if… no one else believes at first, it plants… doubt. It makes Kalugin… nervous. Nervous people… make mistakes.”
Dima stared at her. “You want to poke the bear *and* steal its honey.”
“We can’t hide forever,” she said. “If we try to play this quietly, we’ll get picked off one by one. If we make it big enough, messy enough, they can’t just… disappear us without questions.”
Aleksandr nodded slowly. “She is right,” he said. “In this, at least.”
“You like her because she sounds like your sister,” Dima muttered.
“Perhaps,” Aleksandr said. “She has the same… irritating habit… of being correct at inconvenient times.”
Mira’s chest tightened at the mention of Elizaveta, but she pushed it aside.
“We need an ally in media,” she said. “Someone we trust. Or… trust more than we fear.”
“I might know someone,” Dima said reluctantly. “An old classmate. She runs a small investigative site. Shoestring. Stubborn. Not easily intimidated. Her name is Yulia.”
“Will she believe… vampires?” Mira asked bluntly.
Dima snorted. “She believes in money, secrets, and the fact that men in power are usually worse than we think. If we bring her cold, hard documents, she won’t care *who* found them.”
“She will want… to know more,” Aleksandr said. “About… us.”
Mira looked at him. “We give her enough. Not everything. We let her think… you’re a… mysterious great-grandson who inherited a box of papers from a senile aunt.”
His lip curled. “I do not like being… reduced… to a plot device.”
“Too late,” Dima said. “You woke up in a romance novelist’s worst nightmare.”
They all stared at him.
“What?” he said defensively. “You think I don’t know tropes?”
Mira fought a smile. “We’ll… craft a narrative,” she said. “Carefully. Enough truth to sting. Enough lie to protect.”
“And while she… stirs the waters,” Aleksandr said, “Kalugin will… flail. Lebedev will… report. Others will… take notice.”
“Others like… the vampire ‘families’ Elizaveta mentioned,” Mira said.
He nodded, expression unreadable. “Yes.”
She hesitated. “Are you… afraid of them?”
“Always,” he said. “We all… were. Even my maker. He just… hid it with arrogance.”
“They’ll see you as…” Dima gestured vaguely. “A… free agent. A variable.”
“A… relic,” Aleksandr said. “Or a… resource. Or… a threat.”
“And how do *you* see them?” Mira asked.
He raised his gaze to hers.
“As… competition,” he said. “And… potential… allies. Dangerous ones.”
“We can’t fight… on two fronts,” Dima said. “Developers… and… immortal politics.”
“We may not have a choice,” Aleksandr said.
Heavy silence settled.
Mira broke it first.
“We focus on what we can do now,” she said. “Get Yulia on board. Secure more of the documents. Keep an eye on the estate and the cemetery. And… work on our… blood logistics.”
Both men looked at her.
“What?” she said. “You think I’m going to forget you need… feeding?”
“You say it… like taking out the trash,” Aleksandr said, amused.
“It’s… maintenance,” she said. “You’re part of the machinery now.”
He smiled slowly. “You are getting… comfortable… with me.”
“Don’t get cocky,” she said. “I’ve had cats I respected less.”
“High praise,” he murmured.
Dima groaned. “If you start purring, I’m leaving.”
***
Yulia agreed to meet them in a café that tried very hard to look like it had been there since the Revolution and failed only because the exposed brick was too curated.
She was in her late thirties, with blunt-cut dark hair, sharp features, and eyes that missed nothing. She wore a threadbare sweater that managed to look intentionally vintage and boots that had seen protests in more than one winter.
“So,” she said, after the initial pleasantries, swirling her coffee. “Dima says you have something that will make me enemies.”
“That’s his way of saying ‘hi,’” Mira said.
Yulia smirked. “He’s always had a gift for… understatement.”
Dima muttered something under his breath that sounded like “traitor.”
Aleksandr sat very still, letting them talk. He wore his old coat today; it made him stand out less in the bohemian crowd than the borrowed jacket had.
Mira slid a photocopy of one of the less explosive documents across the table.
Yulia glanced at it, then back at her. “You dragged me out on a Tuesday morning for an old receipt?”
“Look closer,” Mira said.
Yulia sighed theatrically but obeyed.
Her eyes narrowed.
“‘Payment for services rendered in resolving special issue related to former property owners’,” she read. “Two hundred thousand rubles. 1993. Signature… that’s… interesting.”
She tapped the scrawled name.
“That,” she said, “belongs to a man who currently chairs the committee on transparency in government.”
Mira let that hang there.
Yulia’s lips curled. “You had my curiosity,” she said. “Now you have my… annoyed attention.”
“There’s more,” Mira said. “A lot more. This is… a sample.”
“Where did you get it?” Yulia asked, tone sharpening.
Mira glanced at Aleksandr.
He met Yulia’s gaze without flinching.
“From a box,” he said. “Under my house.”
Yulia blinked. “Your… house.”
“It used to be his,” Mira said. “The Morozov estate.”
Yulia stared. Then laughed sharply. “Oh, good. We’re doing haunted real estate now.”
Dima rubbed his temples. “Just… listen, Yulia.”
Mira outlined the story they’d agreed on: a hidden ice house, documents stashed by a panicking noble family as the Revolution rolled in, forgotten. A descendant who’d inherited a key through a convoluted line of aunts and not thought to look until now.
She did not mention vampires. Or hundred-year sleeps. Or secret accords.
Yulia listened, expression shifting through skepticism, calculation, and reluctant fascination.
“And you… just happened… to find these,” she said slowly, “right when Kalugin is pushing to redevelop the estate.”
“Yes,” Mira said. “You could call it… timing. Or… karma.”
“Or a setup,” Yulia said.
“Do you think I have the resources to forge this?” Mira countered. “To imitate that paper, that ink? To plant it in an ice house that hasn’t been opened in a century?”
Yulia chewed her lower lip.
“No,” she admitted. “I don’t. You barely have the resources to pay your interns.”
“Exactly,” Dima muttered.
“But if I run this,” Yulia went on, “even a small piece, I paint a target on my back. On my site’s back. Kalugin will send lawyers, PR people, maybe… worse. I need… more than a single receipt and a historian’s elegant eyebrows.”
Mira slid another photocopy over.
This time, it was a list. Names. Payments. Cross-references to incidents labeled only vaguely in old police codes.
Yulia’s eyes roved over it. Her pupils dilated a fraction.
“This is…” she breathed. “If this is real, this is… enough to topple… several people. Or at least make their lives… very unpleasant.”
“We have… more,” Aleksandr said quietly. “Enough to convince you. You just need to decide… if you wish to know.”
Yulia looked at him for the first time with real focus.
“And who are you, exactly?” she asked. “You sit there like a ghost at your own wake. Dima said… ‘a relative.’ You don’t look like anyone I see in prepandemic photos.”
“Time is… unkind… to some,” he said. “Kinder… to others.”
“Poetry is not an answer,” she said.
He smiled, small. “I am… Aleksandr Morozov,” he said.
She blinked. Then laughed again. “Of course you are.”
“She’s not going to believe that,” Dima muttered.
“No, I’m not,” Yulia agreed. “But I also… don’t care. Names are… costumes. What matters is whether what you’re offering is… true.”
“It is,” Mira said.
“How can you be so sure?” Yulia challenged.
“Because…” Mira hesitated, then chose her lie carefully. “Because I grew up in a country that tried to pretend its own atrocities didn’t happen. I’ve seen what those paper trails look like when you… finally find them. This… feels very familiar.”
Yulia’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Let’s say I believe you enough to… investigate. What do you want?”
“Visibility,” Mira said. “We want the public to know that the Morozov estate isn’t just… an eyesore. It’s… evidence. It’s… leverage. If Kalugin tears it down without examination, he’s not just building condos. He’s… burying… history. Again.”
“And you want me to… make that the story,” Yulia said.
“Yes,” Mira said. “We can’t… stop him alone. But a scandal—tied to his name, to his cronies—that might… slow him. Enough for us to… do more.”
“And what’s the ‘more’?” Yulia asked.
Mira glanced at Aleksandr. Felt his gaze on her.
“Protect… the house,” she said. “And the people… connected to it.”
Yulia’s eyes flicked between them.
“You’re very cagey,” she said. “I like that. It means you’re not stupid. It also means I’d be an idiot not to assume you’re hiding something huge.”
“You’re a journalist,” Dima said. “Assume away. We’re offering you… real meat. In return, you… shine a light in the right places.”
Yulia drummed her fingers on the table.
“Send me scans of everything you have,” she said finally. “Watermarked. With your conditions. I’ll start cross-referencing. Quietly. If it checks out, we go loud. But on my timeline. My terms.”
“Fair,” Mira said.
“And Mira,” Yulia added, leaning in. “Be careful. You think you know how… nasty… these people can be. You don’t. Not yet.”
Mira met her gaze. “I have a… steep learning curve.”
Yulia’s eyes flicked once more to Aleksandr.
“I bet you do,” she murmured.
***
After Yulia left, Dima slumped back in his chair, exhaling.
“Congratulations,” he said. “We’ve just invited a shark to our bleeding party.”
“Better a shark who owes us than one who doesn’t know we exist,” Mira said.
Aleksandr watched her, thoughtful.
“You are… very good… at this,” he said.
“At… what?” she asked.
“Stirring… the pot,” he said. “Playing… factions. Making… alliances with… dangerous people.”
She huffed. “You make it sound… unflattering.”
“It is… a compliment,” he said. “Elizaveta would have… liked you.”
Warmth ghosted through her chest. “I would have liked her too,” she said. “From her letter, at least. She sounds… terrifying.”
“She was,” he said, a small smile touching his mouth. “In the best ways.”
Silence stretched between them, threaded with shared ghosts.
Then Mira’s phone buzzed.
Unknown: You move quickly.
Her stomach dropped.
“Who is it?” Aleksandr asked.
She showed him the screen.
Lebedev.
He’d found her number once. He could do it again.
Another message arrived before she could respond.
Lebedev: Coffee? Neutral ground. We should… discuss our mutual interests. Before your… friend makes a mess.
A shiver ran up her spine.
“He knows,” she said softly. “About Yulia. About… us.”
“Of course he does,” Dima said grimly. “He has eyes everywhere.”
Aleksandr’s gaze went dark.
“He wants to… talk,” he said.
“‘Neutral ground,’” Mira echoed. “As if that exists.”
Dima swore. “You are *not* meeting him alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” she said. “But we can’t… ignore him.”
“He wants to probe,” Aleksandr said. “To see how much we know. How far we are willing to… go. Refusing… will make him… curious. Meeting… will give him… information.”
“So we give him… controlled… information,” Mira said. “We let him think he has… the upper hand.”
“He already thinks that,” Dima said. “He works for Kalugin. People like that are born thinking the world is their chair.”
Aleksandr’s mouth curved. “Then it will be… satisfying… to pull it out from under him.”
Mira typed, feeling each word like a loaded die.
Mira: Fine. Tomorrow. 11. Café Volkova. You bring one person. I bring one person. No surprises.
The reply came quickly.
Lebedev: Looking forward to it.
She put the phone down, hand shaking a little.
Aleksandr reached out, covering her fingers with his.
His touch was cool, steady.
“Slow burn,” he said softly.
She blinked. “What?”
“You… are fond… of that phrase,” he said. “We have… time. Even when it feels… urgent. Do not let them… stampede you.”
“You’re the one who wanted to rush back to the ice house,” she pointed out, but her voice held no real bite.
“There is… a difference,” he said. “Between… choosing… the pace… and letting others… drive it. Remember… whose story this is.”
She looked up, meeting his eyes.
“Whose is it?” she asked.
“Ours,” he said simply. “Yours. Mine. Elizaveta’s. Lev’s. The house’s. Not… Kalugin’s. Not Lebedev’s. Not… theirs.”
“The other vampires,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
She swallowed.
He squeezed her hand once, then released it.
“I will… be with you,” he said. “When you meet him.”
She nodded. “Good.”
Dima groaned. “I hate this plan.”
“You hate all plans,” Mira said. “On principle.”
“That’s because plans imply control,” he said. “And I have… met reality.”
Aleksandr smiled faintly.
“Reality,” he said, “has not… met us.”
They stood on the threshold of something vast and dangerous: human corruption, immortal politics, old debts coming due.
And somewhere under all of that, a slow, bright thread had begun to weave between them—a connection neither had expected, both were afraid to name.
Mira felt it tug now, like a hook under her sternum, as she watched Aleksandr trace idly along the edge of a document with one fingertip.
She realized, with a thud of her heart, that for all his centuries and his hunger and his sharp edges, she did not just fear him or need him.
She *liked* him.
“Problem?” he asked, catching her stare.
“Many,” she said. “But… one at a time.”
She picked up her phone.
“Let’s go make a deal with the devil,” she said.
Aleksandr’s smile sharpened.
“Which one?” he asked.
She smiled back, grim and bright.
“Both,” she said. “Eventually.”
And the night, listening, leaned closer.