Chapter Text

Happily Ever After - Vampire&Werewolf Trilogy

Book 1

Dear Reader,
Once upon a time, I started writing a fanfiction inspired by Twilight—mostly as a joke. But as I kept writing, something surprising happened: the characters began to speak with their own voices, their families grew histories of their own, and the story slowly transformed into an independent trilogy. This is the very first English translation of the book. In the first three chapters, you might notice little nods to the original story—but I ask you to pay close attention to the details, because they will help you understand what’s really happening here.
After chapter three, the novel takes its own path, leaving the familiar story behind to tell the tale of a young girl named Asya…
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving this story a chance. I hope it finds a place in your imagination, and maybe even in your heart.

Prologue

I had never imagined my life would end like this. For months, danger had been circling me like a shadow, close enough to brush the crown of my head with its cold, damp fingers—but never quite seizing me.

My mother used to say I was born under a lucky star. In the end, that star guttered out. I lay sprawled on the frozen earth of the winter forest, breath misting in the frigid air, my gaze locked on the triumphant smile of my killer. The corners of his mouth were stained with deep, burgundy drops—blood that had only moments ago been my own. He wiped the last of it from his lips with a slow, deliberate stroke of his finger and extended his hand toward me.

“Try it,” he murmured.

To give my life for someone I loved—there were worse ways to die. Did I know I might come to regret that choice? Absolutely. But as I stared into the almost luminous blue of his eyes, the thought felt weightless, as if it could never matter in the endless stretch of eternity.

So I obeyed. I let my tongue brush the crimson bead, the metallic tang blooming across my mouth like the taste of cold iron. And then—agony. Searing, all-consuming, ripping through every nerve. In that instant, I knew there was no way back.

Chapter 1. Starting from scratch

The dashboard read just over thirty degrees Celsius. The sweltering heat, typical for late August in the Rostov region, had lingered into the first days of September. My mom’s old Lada hummed in protest, pushing against the thick air. Music drifted faintly from the speakers, but the warm wind rushing through the open window drowned out the lyrics. Stray strands of hair whipped against my cheeks and shoulders; no matter how many times I tried to tuck them behind my ear, they sprang free again. All my hair ties, of course, were buried deep in the suitcase. Brilliant. The road to the airport was long, the sun merciless, and I’d set myself up for discomfort from the start.

Today I was “going back to my roots.” In just a few hours, the iron bird would carry me to Novosibirsk, and from there, a short train ride would take me to the place where I was born seventeen years ago. Kserton—a small, unremarkable town wrapped in mountains and forest, where the sky seemed to weep more often than it smiled. Less than a month of sunshine a year, the internet claimed. My mother had escaped that gray cocoon when I was barely a year old, fleeing a life stripped of warmth and light.

For years, I returned each summer to spend a month with my grandmother, until at fourteen I’d had enough of potato fields and empty evenings without friends. Kostya had agreed easily, and for the past three years our family holidays had been somewhere warmer—Turkey, or anywhere the sun stayed up late.

And yet, here I was, heading toward voluntary exile. I won’t lie—it wasn’t an easy choice. Even now, waves of dread rolled through me. I hated Kserton with every fiber of my being.

With each passing kilometer, Rostov-on-Don faded behind us—the city of my childhood, where streets were mostly smooth, the sun kissed your skin without apology, and life thrummed around the clock. In Kserton, by contrast, everything folded neatly into silence by six in the evening.

At the check-in desk, a smiling attendant handed me my boarding pass. My mother’s fingers curled into the sleeve of her cardigan. “Asha,” she said softly, “you don’t have to go.”

I looked into a mirror of my own eyes, hers framed by the fine lines of someone who smiled often. When I think of Maria, I think of the sound of her laughter—bright, ringing, unforgettable. I was her reflection in everything but her lightheartedness, which stubbornly refused to pass through the bloodline.

Her gaze was an unspoken plea, one that made me shrink inside. How could I leave her? I’d always felt older than her in some way—she needed looking after as much as I did. Rationally, I knew my new stepfather had taken that burden from me. But my heart whispered warnings.

“Everything’s fine, Mom,” I told her. “It’ll be better this way. I really want to live in Kserton. Kostya will be happy. And I’ll have time to look at the local university, figure out my options.”

I’d repeated this lie so often over the past week, I’d almost come to believe it.

“Say hi to Kostya for me.”

“Of course.”

We embraced, and she smelled of strawberry gum, summer, and cinnamon—scents that would always mean home.

“See you soon,” she said, smiling in that way she did when she wanted to hide the truth. Her eyes told me what her voice didn’t: she couldn’t leave Sasha, not now. And that was why I had to go.

Another year of school, then university applications. The one thing that brightened the thought of Kserton was its State University—the hope that maybe there, I’d find my calling.

We stood for another minute, hands clasped, until the loudspeaker announced boarding. She hugged me tight, one last time, and I walked away, her gaze following me all the way to the doors.

***

Four hours in the air from Rostov-on-Don to Novosibirsk, two more on a suburban train to Bolshaya Torana station—none of it unsettled me as much as the thought of spending an hour alone in a car with Kostya. The thorn between us had always been the same: I almost never called him “Dad.”

For the first few years after Maria left him, she refused to let me see my father. She raised me with my grandmother, working two jobs, until one day Kostya appeared at our door as if conjured. I still don’t know how he found us in a city where we knew no one. Maria suspected his connections—good policemen collected them quickly, and with Kostya’s career rising fast, acquaintances multiplied like fresh pastries from a grandmother’s oven.

That day, my parents locked themselves in the kitchen for hours. Twice I crept down the hallway to eavesdrop, pressing an ear to the door, but my grandmother always materialized to shoo me away like a guilty kitten. Eventually I gave up and went back to watching Tom and Jerry.

When they finally emerged, both looked serious. They sat on either side of me, trying to explain—Kostya fumbling for words, resorting to clumsy gestures to show that he was my father without broaching certain details my age didn’t permit. From then on, I spent a few weeks in Kserton each year, getting to know him.

Now, as I repeated the word “Dad” in my head like an unfamiliar foreign phrase, I planned to greet him warmly, to set a good tone. We had to live together until the New Year, and fewer reasons for conflict seemed wise.

But plans rarely survive reality. The platform was lower than I expected. Gripping my suitcase with both hands, I tried to lift it, staggering under its weight. A queue formed behind me, impatient and muttering, yet no one offered help. I was seconds from kicking the damned thing onto the tracks when a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Asya! Leave it, I’ll get it.”

I turned to see my father. He looked almost the same—broad shoulders under his black leather jacket, white turtleneck fitting snug across his frame, the same soot-black mustache. With practiced ease, he set my suitcase down and offered me his hand. I placed mine cautiously in his, my cheeks burning at the laughter behind us.

Kostya had aged well—so well that strangers sometimes mistook us for a couple, a fact that mortified me. Still, he was every bit the gentleman, helping others with their bags before leading me out.

When I’d told him about moving to Kserton, I’d expected resistance, but he’d agreed readily, even enrolling me in the local school. He promised me a car for graduation, as though that could sweeten my opinion of the city. Still, Kserton’s university was my one bright spot—a place that might help me find my calling.

On the drive, Kostya broke the silence.
“So—back in Kserton. I thought you and Maria never liked it here.”
“That’s true,” I said, eyes fixed on the blur of forest beyond the glass. “But maybe it’s time to give it another chance.”
“Or maybe you could give me a chance—and try calling me ‘Dad’.”

I forced a smile. “We can try.”
“What? Didn’t quite catch that—something missing?”
“We can try, pa-pa,” I said, biting off each syllable.

My father laughed, warm and unguarded, and gave my shoulder a reassuring pat—as if to say, We’ll be fine, you and I.
I wished I could share his confidence. Instead, the dull ache of loss settled over me, heavy and familiar, as I thought of everything I had left behind in Rostov. Tears threatened, and I longed for silence—just enough to let myself feel the weight of the moment.

Then, as if on cue, his favorite song came on the radio. I recognized the tune instantly; I thought it was BI-2. Kostya turned up the volume, and before I knew it, my foot was tapping along to the beat. We didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. The music became our bridge, carrying me past the worst of my mood. By the time a lively Checherina track came on, I found myself singing along with him, thinking—just maybe—he was right. Maybe everything really would be fine.

Nearly an hour later, a weathered road sign announced Kserton. Three turns past the city limits, Kostya steered into our neighborhood, Bugrad, and began threading the car through the narrow yards where parked vehicles turned every passage into a test of patience. Eventually, we emerged into the gray tangle before the long, green-speckled building the locals called “The Spruce.” Three entrances lined its façade; the third was ours.

When I moved to retrieve my suitcase from the trunk, Kostya muttered something about not lifting a thing that heavy and waved me toward the entrance. I didn’t argue. At the door, I hesitated, fumbling the code twice before finally getting it right. Thankfully, Kostya was still at the car and didn’t see me struggling—forgetting the code to your own home was embarrassing enough without an audience.

Inside, the apartment surprised me with its neatness. Four rooms, bright and practical, with a large living area divided from the kitchen by a tidy bar counter—more the home of a family than of a lifelong bachelor. As far as I knew, my father hadn’t had a serious relationship since my mother. He never introduced me to anyone, and no unfamiliar women’s belongings ever appeared in the apartment. The only traces of him were in the cluttered antechamber: photographs from our trips together, and a proud display of fishing trophies.

Fishing was his great passion. He always said the Ob River teemed with life, and that only the lazy went home empty-handed. I wasn’t lazy, but during his rare attempts to involve me, our basket always stayed empty. I lacked the dexterity and coordination for sports of any kind, much to my PE teacher’s despair. Eventually, he abandoned all hope and assigned me endless reports on past Olympics instead—earning me a steady, respectable B.

I preferred books to sports, losing myself for hours in the scent of paper and ink. I devoured words greedily, letting them tug at my imagination and my heart. The deeper I fell into reading, the more I longed to make literature my life’s work—but my parents always dismissed the idea. My father worried about money; my mother considered it a hobby, not a profession. If only the authors she illustrated could have heard her…

At the far end of the apartment was my room. Even when I swore never to return to Kserton, Kostya had left it untouched. When he unlocked the door, he handed me the key with a quick smile.
“I repainted and put in mosquito screens,” he said. “It’s September, but don’t fool yourself—this isn’t Rostov. Open the window with the light on, and you’ll have half the insect kingdom in here.”

I hid my smile at his half-playful, half-gruff warning and stepped inside. The lavender walls were brighter now, but everything else was as I remembered: the sheer lace curtains, the cacti on the windowsill, the shelf above the desk lined with childhood favorites—The Chronicles of Narnia, Artemis Fowl, Alice in Wonderland. I’d once read them under the covers with a flashlight, convinced I was committing a daring act.

Kostya left me to rest and unpack, and I was grateful. The room smelled faintly of fresh paint, but beneath that was the familiar scent of home—one that had been waiting for me all these years.

***

I had barely finished unpacking when the doorbell rang. Kostya’s heavy steps echoed down the hallway, followed by a burst of deeper voices and a ripple of laughter that filled the apartment. I couldn’t make out the words, only the warmth in their tones. Glancing at my phone, I checked the sports schedule and sighed. Of course—Premier League night. My father wasn’t the sort to break his rituals for anyone, even me. Fishing, reckless driving, and football—those were his holy trinity. The home theater in the living room wasn’t for movie nights; it was for match nights with friends.

“Asya, we’ve got company! Come out and say hello,” Kostya called.

I smoothed my hair in the black reflection of my switched-off phone and slipped into the corridor. The living room opened before me, and in its center sat a broad-shouldered man in a wheelchair. Long black hair spilled over his shoulders, a white cap emblazoned with the Tambov Wolves perched on top. His open checkered shirt revealed a worn gray T-shirt stretched just slightly over his stomach. His face was etched with time, crow’s feet deepened by years of laughter.

“Asya!” His arms spread wide, and I bent to hug him.

“Hello, Uncle Dima. How have you been?”

“Still dancing, eh?” His eyes twinkled. “When did you grow up? Yesterday you were digging in the sand at the dacha, and now—look at you.”

From the couch, Kostya snorted. “Not that grown. We’ll talk after college.”

I laughed, but before I could reply, a new voice drifted from behind me. “Uncle Kostya, drinks in the fridge?”

I turned and saw a boy—lanky, tan, with a scatter of pimples and hair as dark as his father’s, though less well-kept. A hoodie with an unfamiliar rock band’s logo hung loosely on him. He wasn’t the kind of hero my favorite novels had prepared me for.

“This is Denis,” my father said. “You two played together as kids.”

The introductions barely finished before a magazine swat, a stolen cap, and a flying pillow turned the living room into a full-blown skirmish. Laughter ricocheted off the walls until Uncle Dima glanced at the clock. “The match!”

In an instant, the men were glued to the screen. I retreated to the kitchen, returned with sandwiches, and was greeted like a triumphant hunter. I didn’t understand the game, but I understood the joy—and for the first time in a long while, I felt at home.

Tomorrow would be the first day at my new school. But for now, the night was ours.

***

When I woke, the world outside my window was swallowed in thick fog. A leaden sky pressed low over the rooftops, just as it had in my childhood. I lingered there for a moment, staring into the milky haze drifting between the buildings, feeling that familiar weight in my chest. This was a view I would have to learn to live with again.

Kostya’s apartment was spacious enough, but it boasted only a single full bathroom. Fortunately, my father was already up, bustling in the kitchen when I emerged from my room. The scent reached me before I saw him—fresh coffee, golden toast, eggs sizzling in the pan. My favorite trio. I greeted him briefly, resisting the urge to slide straight into a chair, and hurried to the bathroom instead.

A quick wash, a comb dragged through my stubborn hair, and I pulled it into a high ponytail, loose strands soft against my cheek. In my room, I traded my reindeer-print pajamas for something fit for the first day of school. The Kserton Gymnasium had no uniform policy—only a ban on blue jeans, which I never wore anyway. My mother used to call my wardrobe a “forest palette”: deep greens, earthy browns, blacks, with the occasional rare white tucked away on the far hangers. After a moment’s thought, I chose slim black jeans and a dark green V-neck sweater layered over a white tank top. I’d learned long ago that dressing lightly in early autumn was a gamble; in Rostov, the heating sometimes stayed on until May. What Kserton might bring in September was anyone’s guess.

When I returned, Kostya was already spooning scrambled eggs onto plates. The table was bare of utensils, so I began opening drawers in search of forks—finding them only by chance, in the one nearest the sink. A couple of knives, the sugar bowl from the counter, and breakfast was served.

We ate in companionable silence, the only sounds the scrape of cutlery and the faint murmur of the television. I’d missed the comfort of simple, home-cooked food. It wasn’t that Maria couldn’t cook—she simply disliked it. I, on the other hand, had been taught young, and well. But when you’re the one stirring and frying, the aromas fade into the air, unnoticed. Nothing, I decided, tasted better than an egg fried by someone who loved you.

The news anchor’s flat, practiced voice washed over us like background noise—until the images appeared. Burned-out cars. Crumbling buildings. Smoke twisting into the air. The woman’s eyes were as empty as her tone, her gaze fixed on the camera, as if the devastation she described were no more than a list of sports scores. My last bite caught in my throat. The thought came unbidden: how easily one can sit in a warm kitchen while the world shatters, and no one—least of all the person telling you about it—seems able, or willing, to put it back together.

***

Kostya offered to drive me to school. It wasn’t a short trip, but to my surprise the streets were nearly empty, as if the city had collectively decided there was no need to rush anywhere at this hour. My father handled the car with effortless ease, one hand resting lightly on the wheel. Watching him, you’d think there was nothing more natural than driving—but I knew how deceiving that impression could be.

Once, my mother had taken me out to an empty field, insisting I try driving. Maria believed it was her sacred maternal duty to teach me herself, rather than pay for a professional instructor—though, looking back, I suspect she simply couldn’t afford one. I had never known fear quite like the moment my foot eased off the clutch and the car lurched forward before stalling with a violent jolt. My head smacked the headrest, and I let out a startled scream. Maria, equally panicked, yanked the handbrake. My driving career ended then and there. I swore never to touch a steering wheel again.

Some people are born to drive. Others are born to ride. Passengers, after all, enjoy certain privileges—watching the forest whip past in a blur of green without a single ounce of responsibility, stress, or control. Pure pleasure. And if the driver doesn’t mind, you even get to pick the music. A charmed life.

Kostya’s voice broke into my thoughts.
“We need to sort out how you’ll get to school in the mornings,” he said. “I won’t always be able to drive you. Duty shifts are all over the place right now, people are trickling back from vacation, and even here, crime’s picking up. Ever since they opened the new highway, we’ve been swamped. And potato season—don’t get me started. Trucks rolling in and out, hiding contraband under the crops… We’re like truffle pigs, sniffing everything out. Too many strangers in Kserton these days. And…” His tone sharpened. “Girls have started going missing.”

He glanced at me, making sure I was listening, before turning back to the road.
“It’s getting dark earlier. After classes, my colleague will drive you home. Bright blue four-door—you’ll spot it easily in the parking lot. Today I’ll try to get you a bike. While the weather’s still decent, it’s perfect. See there?” He gestured toward a narrow paved path running below the roadside, skirting the edge of the forest. “That’ll take you straight home. You just need to turn at the sign—”

“—to the Bugrad,” I finished for him. “If anything, I’ll ask my classmates. Someone’s bound to live nearby.”

Kostya shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t even know who’ll be in your class. Kids are all sorts, even in the gymnasium.” He arched his brows, just slightly. “In any case, you’ll make friends. And if not, you can always transfer to a regular school.”

His optimism could have carried the both of us, but mine was running thin. With every mile, the weight in my chest grew heavier. In theory, no one in a small town would dare trouble a police officer’s daughter. But theory wasn’t always reality. I told myself I could endure until the new year, when my stepfather’s hunting season would be over and a move might be possible. Half a year without friends—surely that was survivable.

***

A bottleneck had formed at the school gates. Cars inched forward, one by one, as parents deposited their children and then hurried off to their own affairs. I suggested to Kostya that he let me out at the turn, but he refused outright, unmoved by my reasoning. “Won’t make a difference,” he said. “And besides, it’s raining.”

Outside, a fine mist was falling—too thin to be a proper rain, too persistent to ignore. I gave up trying to argue.

When our turn finally came, I spotted clusters of older students lingering near the entrance, laughing and talking as if the morning chill didn’t bother them. Reluctantly, I stepped out of the warm cocoon of the car, muttering a silent prayer to every deity I could recall: Don’t trip. Drawing in a steadying breath, I fixed a neutral expression on my face and set off along the paved walkway. Moments later, I reached the building’s awning.

No one even glanced my way. Perfect. Mission “blend into the crowd” accomplished.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door with its stained-glass panel and stepped into a wide recreation hall, golden with the glow of delicate wall lamps. So this was the difference between a gymnasium and an ordinary school—soft light, polished space, and a sense of quiet order.

To the right sat a slender woman in a lilac suit patterned with tiny, almost neon-yellow checks. The brightness of her attire made my own clothes seem almost dreary. Perched precariously on the bridge of her nose were round glasses, the kind forever associated with the boy who lived. She was hunched over a chaotic spread of papers, feigning deep concentration.

The moment I approached, she looked up.
“How can I help you?”

“Good morning. I’m Anastasia Chernaya,” I said. Her hand rose automatically to adjust her glasses, and she gave me a brief but thorough once-over—at least, as much as the desk allowed.

“Oh, of course.” She plucked a sheet from the dangerously leaning stack of papers and handed it to me. “Your schedule—class 11A. The school map’s on the back. Most senior classes are in the north wing.”

She ran a pen over the page, naming each subject for the day and marking the corresponding classrooms on the map. Then she produced a small card, explaining that each teacher would sign it after giving me my textbooks, and that I should return it to her desk after class so the library could log my attendance.

After a few more practical questions, she expressed the hope that I would enjoy Kserton, wished me a good day—and never introduced herself. I attempted a polite smile, but the faint reflection in her glasses suggested it landed more awkwardly than I’d intended.

***

With fifteen minutes left before the bell, I slipped outside, craving air sharp enough to chase away the fog of my restless thoughts. Choosing a quiet curb far from the chatter of other students, I unfolded the school map across my knees and studied it with care, tracing the lines of corridors and wings as if they were veins on an unfamiliar hand.

Kserton had four wings, all joined by a recreation hall on the first floor. Some classes would require trekking the length of the building, but on closer inspection I spotted a hidden shortcut: a third-floor passage linking the north and south wings. A small discovery, but a useful one—provided I didn’t lose myself in the labyrinth first.

I took a sip from a bottle of orange juice, its sweetness cutting through the damp air, then went back inside, determined to reach my classroom without the map’s help. By the time I neared the door, my pulse had quickened to the point of near hyperventilation. Holding my breath like a diver, I slipped inside and fell in step behind two other students in oversized raincoats, praying to remain invisible.

They stopped at a row of hooks to shed their dripping coats—apparently, in Kserton, such garments weren’t seasonal but essential. Odd. The map hadn’t shown a cloakroom, and no one had asked me to change my shoes.

Up close, I saw the girls were both pale—the first, a delicate blonde with veins faintly visible at her temples; the second, ash-haired and equally fair. At least my own refusal to tan under Rostov’s scorching sun meant I wouldn’t stand out.

At the teacher’s desk, a polished plaque announced Georgiy Vasilyevich Radchinskiy. He was tall, with a wedge-shaped bald spot creeping up from his temples and a soft double chin. His eyes lingered on my surname longer than was comfortable before he waved me toward the only empty desk—in the back row. From there, my classmates’ curiosity was less obvious, though they still found ways to glance at me whenever the teacher turned to the board.

The system here was baffling. Core subjects were split into small groups, not by ability, but—of all things—alphabetically, and only for certain classes. It made for a timetable that was part puzzle, part endurance test.

Half the lesson passed in silence as I buried myself in the reading list: Bulgakov, Pasternak, Solzhenitsyn, Kuprin, Gorky. All familiar. All long since read. I almost regretted not bringing my old essays from Rostov—perhaps I could persuade my mother to mail them.

The nasal school bell broke my thoughts. As my classmates surged for the door, I hung back, not eager to collide with anyone. That’s when I noticed a boy making his way toward me—a lanky figure with a fringe falling over his eyes and a constellation of pimples on his chin.

“You’re new, right? Anastasia Chernaya?” His voice was bright, almost mayoral.

“Asya,” I corrected. Heads turned nearby.

“I’ve got Health and Safety with Mazepin next period, fourth wing. If you’re headed that way, we could walk together.”

I hesitated, realizing I couldn’t remember my next class. Fishing out the map, I confirmed he was right.

“Great,” he said. “I’m Andrey.”

We set off, and he explained the school’s hidden geography—four separate hallways spread over two floors. How I’d missed half of them was a mystery. As we walked, curious eyes followed us.

“Why no raincoat?” he asked.

“I didn’t know it was a thing here. In Rostov it barely rains.”

His expression brightened with genuine surprise. We traded small talk until we reached the classroom, where he wished me luck before disappearing to the front row.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of introductions and curious questions. By the third class, I no longer needed the map—students seemed determined to shepherd me from one lesson to the next, even when it wasn’t their route.

In geometry, a girl I didn’t know leaned over to speak to me in English, then invited me to join her and her friends for lunch. She was so slender she seemed almost breakable. Though a few centimeters shorter than my one-sixty-five, the cascade of highlighted curls swept high into a ponytail gave her the illusion of height. I hadn’t caught her name during class, so on the walk to the cafeteria I simply smiled and nodded, careful not to betray the fact.

We claimed a spot at a long table in the center of the room, flanked by plain white benches already crowded with students. Names came in quick succession—too many to hold onto at once. A few tables over sat a face I did remember: Andrei, the dark-haired boy from literature. He gave me a wave, and I returned it, grateful for one familiar anchor.

It was then—caught between Andrei’s wave and the polite small talk of six strangers—that I saw them.

They sat in the far corner, framed by a wall of windows through which the green sweep of the school grounds stretched away. There were five of them. They didn’t speak to one another. Their trays remained untouched. They didn’t even glance at me, which made it easy to study them in turn. Cold. Remote. Each stared into the middle distance, as though contemplating vast and private truths.

And they were… different.

Three were boys. One was broad-shouldered, athletic, his silver-grey jacket cut close to the body. Black curls rebelled in every direction, artful as if sculpted before a mirror. The second was tall but leaner, honey-blond hair grazing his ears. The third, chestnut-haired with a bronze glint, had the careless charm of someone who might pass for a university student, though the restless spark in his eyes was pure adolescence.

The two girls shared no likeness save for their pale, flawless skin. One was statuesque, waves of sandy hair cascading to her waist, as if in some futile attempt to hide a figure made for magazine covers. The other was small and fine-boned, her dark-blue hair jutting out in a sharp corona like a hedgehog’s spines—delicate and dangerous all at once.

Something bound them together beyond their shared aloofness. They were all impossibly pale, their eyes a uniform, unsettling near-black. Beneath them, the faint smudges of shadow hinted at sleepless nights. It should have marred their beauty. Instead, it sharpened it. They looked unreal—faces too perfect, as if airbrushed in real time.

I couldn’t decide which drew me more, but I couldn’t look away.

The smallest girl rose first, lifting her untouched tray. She moved with the silent grace of a dancer, and I caught myself holding my breath, wondering if anyone truly moved like that outside of dreams. She slid the tray onto the conveyor belt, vanished through the door, and only then did I blink, glancing back at the remaining four.

“Who is she?” I asked quietly in English.

Tatiana—though I didn’t yet know her name—turned to follow my gaze. But before she could answer, the bronze-haired boy looked up. Just a flicker of a glance toward his neighbor, then toward me. His eyes were as unreadable as a shuttered window, and they slid away almost before I felt my cheeks heat.

“That’s Arthur and Stanislav Smirnov,” she murmured, leaning closer. “And the Yakovlev twins—Maxim and Viola. The one who left is Diana. They all live together with Dr. Smirnov and his wife.”

My gaze dropped to the youngest-looking of the boys—Arthur, I guessed—who sat silently dismantling a slice of pizza, his fingers pulling the crust into neat pieces. The others ignored him, though I sensed a wordless exchange passing between them.

Their names felt mismatched to their faces, oddly formal, as though someone had chosen them at random. Or perhaps Kserton was simply like that.

“They’re… very attractive,” I said carefully.

Tanya—now the name surfaced—grinned. “Oh, yes. But don’t bother. They keep to themselves. Always together. Four of them are already paired: Arthur with Viola, Maxim with Diana.”

I didn’t miss the faint notes of disapproval in Tanya’s voice. In a small town, it was probably scandalous enough when teenagers—raised under the same roof—didn’t bother to hide their closeness. I could only imagine the whispers swirling through Kserton about the Smirnovs and Yakovlevs. A year from now, someone else might occupy my place, but everyone would still remember them. Within a week, I’d be forgotten; their family, never.

“Who are the Smirnovs?” I asked. “They don’t look alike at all. I can’t even tell the twins apart.”

“They’re not actually related. Not by blood,” Tanya said. “Dr. Smirnov is fairly young, barely over thirty. All the kids are adopted. The Yakovlevs are easy—they’re the blond ones. The twins are just living with him temporarily… Nephews, maybe? I think their parents went to work in Europe for a while.”

I blinked. “But… aren’t they under eighteen? Shouldn’t they be in foster care? They seem… too grown-up.”

“The twins are eighteen, and Stas will be soon. The Yakovlevs have lived with the Smirnovs since they were about ten. The doctor’s wife is… their aunt, I think. Maybe. I could be wrong.” Tanya paused thoughtfully.

“Maybe the Smirnovs are just… good people, taking so many kids under their wing. My mom always says raising one is hard enough—let alone five.”

“Maybe,” Tanya murmured, but I caught a flicker of something else, a trace of unease—or perhaps simple jealousy.

“They can’t have children, you know,” she added after a moment, almost as if that explained everything—their kindness, their unusual household.

I kept sneaking glances at the “fivesome.” As usual, they were silent, staring in different directions, their trays untouched.

“Have they always lived in Kserton?” I asked, incredulous. How had I never heard of this strange family?

“Nope. They moved here from somewhere up north a couple of years ago. Murmansk, I think.” Tanya’s voice was quick, dismissive, as if it didn’t matter.

I felt a curious mix of sadness and relief. Sadness that even after all this time, they remained strangers, unrecognized despite their kindness, despite their almost otherworldly presence. Relief that I didn’t have to compete with them for attention. In a town like this, their gaze alone would make me vanish.

“Hey… what’s the name of the red-haired guy?” I asked cautiously, but Tanya’s knowing, almost condescending smile told me I’d already given myself away.

I watched him closely. He stared out the window, distant, disappointed—at what, I couldn’t guess. Tanya’s tale of the Smirnovs had softened my judgment, making me wonder how it must feel for them here, in this small town, far from the friends and places that mattered back home.

“His name’s Stanislav. He’s… impressive,” Tanya said, with a mock nonchalance. “But don’t fool yourself if he gives you a look. He’s already attached—someone stayed with him up north.” She pretended to snort, but her eyes betrayed her, a hint of sadness there. Clearly, she had known rejection herself.

I bit my lip to suppress a smile, then turned back to Stanislav. He had his back to me now, but a faint twitch in his cheek betrayed the ghost of a smile.

Minutes later, the four remaining at the table rose together, as if choreographed, and moved toward the tray line with the same effortless grace Diana had displayed earlier. I felt awkward, out of place—like a prop in a musical, dwarfed by the stars around me.

I had lingered longer with Rostova and her friends than I intended, and now panic nudged at me—biology class awaited. Dasha, the shy girl who had quietly reminded me of her name, was walking alongside me. Her quiet timidity mirrored my own, and for that, I liked her instantly.

We entered the lab in silence. Dasha found a seat behind one of the tall white metal tables that loomed over the floor like a small fortress. Unfortunately, her partner was already taken. The only available spot was in the first row, near the center, to the left of Stanislav.

I handed the teacher my pass and received a textbook, sneaking a glance at Stanislav as I walked past, hoping to confirm that the divine profile from the cafeteria was real.

The moment our eyes met, his gaze—darker than the night itself—cut through me. It was so intense, so sharp, that my spine tingled and my throat tightened. I felt exposed, as if he could peer straight into my soul and unravel it. Flustered, I turned to the teacher, cleared my throat, and shoved the pass under his arm with too much force. My cheeks burned. I wanted to disappear into the floor.

Kirill Nikolaevich signed my pass, handed me the textbook, and didn’t insist on having me introduce myself at the board, even though most of the faces in the classroom were strangers. I silently thanked myself for letting my hair fall freely on the way here. Bowing my head, letting the thick curtain of hair partly shield my face, I made my way to the only vacant seat.

Instinctively, I tried to shrink toward the far edge of the table, putting as much distance as possible between Stanislav and myself. Awkwardly, I pulled my notebook and pencil case from my backpack and placed them on the table. Peeking through stray strands of hair, I caught Stanislav’s gaze lingering on me. His fingers tightened around the pen. My mere presence seemed to irritate him so much that I could almost imagine him jabbing the pen toward me in frustration. Then he leaned back, sliding to the edge of his chair, turning away as if he’d caught a foul smell. I glanced at myself nervously, sniffing my hair and sweater just to be sure—I still smelled of vanilla shower gel, chamomile shampoo, and lavender conditioner. Surely these calming scents shouldn’t have provoked anyone.

The lesson dragged on over something I had already mastered in Rostov—the structure of the cell. To distract myself, I meticulously took notes, trying to ignore Stanislav’s abnormal attention. Occasionally, I stole glances at him, hoping it was my imagination. But no: he still looked hostile, perched on the edge of his seat like a predator. I noticed his hand clenched under the table, veins swelling on his tense forearm, the rolled-up sleeves revealing strength I could almost see carved in marble. Without his brothers flanking him, he seemed larger, less delicate, undeniably formidable.

Each second stretched endlessly. I had never waited for a bell with such desperate anticipation. What was wrong with him? Was he always like this? Had I somehow offended him already? I regretted judging Tanya so harshly; perhaps she had understood something I hadn’t.

It couldn’t be about me. It was only my first day, and I barely knew anyone. I hadn’t spoken a word to provoke him.

When I glanced at Stanislav one last time, I saw my reflection mirrored in his dark, fathomless eyes—black holes that seemed intent on swallowing me whole. His lips twitched with some grim distaste. I recoiled, clutching the edge of the table to stay upright, when the bell finally rang. Stanislav rose smoothly and exited the room. The tension evaporated, and I exhaled shakily, a wave of relief washing over me.

So much anger… and for what? My arms moved almost mechanically as I shoved my belongings back into my backpack, leaving my pen scattered across the table. I felt wounded, furious, and unreasonably insulted. Hot tears pricked my eyes—tears that always came with my anger, humiliating as they were, making me feel both fierce and fragile.

“Are you Nastya Chernaya?”

The voice was soft, male, curious. I turned to see a tall boy with chestnut hair glowing in the sunlight streaming through the window. His innocent blue eyes, framed by thick lashes, watched me attentively. The short bangs fell carelessly across his forehead, and his smile was warm—easy, unjudging, the opposite of Smirnov’s glare.

“Asya,” I corrected him with a small, forced smile.

“I’m Nikita, but friends call me Nik,” he said.

“Hi, Nik,” I replied. I never understood why so many kids shortened their names, but I didn’t want to ruin a first impression.

“Need help finding your next class?”

I waved my hand. “No, I have PE. I think I can manage.”

“Oh, I’m heading there too!” Nik exclaimed, as though the coincidence were extraordinary. We walked together. Nik was talkative, full of energy, weaving stories around me as we moved. He had lived in Sochi until he was twelve and seemed to know exactly how much I missed the sun. It turned out we even shared the same English teacher. Of all the people I had met that day, Nik felt like sunlight piercing through clouds, warming my shadowed thoughts.

I nearly forgot Stanislav—until Nik asked, “What did you do to Stas? He sat there with a scowl I’ve never seen before.”

I shivered involuntarily. So it wasn’t just me imagining it: Smirnov’s behavior had been abnormal. And undeniably, it had something to do with me. But what? Tears pricked my eyes again, and I turned away, unwilling to add myself to his unspoken list of rejected classmates.

“You mean the guy I sat next to in biology?” I asked innocently, trying to sound oblivious.

“Yeah,” Nikita said with a nervous chuckle. “He looked like he might jump up and tear you apart.”

“I… don’t know,” I shrugged. “We barely exchanged words.”

Nik whistled. “Of course he freaked out,” he grinned. “If I’d been sitting next to you, I’d definitely have talked to you.”

“Even in the front row, right in front of the teacher?”

“Even there,” Nikita confirmed without hesitation, and I liked his certainty.

After bidding Nik goodbye, I slipped behind the door of the women’s changing room. His last words lingered in my mind, carrying the faint promise that he found me appealing, and a warm, pleasant flutter spread through my chest. At my old school, boys had rarely noticed me. I had never kissed anyone, and I still had a whole year before turning eighteen. Perhaps Nik might be the first. Even the Western-style shortening of his name no longer grated on my ears; now, it seemed almost sweet, echoing with the thought of him.

Teacher Bobylev signed the permission slip and allowed us to sit on the bench for the first class, nipping any idea of doing research papers instead of exams in the bud. Back in Rostov, I’d only attended physical education classes twice during my senior years. Our homeroom teacher—a saintly woman—had let me and a few other girls skip lessons under the pretense of helping with the school newspaper. In reality, we’d locked ourselves in her office, sipping tea, nibbling on sweets everyone had brought from home, and talking about books. I adored those literary Thursdays. That was, perhaps, what I would miss the most about my old life.

Sports had never been my ally. Poor coordination had been my constant companion since childhood. My mother always joked that my legs ran ahead of my head, which explained my frequent falls. My father disagreed. When Maria brought me for the summer, Kostya tried every open sports club in town, convinced I simply hadn’t found the right one yet. Swimming, volleyball, basketball, gymnastics, even ballet—all fell victim to nature’s unequal struggle.

Sitting quietly through the entire class on the bench, happy that no ball came flying my way, I reluctantly made my way down to the first floor, to the duty teacher’s desk. As I turned the corner toward the recreation room, I froze. Stanislav stood there. I recognized him from behind—his tousled bronze hair unmistakable. Pressing myself against the wall, I silently prayed he hadn’t noticed me, waiting for him to leave.

He muttered as he leaned over the teacher’s desk, pointing at the schedule with insistence. I didn’t catch every word, but the meaning was clear: he wanted to reschedule his biology classes for another time.

I was stunned. Was it… because of me? Ridiculous, surely. He must have some other reason. And yet, the stress of moving, new people, a new life with my father—maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. It couldn’t be about me. We hadn’t even spoken. And yet… in my head, I had a long list of things I wanted to say to him.

Suddenly, two boys barreled past me, nearly knocking me over. Their whirlwind tossed a couple of stray hairs across my face. Stanislav froze. Slowly, he lifted his chin and glanced at me sideways, that same intense, heavy gaze locking onto me. A shiver ran through me, my skin prickling, hairs standing on end. For a second, I was frozen under his stare. Then he leaned back over the desk.

“Well,” he said, his voice smooth but tense, “if there’s nothing we can do, we’ll have to endure it. Sorry for wasting your time. Take care.” Without waiting for the teacher’s reply, he turned sharply and strode out the main entrance, leaving the building—and me—numb in his wake.

I approached the teacher’s desk, handing her the duty roster.

“How was your first day, Nastya?”

“Great,” I whispered, my throat tight with lingering resentment. I couldn’t even summon the energy to correct her. Surprisingly, she didn’t ask another question. After checking the signatures, we said our goodbyes.

Outside, I quickly spotted my father’s colleague’s car. Sliding into the back seat, I let the tears I had been holding in for the entire day finally fall.

Chapter Text

Fortunately, the policeman who had given me a ride hadn’t mentioned anything to my father. I was quietly grateful. The last thing I wanted was to burden Kostya with complaints about some unpleasant classmate—especially one who might not even have been angry at me personally.

My father arrived home late. By then, I had finished my homework and prepared a simple dinner—pasta with tomato sauce and ground beef. Kostya fetched a beer from the fridge and paused at the doorway, as if debating whether to get one for me too. The policeman inside me prevailed, and he returned to the table with only his own drink. I had tasted beer from my mother’s glass before—probably something my father didn’t know—but I stayed silent. I didn’t like it, and had no desire to repeat the experience.

We ate while watching a slapstick show about a mad scientist and his neighbor, trading sarcastic remarks about a plot neither of us found amusing.

After dinner, I cleared the table and washed the dishes. In gratitude, my father helped me dry the plates and put them away in the cabinet above the sink. Wishing him a good night, I changed into pajamas, tied my hair into a loose braid, and went to bed.

Sleep, however, eluded me. All night, I was haunted by the gaze of abyss-black eyes that promised nothing good. Morning found me shattered and exhausted.

The new day was a strange mixture of better and worse. Better, because the air had warmed, despite the dense gray clouds hanging overhead. It was easier to navigate the school now that I was beginning to know the other students. During English, I sat next to Nikita, who even walked me to my next class under the sharp gaze of Andrey. I felt a flutter of pride at the attention. If I had to choose, I liked Nikita more, though the feeling inside me bore little resemblance to love. Novels, of course, described it differently. In practice, I had nothing to compare it to.

It should have been a great day, but exhaustion cast its shadow. Concentrating in class was a struggle, and I often caught myself drifting, lost to the teacher’s words. Every step made me long to lie down, curl up, and sleep. By the time physical education arrived, I was barely holding myself together. I had hoped the gym teacher might let me sit out again, but instead, he sent me into the volleyball game.

It went horribly. The ball bounced off my hands as if mocking me, but that was only half the problem. I couldn’t send it in any particular direction. Two of my teammates were hit in the head. Embarrassing? Immensely. Yet, even seeing my awkwardness, Coach Bobylev made me keep playing.

Corridors, at least, were merciful. People had stopped staring, which lifted my spirits. At lunch, I sat in the middle of a noisy group: Nikita and Andrey joined the girls from the day before. If things continued like this, the next six months might be bearable—but life rarely followed anyone’s plans.

The famous “five” were in their usual seats in the dining room, only Stanislav missing. I exhaled a quiet relief. I didn’t want to feel that full weight of his gaze again. At the same time, anger and resentment had shifted overnight into something stranger. Speculation was useless, but the thought nagged: what had I done to draw such attention? I even considered asking him outright in front of everyone, though not today. Perhaps he had been unwell yesterday, and the look had nothing to do with me. That was the only plausible explanation I could summon.

By the end of lunch, he still hadn’t appeared. I went to biology class untroubled. Nik circled nearby, extolling the virtues of dogs over cats and joking that the latter were surely plotting to enslave humans.

In class, I sank happily into an empty table, spreading my books and papers across its surface like a small act of rebellion, imagining Stanislav’s scowl if he had actually appeared. If anyone else had glared at me for that, I would have understood. But somewhere in the back of my mind, a low, nagging voice whispered: “What if…”

What if he skipped classes because of me? The thought was absurd, almost arrogant. Yet I couldn’t shake it, even after the bell. How could someone loathe another’s presence so much that they would avoid them entirely? Sooner or later, his parents would intervene. Tanya had mentioned that Stanislav’s father was a doctor, capable of seeing through any feigned illness. I wished it would happen soon, while I still had enough resolve and indignation to confront him. In a few days, I would exhaust myself rehearsing every possible confrontation, and my energy would dissipate.

I had never been brave, never decisive. But I wanted, more than anything, to shout at Stanislav for yesterday’s incomprehensible display. To release the tension on the one responsible.

That evening, I discovered that Kostya’s culinary “masterpieces” were limited to omelets and scrambled eggs. Without much protest, I claimed my place in the kitchen, determined to contribute at least a little at home. From that moment on, cooking for the next six months became my responsibility—with one concession: once a week, Kostya would take us out to eat. I didn’t mind. There would be days when I lacked the energy to cook anyway. Our final year of high school demanded too much effort to fuss over breakfast.

For now, I had a slight advantage in some subjects thanks to the rigorous program back in Rostov, but I knew it wouldn’t last. And looming over everything was the specter of geometry—a subject I dreaded. Passing it with anything less than a B would leave me with a pile of Cs, and the idea of taking the Unified State Exam in it was inconceivable.

Hastily swallowing my scrambled eggs, I opened the refrigerator—and froze. It was almost empty. Nothing for breakfast. Kostya and I made a quick list of groceries together. But then my father surprised me with a bank card. He and my mother had agreed to open a child account, complete with a customizable spending limit in the app. I was stunned and touched. It felt like recognition—from my parents—that I was no longer a child. All my life I had used only cash; I had never even kept a card in my wallet.

The second gift was a sleek, black bicycle, thoughtfully hidden by Kostya on the balcony. No frills: a solid frame, a wide, comfortable seat, a small gold-plated bell on the left handlebar. No decorations, no tacky plastic flowers—just a blank canvas I could personalize as I wished. Dad had attached a luggage rack over the rear wheel, complete with side mounts for bags. The canvas panniers were already in place, ready to help with groceries or errands. Kostya also gave me a lock and a bright yellow raincoat with pink zippers on the pockets—a perfect set for the bike.

I walked to the mirror and tried on the new outfit. Pulling the hood over my head, I caught my reflection and felt like the main character from Darkness. If I could find a red balloon somewhere, I could have given a nod to Stephen King fans.

Dad leaned against the hallway wall, watching me expectantly.
“Well? Do you like it?”

“It’s amazing. Thank you, Dad,” I said, smiling so wide it hurt my cheeks.

Kostya’s eyes went wide. He froze mid-blink, staring at me in stunned silence.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, half-worried he’d have a heart attack.

The question seemed to pull him back to reality. He scratched his head thoughtfully, trying to hide a grin.
“Someone just called me… dad.”

***

Kostya helped me bring the iron horse down to the first floor before heading off to his duties. I watched my father’s car disappear from view and marveled at how strange it felt that, in less than a week, the unfamiliar word “dad” had slipped so effortlessly from my lips. It had once been a struggle to even say it, a reflection of the emptiness between us. Perhaps I had really grown up, and childish grievances had finally taken a back seat. Who could say.

I pulled out my phone and located the nearest supermarket, mapping the route. A handlebar-mounted holder would have been ideal for glancing at the map on the go, but I made do. The bike still felt luxurious, a small thrill in itself. All that remained was to find some sticker packs online and give the frame a personal touch.

Most of the way followed a straight road. I took the pedestrian underpass Kostya had shown me on the way from the station. The forest air was rich, pungent, and spicy; the scent of pine filled my lungs, making each breath deep and even.

No one passed me from behind. No strangers appeared coming toward me. There was only me, the road, the bike, and the occasional car speeding above.

I felt a rare calm. The wind teased my hair, and for a moment I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, recalling a favorite childhood melody. The tune often played on a loop in my mind, though the lyrics—and even its name—had long faded. Maria had once called it “Asya’s lullaby.”

Closing my eyes had been a mistake. A small cobblestone, lying innocently in my path, betrayed the peaceful rhythm. My wheel hit it, jerking sharply to the right. I lost control, and gravity did the rest, hurling me down the slope.

I don’t know how long I flew. It all seemed to happen in a single, impossible instant: riding, thinking of my mother’s smile… and then rolling head over heels through the grass, colliding with a pine tree. My scream was not pain, but shock. For a moment, the world went still. My bike rested at the slope’s foot; I lay sprawled at least five meters away. I pushed myself upright, palms stinging, wiping dirt onto my jeans. Tiny scratches speckled my hands; only one cut, marked by a bead of blood, seemed significant.

A crunch sounded behind me. Fear shot through me; I whirled around. Nothing but tree trunks.

“Who’s there?” I called. Only the faint hum of distant traffic answered.

I stood, shaking off pine needles and dirt. My new raincoat was streaked and soiled at the elbows; my jeans were battered as well, black fabric emphasizing every mark. Deciding it wasn’t catastrophic, I resolved not to go home for a change of clothes. I could remove the coat at the store entrance to cover the worst spots. My bike had survived; one pedal had picked up dirt, but a wet wipe from my backpack solved that. You never know what will come in handy, which is why backpacks—or women’s bags—are like Hermione’s bottomless pouch.

Looking up the steep incline, I realized I lacked the strength to ride up the slick soil. The soles of my once-clean sneakers sank into the damp ground. I abandoned the idea and began walking the bike through the forest, hoping another path would appear.

Riding now seemed foolish. With my coordination, a second collision with a tree would not be so poetic. I pushed the bike alongside me, carefully navigating the roots and undergrowth.

Trying not to lose heart, I lifted my gaze to the treetops, green and bathed in the last rays of autumn sun. The birds had long since gone silent. Dense, complete silence filled the forest, broken only by the hum of distant cars.

A gnawing feeling told me I was being watched. Logically, anyone nearby would have appeared when I fell—but what if they weren’t “anyone”?

I shook off the thought. Panic would get me lost. I patted my jacket, searching for my phone. One zipper, two zippers—empty. It must have fallen during the tumble. Frustration surged. I had traveled far from the fall site. The forest was monotonous, each tree a twin to the next. Finding my exact spot now was impossible. No signal, no map, no idea how long until sunset. Perfect.

A sharp crunch echoed from the depths of the woods, like a dry twig underfoot. I spun, but saw only a pine ten steps away, its lower branches swaying. Perhaps a startled bird, a squirrel—who knows what lives in these trees.

I gripped the handlebars tightly and pushed forward, praying the forest would finally yield a way out.

***

It’s hard to say how long I had been walking. When I finally stumbled upon a clearing, a patch of earth free from the uneven dips and rises of the forest, a wave of genuine relief washed over me. My feet quickened their pace in the last few meters, as if desperate to drag my body out of the emerald thicket. Once I stepped onto the open road, that peculiar, ticklish unease in my stomach faded, as if the curious eyes that might have been watching had vanished into thin air. How strange it felt.

Fate, it seemed, decided to reward my ordeal: right across the road stood the very supermarket I had been heading for. Its bright red sign, letters bold and white, gleamed in the fading light, a neat subtitle beneath promising: Open 24/7. Finally, a landmark I could count on to find my way home. Hesitantly, I decided I should grab a bottle of water and a couple of chocolate bars—just in case trouble found me on the way back. They wouldn’t be superfluous in my backpack, and having a little sweetness on hand is never a bad idea.

Surveying the area in front of the store, I noticed there was no designated bike parking. Nothing for it, then. I set my jaw into what I hoped was a serious expression, leaned my trusty iron companion against the railing by the shopping carts, and fished a lock from my backpack to secure it. I remembered all too well my first disastrous bike parking in Rostov—leaving it outside a busy cinema only to return to find nothing but a wheel and a lock. That mistake would never repeat.

Why so much sternness over something as simple as parking a bike? So passersby wouldn’t mutter about “bikes having no place here.” It was a small town’s oversight, common everywhere: everyone spoke earnestly about ecology, yet no one bothered to make space for alternative transportation, the kind that didn’t guzzle fuel. Biking, after all, keeps you moving and gets you where you need to go. Yes, it’s sweaty, but proper clothing and a spare shirt in your backpack solve that. A thin merino sweater can do the trick, keeping you warm, wicking away moisture, and staying relatively odorless. I even tried to convince my mom to switch to biking—unsuccessfully. Her go-to rebuttal? “You’re just afraid of driving a car.”

I wasn’t sure what motivated me more: trying to consume less, refusing to buy yet another beautiful planner until the old one’s pages were full, or choosing practical clothing, expensive but lasting longer than the flashy foreign brands filling the malls. Kostya claimed no such stores existed in Kserton—perhaps he just hadn’t looked carefully, indulging himself when he visited Rostov. We always traveled together, as Kserton had no airport.

At the supermarket entrance, the glass doors slid open, revealing aisles stretching far into the fluorescent-lit expanse. My eyes widened; the interior seemed impossibly vast.

“Bigger on the inside than out,” I whispered with a small, restrained smile, thinking of a line from a favorite TV show.

A ten-ruble coin later, I had unhooked a cart and dropped my backpack inside. I tied my jacket around my waist, uncertain how filthy my jeans had become, and, feeling halfway presentable, began to push the cart, eyes scanning the towering shelves.

The shopping list, along with my phone, had vanished somewhere. I relied entirely on memory, hoping not to overlook anything crucial. Improvising in the kitchen wasn’t new to me, but I preferred not to push my luck.

The spice aisle made my eyes widen. Tiny paper packets, plastic containers with grinders, neat blends, single spices—it was a riot of color and smell. I crouched to inspect a flashy laminated packet for chicken seasoning.

“Of course, it’s all curry and paprika,” I muttered, thinking I was alone.

“Don’t like curry?”

Startled, I looked up. Golden curls, intense blue eyes, a teasing smile revealing perfect teeth.

“Nikita?” I blinked, caught mid-thought.

He crouched beside me, squinting down the long row of spices. “Ah, here it is!” A green packet labeled Poultry Seasoning appeared between his fingers. “Dehydrated garlic, salt, marjoram, coriander—and not a gram of curry, I promise.”

He winked, handing me the seasoning. I accepted gratefully—not because I needed help, but because I wanted to be home before sunset.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling easily. “Were you… following me?”

Now it was my turn to surprise him. His expression flickered in confusion before he straightened, arms stretching wide.

“No, no,” he said, his blue eyes disarming. I almost bit my tongue to stop a silly joke from escaping. “I just… work here.”

The red vest he flicked casually over his shoulder bore the store’s worn logo near his heart. For a moment, I ignored it entirely, focusing on Nikita’s face instead.

“I must stand out with this bright yellow coat.”

“Like a firefly,” he added.

“Exactly,” I agreed, charmed by the comparison. “Saving up for a car?”

“Easier than that—it’s a family business.” He gestured as if to embrace the store itself. “Dad believes you need to start at the bottom to understand how a business works from the inside. So you’ll find me here two to four days a week.” His words trembled with a trace of melancholy, but then a spark lit in his eyes, as though he had just discovered a long-sought idea. “By the way… we could use help. Evening shifts are hard to fill in this town.”

“Everything in Kserton shuts by six,” I said.

He nodded. “Used to. But after the bypass opened, travelers and truckers began stopping. You might have seen the gas station at the end. Dad noticed and decided to stay open 24/7. We sell goods, run takeout… hired kitchen staff, but the registers are still short-handed. More shifts than we’d like.”

“And pay well?”

He waved ambiguously. I raised an eyebrow.

“Well…” he faltered, unsure if we shared the same concept of money. “Not much by Moscow standards… maybe okay by Kserton’s.”

“I don’t know how much they make in Moscow or Novosibirsk.”

He perked up. “Then forget what I said. It’s a lot!” Leaning on the cart at the pasta aisle, he grinned so wide I almost thought he was flirting.

“Even a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity deserves thought,” I said. “What if I’m overestimating it?”

His gaze held mine, teasing and certain. “I have no doubt you’ll succeed.”

With Nikita’s help, I found everything quickly. A natural guide, he knew exactly which shelf held what I needed, saving me countless minutes wandering endless aisles.

As we neared the automatic doors, twilight had already begun to settle over Kserton. The sun had long since slipped below the horizon, and the small town lay swathed in early evening shadows. When the doors slid open, a crisp wave of cold air hit my face, and I instinctively tugged my jacket from around my waist, draping it over my shoulders as I let out a short whistle.

“It gets dark so fast,” I muttered, a twinge of annoyance curling in my chest at the thought of finding my way home. “Hey, do you guys sell bike lights?”

Nik frowned slightly. “Nope. You can only get that sort of thing in the city center,” he said, pushing the cart behind me. “Where’s your car?”

“I’m on my bike. Not even eighteen yet,” I added quickly, sidestepping the question rather than explaining my mode of transport in detail.

For a moment, his face twisted in thought, glancing between me and the contents of the cart as if trying to puzzle something out.

“How are you going to carry all this?” he finally asked.

Silently, I led him to my bike. With a practiced motion, I unhooked one of the folded bags from the rack and unfolded it, showing him the roomy interior.

“You have no idea how much can fit in here,” I said, a faint smile tugging at my lips. In Rostov, people never understood how I managed to haul a mountain of groceries on a bike, and I rather enjoyed proving that it could be done.

Nik’s gaze lingered, sharp and unwavering. He stood straight, arms at his sides, watching as I swiftly divided the groceries between two bags. Near the end, I realized I’d overbought—but the extra items slipped neatly into my backpack, invisible to him.

I unhooked the bike from the cart rack and swung my leg over the pedal, ready to start, when Nik’s hands landed on the handlebars.

“You’re really going to ride like that?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. I’ll take it slow. The road seems well-lit.”

“But you’re not taking the road itself—you’ll be on the pedestrian path below it.”

“Yeah?” I said, unsure what he was getting at.

His eyes searched mine, questioning, almost pleading. I stubbornly shook off the worry.

“There’s no light down there,” he said, “and you don’t have a flashlight.”

“So what do you suggest?” I said, a smirk teasing my lips, imagining myself stranded at the supermarket overnight because of a knightly sense of duty and no way to call my dad.

Nik’s hands left the handlebars abruptly. He strode back into the store through the main entrance, tossing something back with a murmur that sounded like, wait. When he returned, the store’s branded vest was draped over his elbow, and in its place, I found him clad in a black leather jacket, guarding against the chill.

I blinked, caught in the subtle transformation. One garment, and yet it changed everything: Nikita the polite supermarket worker became Nik, the confident, daring young man, his posture straight, each step deliberate. He exuded energy, bold and magnetic, and I froze, reluctant to blink, trying to etch the moment into memory.

Even as he picked up both bags and gestured for me to follow, the spell didn’t break. He moved with a casual ease, as if the weight of groceries were nothing, and I had to push myself not to fall behind.

Through the parking lot, he stopped at a dark burgundy Jeep. Streetlights caught the tinted windows, though inside, the beige interior and a pair of plush dice dangling from the rearview mirror were visible. He opened the trunk, placed the bags inside, and folded down the back seats. With more space, my bicycle slid in without a struggle.

As he secured it, I noticed the wheels crusted with mud and began to apologize, horrified at the thought of dirt smearing the beige interior.

“Don’t worry,” he said, pointing to the lining. “Dad and I often haul cement and sand. Construction’s in full swing—there’s plenty of dirt in here already.”

“What are you building?” I asked, settling into the passenger seat and buckling in.

“A dog kennel,” he replied curtly, and I sensed he didn’t want to elaborate. “Where do you live?”

“Right at the city’s edge, in Bugrad.”

Nikita glanced at me, surprised, and pressed the ignition. “And you came all this way? There are plenty of grocery stores nearby.”

“Are there? I didn’t see them on the map,” I admitted, perplexed.

“Maps won’t tell you much about Kserton,” he said dismissively, and the car eased smoothly into the quiet streets.

“And you?” I asked. “If you wore that leather jacket more often, maybe I’d agree to a bigger city tour—on your free time, of course.”

For a moment, Nikita was silent, as if weighing my words carefully.

“Depends on how you behave,” he finally said, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

***

For the rest of the ride, I peppered Nikita with questions about the city. It turned out that the heart of the otherwise unremarkable Kserton was an old sawmill perched on the outskirts. The town’s founding had been handed down through generations, a tale of noble settlers who came from afar and were the first to stake their claim in the emerald forests. They built a family estate and devoted themselves to logging, drawing peasants to work the land. Slowly, the town grew, attracting newcomers in search of opportunity—those fleeing droughts or floods, wanderers lured by whispers of a picturesque place where labor was always needed. They ventured westward, braving untamed, sometimes hostile wilderness, clinging to the hope of a new home.

This was the story of Nikita’s family. He descended from fifth-generation settlers who had made their way north to Kserton from the southern lands. I would never have guessed it from his features—nothing in his appearance hinted at sun-soaked origins. If anything, the faint translucence of his eyes suggested a more northern lineage.

“Did the first settlers’ house survive?” I asked as the car veered under the “Bugrad” sign.

“Yes,” Nikita said, pausing for a moment, brow furrowed as he navigated a pothole. “So what?”

“I’d like to see it,” I said, unable to hide my distaste for modern glass office blocks and faceless apartment complexes. “They steal the beauty of the landscape. Old buildings, by contrast—they’re low, magnificent, with soaring ceilings and wide window frames. They have character.”

Nikita nodded in understanding, a faint, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips.

“Then you’ll probably like it. It’s an 18th-century estate, almost a miniature version of Peter the Great’s Winter Palace on the Neva embankment. But I don’t think you’ll get inside.”

“Closed for restoration, I suppose?”

Karimov shook his head slowly, choosing his words with care. “Not entirely. There used to be open days, tours twice a week. I remember in third grade, the whole class went to see the estate and the sawmill. It’s still operational. Some parents even work there. It was more fun than boring, though I remember little—so much time has passed. But two years ago, the heirs returned and closed it off. They built an ugly fence around the perimeter, ruining the view. I don’t know what the Smirnovs have done to the city’s heritage.”

My eyes widened at the familiar name, my mouth falling open in surprise. The school’s renowned top five… from the founding family? I felt a pang of pity for the Smirnovs. They hadn’t failed to claim their place, yet the land remained foreign to everyone else.

“Smirnovs are local celebrities, it seems,” I murmured, a smirk playing at my lips, confused by the swirl of emotions inside me—a cocktail of admiration, irritation, and fascination that refused to settle into a single hue.

“Or like a royal couple,” Nik added dryly, and I couldn’t help grinning.

“Now it makes sense why they act so… strangely. Anyway, Stas—” I stopped mid-sentence, realizing I’d said too much.

Nikita’s expression darkened. The air in the car seemed to thicken, mirroring the weight of his mood.

“Did he do something to you?” His voice held a metallic edge I hadn’t heard before.

I hesitated, choosing my words carefully, aware that the car had stopped and that the familiar entrance door loomed outside the window.

“No, not really,” I said lightly, hoping to close the topic. My thoughts were mere assumptions, unsupported by anything. I liked Nik, and I didn’t want to burden him with my jumble of feelings.

“Thanks for the ride,” I added, unbuckling my seatbelt and stepping out. Nik opened the trunk, muttering under his breath as he wrestled the bike free.

“Need a hand carrying it up to your apartment?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. You’ve already done enough,” I said with a smile, inwardly relieved that I wouldn’t have to drag the bike upstairs, yet wanting to seem unbothered in front of Kostya. “See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” Nik’s voice lingered in my mind, soft and warm. His gaze followed me until the entrance door closed behind me, leaving a quiet echo of the evening in its wake.

***

I tried to slip the key into the apartment door as quietly as possible, wary that Kostya might have returned from his shift. A scattered pool of light from a desk lamp at the far end of the hallway fractured the night’s darkness. I froze, listening to the thick, heavy silence, straining for any hint of my father’s presence. It would be better if he were already asleep—then I could spend the morning hunting for a new phone and avoid confessing the loss of the old one.

Dragging my bike inside, I leaned it against the wall and tossed my jacket onto the ottoman in the corner. Running my fingers through my disheveled hair, I exhaled in relief. The apartment was entirely mine for the night. In the bathroom, I lazily peeled off my clothes. Cranking the shower tap nearly to full blast, I stepped under the hot water, letting the sharp streams sting my face and neck. With each drop, the anxious thoughts began to wash away. But the moment I closed my eyes, the memory returned—the unshakable feeling of being watched in the forest. A shiver raced down my spine, deepening the fear simmering inside. I would never set foot in that forest again. End of story.

After the shower, I wrapped my damp hair in a towel, twisting it into a tight turban. Wiping the fogged mirror with my palm, I grinned at my reflection. The mound of terry cloth leaned dramatically to the right, making it look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa perched on my head.

But the sight alone wasn’t enough to lift my mood. I trudged to my room, replaying Nikita’s story of the sawmill and the founders’ estate in my mind. Curiosity gnawed at me—I needed to see what the house actually looked like. Sitting at my desk, I opened the computer and typed the city’s name along with the word “sights” into the search bar. A two-page list of links appeared, and without hesitation, I clicked the first result. My jaw dropped.

The top banner displayed an astonishing mansion, fit for an emperor—or perhaps Queen Elizabeth II—but certainly not for a doctor and his wife. The ceilings seemed impossibly high, at least eight meters, though perhaps it was an illusion created by the pale blue columns stretching across both stories of the facade. Gilded olive branches curled over the arched windows, giving the building a magical aura, as if each window were a portal to a world where the air always smelled of fresh-cut grass and sea.

I found the “Gallery” section of the site, which held five photographs of the ground-floor rooms, each accompanied by a brief description. One image revealed a grand hall lined with a painting gallery. The frames displayed landscapes at sunset and seascapes, while an impressive family portrait hung centrally on the wall. The figures wore elegant ball gowns.

The photo’s resolution was poor, so the faces were blurry, yet the silhouettes felt familiar. Perhaps I had glimpsed this painting in Rostov; temporary exhibitions often traveled there. But I knew I might never confirm it—my memory was notoriously unreliable. The website provided neither the artist’s name nor the title of the painting, and further searches seemed impossible.

A glance at the corner of the screen made my heart skip: fifteen minutes to midnight. I opened a map in my browser, searching for electronics stores, only to find that all of them opened after the first lesson. Resigned, and hoping to conceal the loss of my phone from Kostya, I trudged to bed.

***

The next morning, a sudden bang on the front door jolted me awake. My body leapt from the bed out of sheer habit, only for my vision to darken, my head to spin, and my strength to drain away—leaving me sliding back onto the mattress.

“What a ‘good morning,’” I muttered, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Heavy footsteps and the clatter of dishes drifted from the kitchen. Kostya must have returned from his night shift, bustling about to make breakfast. Once my heartbeat settled, I dragged myself out of bed and began dressing. My wardrobe offered a spectrum of greens and browns, save for the solitary white shirt and crimson cardigan. After yesterday’s misadventures, the usual colors felt dull. A shopping trip might do wonders—after all, I had been given a bank card for a reason.

I pulled the “exceptional cardigan” from its hanger and slipped it over the snow-white shirt, rolling the sleeves to my elbows. A quick glance in the mirror satisfied me. Thinking the outfit needed a little sparkle, I reached for the box of pendants—but in doing so, I nudged the mouse. The laptop sprang to life, displaying the embarrassing trail of yesterday’s searches.

Still, mornings found me sharper than nights ever did. Pouting, I sat down and began scouring the web for stores that sold smartphones, also searching for phone company outlets to recover my number. It hadn’t occurred to me yesterday, but a new SIM-card wouldn’t matter if I wanted to hide the loss from Kostya.

The plan was already failing: every store opened after the first lesson. Glancing at the clock, I felt the familiar thrum of disappointment. Even if some opened early, reaching both before classes began was impossible. My first lesson—a lab—was at risk, as was the last, led by the principal. Seven lessons in total. Everything seemed set against me. I would have to try my luck after school.

Lost in thought, I nearly forgot the jewelry entirely, remembering it only after washing up and heading for breakfast.

“Good morning!” Kostya called from the stove, a towel slung over his shoulder.

My father, in his work uniform, seemed naïvely protected by a small scrap of fabric pinned to his chest. Drops of oil flew from the sizzling pan, some destined, I’d bet, for his blue uniform.

“Good morning,” I peeked over his shoulder, curious about breakfast.

Scrambled eggs. Of course.

“Dad, can you hold the door when you come home from night shifts? I got really scared yesterday.”

Kostya frowned, the meaning of my words sinking in slowly. After a pause, he whispered, “I’m sorry,” his voice tinged with something fragile—sadness, maybe. “I’m used to being alone. I’ll try, I promise.”

The sudden change in his expression left a lump in my throat. My request had stirred something in him; it wasn’t worth burdening him further with news of the phone. Fortunately, he didn’t ask.

“By the way, I called you yesterday. Wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

“Think, Asya. Think.”

“Oh? My phone died at the supermarket. The map drained the battery.”

I studied his tired face for a moment. Thankfully, the explanation sounded simple enough, and my voice stayed steady. To steer him away from further questions, I added:

“I even ran into a classmate there—Nikita. Turns out his family owns the supermarket. Too bad I forgot the name, but the facade had a bright red sign. The inside is huge! I didn’t expect that in Kserton. By the time I finished shopping, it was dark, and Nik offered me a ride home.”

“Nik, as in Nikita?” Kostya furrowed his brow, thinking.

I nodded. Slowly, the tension in his face softened, deep wrinkles easing.

“Oh, you mean the one near the new highway! That belongs to the Karimovs,” he said, flipping the eggs and sliding them onto a plate. “Good people.”

He said no more, and I carried the breakfast to the table. Kostya grabbed utensils from the drawer and an orange juice carton from the fridge, sitting opposite me as he dug in. I was about to follow when I realized the juice had no glasses. I began rummaging through the cabinets when his phone rang. A couple of rings later, he answered in a tone sharper than usual:

“Yeah?”

I continued hunting for a glass, catching fragments of the conversation:

“How many bodies… Address… Yes… Secure the area… Canine unit… I’ll be there soon.”

A muffled thud followed. I finally found a glass and turned to see that Kostya had tossed the phone across the table. Without pause, he ate, barely chewing before washing each bite down with orange juice. Then he stood, kissed me on the forehead, and hurried to the hallway, snatching his phone and leather jacket.

“The phone’s ringing. Someone from my team will pick you up today,” he said, tying his shoes.

“But I have a bike now,” I protested. He waved me off.

“How many classes today?”

“Seven.”

His brows drew together in concern. He placed his hands on my shoulders, leaning down so our eyes met. His voice softened, full of fatherly care:

“Asya, something bad is happening in the city. I can’t tell you everything, but I’ll feel better if someone well-prepared accompanies you home tonight. Make your father happy, okay?”

Looking into his eyes, I felt a prickling in my soul—fear, pure and unmistakable.

“Okay,” I whispered, unable to imagine the dangers he might face.

***

Arriving at school, I paused in the parking lot, shifting my backpack onto one shoulder as I began searching for the lock tucked inside. The textbooks weighed it down, making one-handed fumbling risky—I didn’t want to drop the library books onto the wet asphalt, smudging their covers. Squatting down, I set the bag on the ground, unzipped it wider, and let a sliver of light into the dark compartment. Finally, I spotted the lock at the bottom and carefully tugged it out.

As I raised my head, my eyes met his. Stanislav stood by the school entrance, his back pressed casually against the wall. For a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, he studied me with a gaze so measured it seemed almost unnatural. There was no flicker of feeling in his expression, no hint of what he was thinking. It was unsettling, like staring at a figure suspended between life and something else entirely. Stanislav Smirnov was a closed book, sealed with a dozen hidden keys scattered across the world.

The mysteries surrounding his family had always fascinated me—the portraits on the walls, the family museum shrouded in secrecy, the quiet return to the city. Who were the people in those portraits? Why had the house been locked away from prying eyes? My curiosity nudged me to catch a glimpse of the mansion, but I shook my head, trying to dismiss the obsession, and in that brief distraction, he was gone.

How strange. Perhaps I had been lost in a daydream, oblivious to the passage of time.

Pocketing the lock, I climbed the stairs toward the school entrance. Pushing the door open with my shoulder, I stepped into the recreation room. Behind the teacher’s desk sat the same woman from yesterday, only now she wore a pale yellow skirt suit. Around her neck was a tightly knotted silk scarf in emerald green, embroidered with curling orange motifs that reminded me of thick, winding branches.

The sight of it pulled an image from my mind—a forest at sunset, sunlight filtering through sparse leaves, shadows stretching long across the ground. A shiver of unease ran down my spine, as if unseen eyes were watching me. Before I could turn away, the teacher called:

“Asya! Come here, please.”

I approached cautiously, puzzled. Why would she need me?

“Did you lose your phone yesterday?”

“Where did you—” I began, but she cut me off.

“Describe it to me.”

I hesitated, searching for a detail I could remember. “It’s dark… a faint blue tint. There’s a deep scratch on the right edge of the back panel—I made it myself when I tried to attach a badge from my favorite band to my jeans pocket. Not my brightest moment.”

The teacher nodded, satisfied, and with two fingers pulled open a drawer. From within, she produced the phone and held it out to me.

I stared. The longer I looked, the lower my jaw dropped.

“Go on, take it,” she urged.

Hands trembling slightly, I reached for the phone, disbelief clinging to every thought. It was undeniably mine.

“How… how did you get it?” I asked.

“Stanislav Smirnov brought it to school. He said it was yours.”

I froze, blinking rapidly, trying to reconcile this with reality. I never took my phone out in class. Stanislav couldn’t have seen it. Our paths had crossed only twice: during biology and in the cafeteria. And yet, I had lost this phone yesterday—in the woods, not at school, not on the road—but deep in the forest.

“Um… thank you,” I managed to say.

The teacher smiled kindly, then returned her attention to the papers before her. I turned to head to class, but my eyes caught him again. Stanislav. Watching me.

Breathing in through my nose, I squared my shoulders and moved toward him. My lips pressed together, anger bubbling up. I’d show this persistent observer…

Then—collision.

I went down hard, my head snapping back and striking the floor.

“Damn, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you!” An unfamiliar voice, freckled and panicked, reached me as hands reached to help me up.

***

When I stepped into the classroom, the desk next to mine was empty. Had Smirnov somehow managed to change the schedule? I snorted quietly, adjusted my backpack on my shoulder, and made my way to my seat, offering the teacher an apologetic smile for being late. As soon as I sat down and began hastily rifling through my bag for the things I needed, a sharp, unpleasant screech pierced the air—someone had shifted the chair beside me. Then, soft and melodic, a voice spoke:

“Hi.”

I lifted my head. The fact that Smirnov had initiated the conversation was already in my favor. Now, he couldn’t slip away after class had started. Of course, talking under the teacher’s watchful eyes would be tricky, but I wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip by.

Stanislav settled into the nearby chair, sliding to the very edge of the desk as he always did. With practiced ease, he pulled a leather-bound notebook and a pen from his bag, then turned his attention to me, ignoring the teacher’s lecture entirely.

Even with damp, tousled hair, he looked like he had stepped straight out of a commercial for hair gel. A shadow of a smile flickered on his perfect lips, and for the first time, his face seemed… friendly, despite the careful watchfulness in his eyes.

“Sorry about last time,” he began, watching my reaction closely during the pause. “I didn’t even get a chance to introduce myself. I had a terrible stomach ache. I wasn’t really myself. My name is Stanislav—or Stas, if you prefer. I already know yours; everyone’s talking about the new girl.”

Such meticulous politeness. It was easy to accept his explanation, but the story about the phone lingered in my mind like an unsolved puzzle. Now he even knew how I corrected my name. Was he… eavesdropping on everyone?

“Why didn’t you call me Anastasia, like everyone else?”

Stanislav’s brow furrowed. “Do you ask people to call you that specifically?” His confusion was evident, written across his handsome face.

“Yes. I just… don’t remember mentioning it around you.”

He shrugged and opened his notebook, looking away.

“Nothing surprising, really. Everyone’s talking about you—from younger students to teachers. Even women in the supermarket were whispering about the suddenly appearing daughter of a police officer.”

Caught.

“So you listen to whispers in supermarkets too?” I asked, incredulous.

“Not my fault some people’s whispers are as loud as music in a stadium,” he replied with a sly smirk, then turned to rewrite the topic on the board.

I glanced at Kirill Nikolaevich, who was watching us. Realizing I hadn’t even opened my notebook, I scrambled to catch up. Meeting the teacher’s eyes, I offered a silent apology through my efforts, and he nodded, continuing the lesson.

Today, we had a laboratory session. Thankfully, the teacher had only just begun explaining the key points. Walking between the rows, he distributed sets of specimen glasses to each pair. Our task was to identify the stages of metastasis and place the slides in the correct order, examining each through a microscope. Onion root cells, no internet, textbooks tucked away in bags. Twenty minutes.

“Shall we, ladies first?” Stanislav asked, sliding the microscope to the center of the table.

I studied him carefully, weighing my thoughts: had he been following me obsessively, or how had he even found my phone?

“If you want, I can start,” Stanislav said hesitantly, noticing my pause. “It’s up to you.”

Deciding that his answer might reveal motives I wasn’t ready to untangle, I chose to focus on the lab and avoid trouble with Kirill Nikolaevich.

“I’ll start,” I said, moving my chair closer. Stanislav tensed slightly, freezing despite the space between us.

I took the nearby glass slide and placed it under the microscope, adjusting the lens to forty times magnification. It took a moment to sharpen the image.

“Prophase,” I announced confidently.

As I went to remove the slide, his fingers brushed against mine. I flinched—his touch was unexpectedly cold, like holding a glass of ice—but it wasn’t the chill that startled me. It was the sudden, electric thrill that ran through me, making my body tighten involuntarily.

“Are you sure you don’t have anemia?” I blurted, glancing at his pale skin. “Your hands… they’re still icy.”

A mischievous smile curved his lips, dimples appearing at the corners. He looked away, examining the new slide with intensified interest.

“You’re right. Prophase,” he said, replacing the slide deftly. “My father’s a doctor, very concerned about his children’s health. Annual check-ups, every test imaginable.”

“It must be expensive, keeping track of so many siblings.”

Stanislav shrugged, as if money were the last thing on his mind.

“So your classmates have already mapped the family tree and hidden treasures in the Smirnov mansion, the legendary ‘great Smirnov couple’?”

“Well… not exactly.”

I hesitated. I hadn’t expected such a question. Stanislav’s smiling mask stayed in place, and even as he examined the second slide, he kept one eye on me.

“You just… stand out,” he said.

“How so?”

“Something about you. The whole school seems to be going crazy over you.”

“But not you?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Just a question.”

Heat rose to my cheeks. What could I even say? Your family won the genetic lottery? Viola’s golden hair pales next to yours? You spend every evening in the gym, yet look effortlessly perfect?

“Yes… not me,” I muttered. “Everything here is new to me, so my eyes wander. I’m curious, observing everything, trying to find something to hold onto. I spent summer here long ago… My parents divorced. Kostya stayed in Kserton, and…”

“When you say ‘Kostya,’ do you mean Konstantin Cherny, the policeman?”

I nodded, amazed once again at how everyone seemed connected.

“Your father is a good man,” Stanislav said, straightening, setting aside his microscope. “Interphase.”

“You know him?”

He looked at the ceiling, weighing his words, then gave an ambiguous shake of his head. “You could say that. He consults with my father sometimes. There aren’t many specialists here, and my dad has experience in forensic medicine. He helps out of kindness.”

“And you?”

“I help at the hospital sometimes,” Staniclav said, pride gleaming in his eyes. “That’s how I sometimes cross paths with you.”

“Interesting,” I thought, noting the Kserton tendency to follow parental footsteps. “Shall I check the phase?”

Stanislav gestured, inviting me. “Please.”

I leaned in, adjusting the microscope, only to make the focus worse. Biting my lip, I twisted the dial back and forth, concentrating so hard that his voice became a blur of sounds in my head. Then I remembered my purpose—and managed to focus.

“By the way,” I said, pausing to catch his attention. Stanislav stopped, waiting. “Thank you for returning my phone.”

A brief pause hung between us, and the air seemed to hum with unspoken tension.

“What phone?” Stanislav’s surprise sounded almost genuine, and I couldn’t help but smile inwardly.

I tore myself away from the microscope, leaving my work unfinished, and reached into the back pocket of my jeans to pull out my phone.

“This one.”

“Mm,” Stanislav murmured, raising his eyebrows in a theatrical arch, yet there was recognition flickering in his gaze. “Nice. Is it new?”

I ignored the question, asking the one that burned at me. “Where did you find it?”

“I couldn’t find anything,” he muttered, scribbling in his notebook before deftly pulling the microscope toward him. His thin fingers replaced one glass slide with another as if it were second nature.

“You’re mistaken,” I said, “I know it was you.”

A strained smile curved his lips—a predator’s grin hidden behind civility, teeth flashing like polished ivory. The mask of the friendly neighbor slipped for a moment, revealing the real Stanislav.

“I don’t follow.”

“Why the act?”

Stanislav snorted softly. “I’d make a dramatic bow, but alas… we are in class. Anyone could’ve stumbled on the phone in the forest and turned it in to the duty teacher.”

For a moment, doubt gnawed at me—did I really have proof? But then clarity returned, sweet and certain. My smile widened, savoring the taste of triumph. Gotcha.

“Only the person who found it could have known where it was. I never mentioned the forest.”

Stanislav faltered. His mouth moved faster than his brain could keep up—opening, closing, and failing again. I held his almond-brown gaze, feeling a surge of pride. But Stanislav simply reached for another slide, his expression softening into an almost casual ease.

“Interesting guess, Mrs. Holmes,” he said, leaning over the microscope. “Too bad to disappoint you, because the forests of Kserton are everywhere. The city was built on them, after all. I just guessed—and look at that—I’m already the first villain in the district.”

His sly grin paired with the mock-serious tone was infuriating. Smirnov played by rules I didn’t yet know. My triumph turned to irritation. Who did he think he was?

“Here,” he said, sliding his notebook across the table. “Transfer it. The lesson’s almost over.”

I glanced at the clock—less than five minutes left. Hurriedly, I copied the lab notes, finishing just as Kirill Nikolaevich rose and began checking the desks. He reached ours last, glanced at my notebook, and seemed satisfied.

“With a neighbor like him, you’ll catch up in no time,” the teacher said with a patronizing smile, patting Stanislav on the back. Smirnov stifled a laugh. When Kirill Nikolaevich moved to the board to assign homework, Stanislav whispered:

“See? Good neighbor.” He tapped himself on the chest with his finger.

“Oh, sure,” I said dryly. “Watching over me, taking walks in the woods, returning my things through others… the perfect, incognito hero-neighbor. No laurels, obviously.”

“I watch over you? Where on earth did you get that from?” Stanislav’s confusion and indignation were genuine—well, almost. His earlier disclaimer made me skeptical.

The bell rang. Stanislav didn’t wait for my answer and began packing. I pulled out the unread volume of The Garnet Bracelet by Kuprin, opened to the bookmarked page, and immersed myself in the story.

“Bye,” Stanislav said, rising.

I didn’t even glance up. Why bother? Any reply would have been just another layer of his riddles, another veil of lies.

“Goodbye,” I murmured, eyes on the page.

He lingered for a moment by the table.

“Who knows what stories you’ve spun for yourself. I wish I could read you as easily as Kuprin reads his bracelet.”

I forced myself not to snap. Luckily, he finally left. I returned to the book, though my concentration faltered, distracted by the persistent voice in my head. Anger lingered, and a seed of doubt sprouted: what if I had been wrong? What if someone else had found the phone? Perhaps Stanislav had been watching me for countless reasons—boredom, curiosity… not necessarily obsession.

A dangerous thought flickered: Maybe I just want him to notice me.

I barely had time to entertain it before the school day swallowed me back into its rhythms.

***

The rest of the school day slipped by unnoticed. At lunch, the famed “Fabulous Five” were all perched by the window, absorbed in their own world, indifferent to the murmurs around them. There wasn’t much happening anyway. The only stir came from Karimov and Andrei, locked in a heated debate about the new road.

“The road is the best thing to happen to Kserton in years,” Karimov insisted. “You can’t imagine how many customers my dad is getting because of it! I even have to fill in at the supermarket sometimes. New people are good for the city. More money, more life. Maybe even more tourists will come.”

Andrei poked at the untouched macaroni on his plate. “And what exactly is there to see? The dreary sawmill? The top of the Smirnovs’ mansion? Have you noticed that fence? You can see everything through the bars, sure—but the view’s ruined. Getting there is a hassle, too. You need a car just to reach it.”

Another voice chipped in: “Well, there’s the fishing store at Vesennaya and Lenin Street. Their inner courtyard is really pleasant—garden and all.”

Nikita lifted his fork slowly, moving macaroni from one side of his plate to the other. “The garden’s nice, sure, but snow will cover it before long.”

“In October? You’re exaggerating!” Nikita’s voice rose enough to draw glances from the surrounding tables. “Snow doesn’t arrive until November, at least.”

“And who’s going to travel miles to see a ‘garden behind the fisherman’s house’?” Andrei pressed on, unconvinced.

Karimov’s pride gleamed in his reply. “You won’t find pastries like ours anywhere else, and the place itself is important. Gradually, there’ll be sights worth seeing. I might even persuade my dad to build a spa!”

“Didn’t you already build a dog kennel?” I asked, recalling our car conversation.

Nikita and Andrei exchanged a look, forks suspended mid-air. After a pause, Nik answered: “Yes, we’re building it. Think tourists will care?”

“Of course,” Karimov said, laughing. “Who doesn’t love fluffy puppies?”

I considered asking what breeds they were planning, but never got the chance.

Nikita leaned forward, concern in his eyes. “What happened in biology class? Smirnov bolted like he’d been stung. Did he hurt you?”

“No, nothing like that,” I lied. Better he believed it. I didn’t want anyone prying into my business. What could I say anyway? “Smirnov was watching me. I don’t like it. He even returned the phone I lost in the woods. What a villain.” Even I had to smile at the thought. No proof, no accusation.

Tanya arrived at the table with her friends, launching into a discussion about the upcoming school dance.

“I love the Halloween theme! Too bad we don’t decorate our houses like in the US,” one classmate mused dreamily.

“They’re lying in those movies,” Tanya replied skeptically. “Maybe one or two houses on the street actually do anything, and only in expensive neighborhoods. Those decorations cost a fortune!”

“Maybe they make half of it themselves,” the friend insisted. “Using everyday materials, quietly sewing while waiting for their husbands to come home.”

“Right. And the house magically cleans itself and dinner sets itself, too. Fairy tale stuff. Try telling that to my mom—she’s always busy with chores. Hardly any time for herself, except at night,” Tanya retorted.

Her friend reminded her: “She still has two younger kids to care for—school pickups, activities, meals. And then your dad needs attention when you get home.”

Tanya snorted. I watched, thinking of my own mother, always negotiating with clients, drawing children’s book illustrations, doing portraits. When she connected with a major Moscow publisher, things became easier financially. We never chased trends, but she still managed to treat us to bowling or cinema trips.

Home wasn’t always orderly; it only felt organized at my grandmother’s. Most chores fell to me, and I cleaned willingly, for peace of mind. Dirty dishes annoyed me like dust on a shelf. Mom wasn’t a cook, so we discovered new favorite eateries year after year. Women who managed perfect homes, children, and work inspired me. I didn’t judge Tanya’s mother’s occasional slip:

“It must be exhausting,” I said, “to care for three kids and keep a house in order.”

Tanya waved it off. “If she talked less with friends or the parent committee, she’d have more time.”

“But she needs rest,” I persisted. “Do you or your dad ever help with the younger ones?”

She shrugged. “She doesn’t ask. She talks with the committee instead. They’re still undecided about decorating the first floor. The theme? Quote: ‘Halloween, but not Satanic—we live in an Orthodox country.’”

“Maybe we can help,” Nikita offered. Tanya lit up. We reminisced about horror movies, debated witches versus vampires, touched on Scandinavian and ancient myths. Greek togas sounded fun, until someone remembered October’s chill—tights under sandals? Not practical. The witch theme won: warm clothes or daring bare arms, all options open. Tanya promised to coordinate with her mother and recruit another class for decorations.

Lunch ended. Jackets on, we headed to the school exit. Stepping outside, a gaze caught me—Stanislav, leaning against a wall. Morning déjà vu. Our eyes met, he started toward me, but Karimov intervened:

“Want a ride?” He zipped his leather jacket, smiling.

“I’m fine, Kostin’s colleague will pick me up. Plus, I’m on my bike again.”

“The bike? No problem. Trunk it, like yesterday.”

Nikita’s voice carried. Eddy paused, bit his lip, looked away, then retreated to his friends. Soon, the five of us stood beside a silver SUV.

“See your dad’s colleague?” Nik asked.

“Not yet.”

“Call? Maybe he hasn’t left. It wouldn’t be hard for me to give you a ride.”

“Sorry,” I said, as Kostin’s convoy pulled in. “He’s here already.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“The point of biking is alternative transport.”

“If you change your mind, I’m available. Ride with me, fewer cars, better for the environment.”

“Like in a social ad: one car, four people, instead of four separate cars?”

“Exactly.”

“Alright,” I smiled. “When it’s really cold, okay?”

“Perfect,” Nik beamed.

***

I opened the apartment door and immediately noticed Kostya’s shoes and jacket thrown carelessly on the pouf by the entrance. From the living room came the muted voice of a news anchor, words barely distinguishable. I stepped inside, my movements soft, and found my father sprawled on the couch, still wearing his wetsuit and dark blue pants. He had been so exhausted that he hadn’t even bothered to change.

I padded across the floor to my room, set down my backpack, and peeled back the heavy lavender-striped blanket from the bed. Returning to the living room, I draped it over my father as best I could. He was so tall that the blanket barely reached his knees, leaving his long legs exposed. It was far from perfect, but it was all I could do.

On the stove, a pot of scrambled eggs simmered in a pale brown sauce with beans. I moved carefully in the kitchen, every step measured to avoid making a sound. Soon, I was sitting beside my father, quietly eating as the evening news reported on the endless nightmares unfolding in the world. For once, couldn’t they show something good? Something honest?

My eyes drifted toward the TV, searching for the remote. It sat on a shelf nearby. I reached for it, intending to change the channel, but froze when Kostya’s face filled the screen. My father—Kostya—was being interviewed.

I glanced at him, assessing how deeply he slept, then gently turned up the volume:

“…after the opening of the new road, the number of accidents has increased. We managed to identify the victim and contact her family, who confirmed her identity. The investigation is ongoing. The challenge is that surveillance cameras are not yet installed along the new road. We are seeking witnesses. If you have seen this girl in the past seventy-two hours, please contact us at the number displayed below.”

Next to his face appeared a photo of a schoolgirl. She could have been my age. Dark hair with reddish highlights, slender. She smiled at the camera, caught in what must have been a home snapshot.

“Konstantin,” the reporter pressed, “could this incident be related to three other cases involving bloodless bodies?”

My father’s gaze turned icy, impenetrable. “I didn’t say the victim’s body was bloodless,” he replied evenly.

“Could it be the work of a serial killer in Kserton?”

“There’s no need to frighten the townspeople with hasty conclusions. At present, the investigation…”

A female voice cut in from off-camera: “All victims were found in the forests near the new highway, not far from the gas station and hypermarket. They share similar age and appearance, and the method of killing is alike. All lived in the northern district of Kserton. Could the killer be local?”

“We cannot rule out that possibility,” my father admitted. “I’m afraid that is all I can say.”

“As law enforcement officers, what advice can you offer to citizens?”

He paused, considering his words carefully. “Be wary of strangers, especially near the highway. Do not leave children unattended. Avoid going out after sunset.”

“Thank you, Konstantin.”

The screen shifted to a bright studio, the anchor reading the next story from her prompter. And there he lay beside me, dozing on the couch, while his own words broadcast across the city. Every mention of the new highway sent a shiver down my spine, a sense of danger prickling at the edges of my consciousness. I rarely watched the news, and perhaps that made me especially vulnerable to bad tidings, letting the pain of others seep inside me too quickly. Logically, I knew I was safe—but the feeling had taken root.

“What are you doing?”

The sudden voice startled me. I turned to see Kostya, bleary-eyed, emerging from a half-woken stupor. My father’s relaxed posture and the disheveled blanket lent the room an odd sense of comfort.

“I’m looking at you. And here,” I said, pointing first to the screen, then to the couch. “Should I congratulate you on your first interview?”

Kostya snorted, trying to rise. The blanket slipped from his chest to the floor.

“These reporters just follow people around all day. Big deal. I told them we didn’t need a new highway in the city,” he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “It would have been better to build a bypass through the green zone, away from people. But no—nature lovers across Russia signed petitions, and the governor, worried about reelection, went along with them.”

“They wanted to cut through the Serebristy Reserve?” I asked.

Kostya nodded silently and moved toward the kitchen. My father poured a glass of cold water, sipping slowly.

“At school,” I said, hiding my own involvement in one petition, “many are excited about the new highway.”

“The forest is vital,” he muttered. “The reserve status isn’t granted lightly. Hundreds of plant and animal species could be at risk. Forest residents aren’t like us—they can’t just buy a ticket and leave.”

“Who’s excited?” I asked.

“Karimov, for one,” Kostya began.

“Well, of course,” he cut in, his tone sharp. “Dad’s business is booming. Expansion is coming. He’s happy about it, naturally.”

“Isn’t it good that the city gets more money?” I asked. “More jobs, more opportunities.”

“Asya, you don’t understand,” Kostya’s voice hardened. “The money doesn’t go to the city. It goes to a few people’s pockets. Everyone else bears the cost. Do you think the parents of those girls can shrug and say, ‘at least the city benefits’?”

His words struck me like a whip. For a moment, I felt complicit. Perhaps he was right. How many people had joined the petition because of my emails? Ten? Twenty? Could their voices have made a difference? I couldn’t be sure. If you don’t fight for your own future, who will?

The apartment was heavy with silence, broken only by the rumble of the old engine outside—the neighbor returning from work. I barely stepped toward my room before Kostya’s uncertain voice reached me:

“Listen, I know you had nothing to do with this. I shouldn’t have said those things. It’s nerves, you know?”

My father exhaled, rubbing his face. “These girls… they look so much like you. When I see their faces, I see my own daughter. I can’t bear to imagine it happening to you.”

The pain in his gaze was unbearable. Without thinking, I rushed to his side, wrapping my arms around his neck. I stood on tiptoe, holding him close, the stubble on his face prickling my cheek. Hugs were treacherous—easy to hide tears, easy to lose yourself. But I clung tightly, resisting the temptation to let the sobs escape.

His hand rested gently on my shoulder. Outside, the neighbor’s car engine stilled.

“Promise me something,” he whispered.

I nodded, pressing my chin to his shoulder.

“Take care of yourself.”

And I promised—though deep down, I knew how fragile that promise was.

Chapter Text

The rest of September passed in a tense haze. The longer the police struggled to track the killer, the more strained my relationship with Kostya became. One evening, as I sat in my room, I overheard my father speaking loudly on the phone. The door was closed, so I caught only fragments of the conversation. From what I could gather, tracing the mysterious murderer was proving difficult. My father believed that private security cameras near the gas station parking lot might provide a lead. The trouble was, the cameras belonged to the Karimov family hypermarket, and Nikita's father was reluctant to cooperate—though why, I couldn’t fathom. The last body had been discovered not far from the store. Did the murder affect sales? I wouldn’t have been surprised if locals had begun avoiding anything remotely connected to it. Even the thought of going back to the supermarket made my stomach tighten, though I knew lightning rarely strikes twice in the same place.

The tension between our fathers inevitably seeped into my life with Nik. Kostya was adamant: I was forbidden to come near the supermarket, and he stressed just how dangerous another reckless bike ride through the woods could be. Despite his busy schedule, he still managed to pick me up from school most days. On the rare occasions he couldn’t, his colleague—a young, fair-haired investigator in his tight navy shirt and open raincoat—filled in. I secretly preferred those days; at least his steady gaze didn’t linger on Nik as we parted ways in the parking lot.

Over time, Nik and I began sitting together in class more often. At lunch, we would drift away from the crowd, talking about things that truly interested us. Nikita was not only a captivating conversationalist but also an attentive listener. It was strange, almost thrilling, that someone cared about my thoughts and opinions. He asked questions, sparked debates, and we effortlessly bounced from ecology to history, from the merits of paper versus digital books to films. Sometimes I doubted he had seen much of anything at all—but he listened with genuine curiosity, and that alone mattered. One afternoon, he invited me to the cinema. I would have agreed immediately, but I knew Kostya’s iron grip on my freedom wouldn’t allow it until our fathers reached some sort of truce.

Until mid-October, my days followed the same rigid rhythm: school, home, repeat. On one hand, the confinement improved my grades and made me focus on the apartment. Boredom led me to explore bookshelves, sort old belongings, and pack them for charity. With my father’s approval, I even ordered new curtains and dishes, adding little touches that began to breathe life into the space. Among the rediscovered treasures was a long-forgotten vinyl player and a box of records. To my surprise, the collection included classical music, jazz, and even a Frank Sinatra Christmas album—so the apartment constantly echoed with “Let it Snow,” even though no snow had yet touched the city streets.

Yet, the apartment could not replace the world I had left behind. I had arrived in Kserton seeking a fresh start, only to feel like a princess trapped in a lonely tower. Even as school connections slowly strengthened, the scent of solitude lingered in my empty rooms. Scrolling through my classmates’ social media in the evenings, I saw snapshots of lives so different from mine: girls walking together, boys bowling or at the shooting range, hundreds of happy faces filling my feed. It was as though some unspoken celebration of life had left me behind. Being a policeman’s daughter had made me a prisoner, not in law, but in circumstance.

Worse still, my old friends from Rostov seemed to vanish from my life in perfect synchrony. Out of sight, out of mind. My attempts to revive our conversations were met with short, clipped replies, as if every character came at a cost. Two of the three eventually stopped opening my messages altogether. I felt like an outsider among friends I had known for years—a stranger in my own past.

At first, I accepted Kostya’s strictness, thinking it was temporary. A week would pass, and everything would return to normal. Ten days later, the truth hit me: life was not waiting for me. Graduation approached, and I cautiously began to plead with Kostya, explaining the importance of my senior class, showing photos, making arguments. Soon, the carefree days of youth—the simple joys and idle moments—would be gone, replaced by exams, applications, and the relentless march toward the future.

But my father seemed to forget that he himself had once been a high school student. He didn’t even attempt to engage with my arguments, repeating instead, almost like a mantra, how dangerous the streets had become and how careless the parents of my classmates were. If everyone were as vigilant as him, nothing like what happened in Kserton would ever occur—not tomorrow, not ever.

Every conversation descended into dead ends. We argued, sometimes raising our voices, neither of us willing to bend. Kostya made no effort to understand me, to find a compromise, and it irritated me more than I cared to admit.

On the morning of October 15th, I woke up with a resolve that left no room for hesitation. I began packing my school bag, throwing in a toothbrush, a couple of fresh sweaters, and pants—I’d gather the rest later. My phone had charged overnight. I turned on the computer, quickly checking flights to Rostov and train schedules. Money wasn’t an issue. The only obstacles were my passport and the fact that, not yet eighteen, I couldn’t technically travel alone. Usually, my mother would sign the necessary forms, but I was banking on luck—and perhaps a bit of audacity.

Determined, I stepped into the corridor, ready to leave, only to discover my bike was missing. My father was on the phone, his words fractured and incoherent without context. Not bothering to eavesdrop, I suppressed my curiosity and rushed to the front door. My faithful bike was nowhere in sight. Then it struck me—the balcony in my father’s bedroom.

“Bingo,” I whispered, spotting the handlebars outside the window. I crossed the room and circled the king-size bed, freezing for a moment. The bedding had been changed to the dark emerald green set with golden-orange vines I had ordered last week. On the nightstand to the right, a picture frame tilted slightly toward the bed caught my eye. Streetlight glare made the photo difficult to see, so I approached and picked it up.

An old snapshot: a woman cradling a baby in her arms—and I recognized her instantly. Beside her, holding her by the waist, was my father in his blue police uniform, hair still black and untouched by gray. Warmth and sadness surged through me. How long had it been since we had all been together—the three of us? I could barely remember. To me, my mother had always existed separately from Kostya. As I grew up, people left the house one by one. None of my mother’s subsequent partners tried to replace him, and I had been secretly grateful for that. But how long had Kostya been alone before I moved in to study with him, given that the family photo still occupied such a place of honor in his bedroom? No woman would tether herself to a man whose heart still belonged to another family.

“What are you doing here?” My father’s voice made me flinch.

“Nothing, just…” I hesitated, holding the frame like it was on fire.

Kostya’s face softened into a warm, affectionate smile I hadn’t seen in years. He pointed to the bundle—the little me—in the photo.

“This is right after we brought you home from the maternity ward. You were detained longer than expected, and I even borrowed a film camera from one of my colleagues—Vitya had just returned from vacation and helped out—” He paused, then whispered, almost to himself, “It was a good time.”

His voice carried the weight of years of loneliness, and my heart ached. I couldn’t leave him—not now, when we had just begun our life together as father and daughter. My life mattered, but I wasn’t ready to wound him again.

“Listen, Dad,” I began slowly, carefully threading my words. “We need to talk.”

He sat on the bed, tapping the duvet to invite me beside him. I returned the photo to its place and sat down. Kostya waited in silence.

“I can’t do this anymore. Really, I can’t. I don’t have enough social interaction at school. I understand how worried you are, how you want to protect me—but you can’t shield me from every possible danger.”

ostya nodded, speaking slowly, stretching his words like he feared breaking something fragile.

"And what do you suggest? That I trust fate and watch my daughter become the next victim of a maniac? Sorry, but I don’t play that game."

"No. Not trust fate. Act with reason. Life has to go on. If I can’t walk the streets of Kserton alone, why not invite friends over? There are plenty of places to go."

"Brilliant idea!" His enthusiasm was hollow, almost mocking. "And then let other kids wander alone and fall into the maniac’s hands, and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Joyous, isn’t it?"

"Well… yes." My next attempt at compromise only stoked the fire of frustration. Thoughts of returning to my mother’s house crept in, tempting me with escape. But leaving Kostya alone now felt impossible. Could there truly be a solution that satisfied both of us?

I don’t know how long we sat there, me lost in thought, until the sky outside faded to a soft lavender, signaling it was time for school. My father rose.

"If there’s more to say, we’ll continue in the car."

"No," I shook my head. "I have nothing more to say."

Persuading him to let me walk to school alone was pointless. I got in the car and fastened my seatbelt. Kostya turned the ignition; the morning news blared from the radio. Irritated, I flipped through stations until a familiar tune reached me. Leaning back, I watched the forest blur past. The pre-dawn sun painted the treetops dark and resinous, while the spruces’ skirts had almost faded into the fiery autumn. Everything around me seemed gray, lifeless, like my own spirit.

Kostya stopped at the school entrance. I grabbed my backpack and got out, choosing not to say goodbye. Classmates were already gathering, and I spotted Nikita immediately in his bright orange jacket. My father called after me.

“Asya.”

I turned, expecting his words.

“This will be over soon. I promise. I’m almost on his trail.”

I shut the door without replying and headed toward school. Once the car moved away, I pulled out my phone and texted my mom:

“I want to go back to Rostov.”

Two blue checkmarks confirmed she had read it. She called immediately.

“Hi,” I said, unsure how to begin.

“I thought you liked living with Kostya,” Mom sounded confused. “What happened?”

“I’m suffocating under his overprotectiveness. I haven’t even settled in before he started driving me to and from school, forbidding me to go out in the evening. The funniest part is, he won’t let anyone visit either. He lectures about safety—not just for me, but for everyone. Mom, I’m exhausted. Fighting with him is pointless. He won’t listen, and—”

“Dad?” Mom asked, surprised. “You’ve stopped calling him Kostya.”

Her joy was audible, but I forced myself to focus.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I feel trapped. I can’t spend my last year locked in four walls. I tried talking, trying to compromise, but it’s useless!” My voice broke, the lump in my throat betraying my sorrow.

Mom exhaled heavily. After a pause, she said, “I’ll talk to him, okay? We’ll figure something out together. In the meantime, please don’t do anything reckless.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She hung up. I stared at the overcast sky, seeking some small comfort. The cold wind struck my face, sharp and cleansing, as if it could purge the poison gnawing at my soul. But I knew it was unlikely my parents would find a solution. My faith in an easy fix was nearly zero. I knew their communication too well: Mom would falter, unable to push, and Kostya would not yield. Maria dislikes conflict; it’s simpler for her to agree and vanish than to argue. Realizing this, a deep, hollow sadness settled over me, heavier than the autumn chill.

The first school bell rang, warning that class was about to begin. I drew in a few slow, deep breaths, letting the crisp morning air fill my lungs, and opened my eyes. Nikita Karimov was standing alone by the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, watching me.

"Have you been standing here long?" I asked.

He nodded, then descended the steps toward me. "Are you okay?" he asked, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from my face. His fingers barely touched my skin, and a gentle, ticklish warmth bloomed in my stomach. I allowed myself a faint smile.

"You know…" I hesitated, searching his eyes and finding something in them that invited honesty, "No, I’m not okay."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Nikita asked softly.

"Yes, but… do we have time? The second bell will ring soon, and I don’t really want to spill everything in the cafeteria during the break, with half the school eavesdropping."

Nikita’s gaze drifted thoughtfully toward the school, then back to me. Something in his expression shifted—playful, almost conspiratorial.

"Then to hell with school," he said.

Before I could even respond, he took my hand and led me to his car. With a courteous flourish, he opened the passenger door, gesturing me in as if I were a guest in some secret world. My mind flashed to Kostya—what would he say if he knew?—but I dismissed the thought. The morning’s argument had drained all my sense of obligation. To hell with school. To hell with Kostya. And Maria too.

Inside the car, Nikita shut the door quietly and darted to the driver’s side. Moments later, he slid behind the wheel. My backpack, still in my lap, was promptly tossed to the back seat. I sat frozen, heart hammering, barely daring to believe it: we were actually skipping school.

"Fasten your seatbelt, or we won’t be going anywhere," Nikita said, his smile so wide and genuine that it seemed to stretch to his eyes. He was as thrilled by this as I was.

"Where are we going?" I asked, securing the belt as instructed.

He shrugged, a casual, almost mischievous motion. "Wherever you want." With that, he unzipped his jacket, retrieved his phone from the inner pocket, and secured it on the dashboard.

"Anywhere I want?"

Nikita’s approving nod made my cheeks heat. Under the weight of his attentive gaze, I felt a sudden embarrassment. Flustered, I blurted the first thing that came to mind:

"Do you remember the house of the city founders near the sawmill?"

For a fleeting moment, his expression shifted—alert, serious, almost wary—but just as quickly, it melted into a grin, dimples deepening as usual. I liked those dimples; they were his constant charm, a small reassurance amid my nerves.

"Are you sure that’s where you want to go?"

"Yep," I replied firmly.

"Well," Nikita said, releasing the handbrake with a flourish, his voice carrying the dramatic flair of a stage actor, "since the lady asks…"

***

Nikita Karimov drove along the highway, the scenery outside blurring into a restless mosaic. The line of trees along the road seemed to perform a chaotic dance, appearing and disappearing, giving way to unfamiliar exits. The sky was gradually brightening, the clouds dispersed as if the city had never been cloaked in gloom. Beyond the glass, I could make out little more than the dark crowns of pines, soaking in the meager rays of a deceiving autumn sun. Day by day, its warmth waned. Sharp, desperate peaks reached upward, clinging to the last fleeting light before the inevitable chill of winter.

In the glove compartment, I discovered a full pack of colorful jelly bears shaped like little plush animals—just as I liked them. A small, delightful coincidence. With Nikita’s quiet permission, I tore open the package and plucked out a few acid-green bears.

"Want some?" I asked, offering him a couple after tasting the first handful.

"If only a few," he said, extending his palm.

"What color do you want?" I asked.

Nikita furrowed his brow, puzzled. "Whatever I get," he shrugged.

"I can get the ones you like more," I said lightly. "It’s easy. I always stick to green. Tried the yellow lemon ones once… too sour! Not risking it again."

"You can feed me your enemies," Nikita said conspiratorially, winking at me over his shoulder.

Without hesitation, I grabbed three yellow bears and placed them in his outstretched hand. Nikita tossed them into his mouth like a victorious warrior, chewing with exaggerated gusto, smack-sounds punctuating the imaginary battle. I laughed softly—he looked so absurdly cute. And yet, in his presence, I felt perfectly at ease.

The car drifted into the right lane and slowed as Nikita signaled and took the exit. The endless forest gave way to clusters of small, two-story houses. Greenhouses and potato fields, stripped bare for winter, lay like rectangles of cold earth. Yellowed grass stretched across every yard, scorched by the fierce summer sun. Everything whispered that frost was approaching.

The road grew bumpy, tossing us with every pothole. Strangely, it didn’t annoy us. Being with Nikita was a lift, as though skipping school erased all looming problems and parental lectures. I wondered if Kostya had already been called by the teachers. Pulling out my phone, I unlocked it: no messages, no missed calls. Just the quiet ticking toward the end of the first lesson.

"Hey… how far is this place from school?" I asked.

Nikita glanced at the navigator, hand briefly leaving the wheel.

"Sixty-five kilometers. About twenty more to go."

"Wow… what time do the Smirnovs have to wake up to make the first lesson? Must be traffic!"

Karimov shrugged, indifferent. "Who knows? Lately, they haven’t been coming much. Maybe they moved back up north."

I realized he was right. Stanislav, my desk neighbor, had been absent since that phone incident. Strange, how absorbed I’d been in my own household troubles that I hadn’t noticed the Smirnov family’s absence in the cafeteria. Perhaps it was for the best—no uneasy premonitions trailing me home.

Others, like Tatiana and her friends, must have noticed. I could easily imagine Rostova’s disappointment at the “top five” table lying empty. Deep down, I didn’t want Tanya to suffer. Yet, as a person… I didn’t like her. Beneath her school-queen loudness and habit of asking intrusive questions, complex intrigues brewed. I never wanted to be part of them. The more I understood about Rostova, the more I avoided her. Except… I liked talking to her quiet friend, though her name stubbornly slipped my mind.

"Can I ask a silly question?" I ventured.

"You can ask a smart one too. Don’t hold back."

I smiled nervously. "What’s Tatiana’s friend’s name? The quiet one with long dark hair, usually in a low ponytail and glasses with thin frames."

Nikita paused, thinking. Clearly, he, too, sometimes forgot the girl who stood in quiet contrast to Rostova’s bright, loud presence.

"Dasha, right? You still sit next to her in history?"

"Exactly! Dasha! Don’t tell her I asked, okay? I… I never remembered her name the first time, and it felt awkward to ask again."

"I forget sometimes, honestly. She’s good… just quiet. Tried to get her to talk once or twice—no luck," Nikita said softly. Then, quieter still, "By the way… she likes Andrew."

"Andrew? No way." I couldn’t believe it.

"No, really. He’s thinking about inviting her to the disco but can’t decide. Tanya is always hovering. Approach, and—boom—Rostova’s latest gossip siren blares across the school. And the clock’s ticking," Nikita added, grinning.

"Have you invited anyone yet?" My voice slipped out faster than my mind could stop it. My heart pounded, anxiety whispering, what if he has?

Nikita said nothing. His expression unreadable. The silence was worse than any answer.

"You don’t have to… if you don’t want to," I murmured, staring at my knees. One careless question had created a rift neither of us could close. Words couldn’t be unsaid. Girls didn’t ask that lightly. Nikita understood.

What had I been hoping for, mistaking friendship for something more? There was nothing remarkable about me. Not pretty, not stylish, clueless about makeup or trends. I lived in a world of interests and values few others shared. Misplaced in time and place.

My mom often teased me at the supermarket when I lectured about plastic-free shopping, cotton bags, and net bags, relics of a Soviet-era alternative. Listening to my impassioned eco-rants, she’d shake her head, laughing, “You grumble like a granny in a bad mood.”

It wasn’t that I felt older—no. Inside me, a quiet suffering stirred, a loneliness so profound it pressed against every thought, mingling with a wish, faint but insistent, to be more like everyone else: fretting over grades, longing for the latest jeans, worrying about things I had always considered trivial. The weight of it pressed against my chest, making each heartbeat ache. Treacherous tears rose unbidden, stinging the corners of my eyes. I hid my face behind my hair, turned toward the window, and breathed slowly, desperately trying to calm myself. I just didn’t want to break down in the car, not in front of Nikita, not now.

The fragile veneer of composure finally splintered when I felt his fingers slip gently into mine. Nikita’s touch was soft, deliberate, his index finger tracing a slow path across my skin, and something inside me gave way. Warm tears spilled freely, rolling over my cheeks and tasting faintly of salt and something else, something intimate. Leaning against the door, I pressed my free hand against my face, trying to hold back the sobs. I didn’t want him to see me like this—disheveled, vulnerable, raw.

The car slowed, veering toward a clearing by the sawmill, and then halted.

“Asya,” Nikita said softly, but I didn’t move.

I heard the click of his jacket, the subtle rustle of fabric, and then his warm hand on my cheek, tilting my face away from the window. I closed my eyes, mortified at how pathetic I must look. My skin flushed crimson, tears streaking down as usual. I couldn’t bear to look at him, not yet, not wanting to see pity there—I needed anything but pity.

“Asya,” he said again, quieter this time. The car was silent except for his voice.

“Look at me,” he whispered, both hands framing my face, radiating warmth. “Please.”

Slowly, hesitantly, I opened my eyes. Nikita’s gaze met mine, steady, unjudging, neither surprised nor pitying. He looked as though he could peer into the very depths of me. My breath caught, my chest tightened, and for a moment, I felt him almost touch the core of my being. Then he leaned closer, pausing just shy of my face, seeking permission. I blinked slowly, whispering yes with everything I was. I wanted this.

Our lips met. The softness of him, the faint scent of lemon marmalade lingering on his skin—it all seemed unbearably precious. His mouth moved against mine, tentative at first, and I surrendered completely. Sweetness mingled with salt; breath caught, lips parted, and I wanted more, more than I could contain. My fingers tangled in his unruly hair, drawing him closer, memorizing the warmth, the scent, the feel of him.

His hands traced my neck, kisses following each gentle touch, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He unzipped my jacket slightly, his lips finding the sensitive skin beneath. My body hummed, every nerve alight with a heady mix of newness and familiarity, of longing finally acknowledged. Each kiss was a question and an answer, a promise made without words. I surrendered to it, trembling, wanting, needing more.

Then, abruptly, a sharp sting ripped through the haze of pleasure. Pain. I gasped, recoiling, and Nikita froze, his hands darting back as though he had been struck himself.

“I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—It was an accident!” he stammered, voice tight, panicked.

I blinked, confused. Was he apologizing for the kiss?

“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” he said quickly, leaping from the car. The trunk clicked, he retrieved something red, and returned, offering it to me carefully, hands shaking.

“Why…what for?” I asked, bewildered.

“You’re bleeding. On your neck. Better clean it, put a band-aid…just in case,” he said, avoiding my gaze.

I touched the tender spot, and sure enough, crimson marked my fingertips.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Really, don’t worry,” I murmured, still baffled.

Nik’s face was solemn, guilt written across it. I didn’t understand why he made such a fuss. So what if there was a little blood?

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper, “Please…take care of it yourself. I can’t stand to see blood.”

“Does it make you dizzy or something?” I asked, more curious than alarmed.

“Something like that,” he admitted, reluctant to meet my eyes.

I raised the visor, spotting the small built-in mirror. The reddened skin was slowly darkening into a bruise, a small scratch marking the edge. Barely anything. If not for his insistence, I wouldn’t have bothered.

I opened the kit, wetting a cotton pad with peroxide. The sting brought a sharp flash of childhood memory. I pressed it gently against my neck, waited, then removed it and applied a flesh-colored band-aid, covering the tender spot entirely. Small comfort, but necessary. I could forgive a skipped class, perhaps—but a mark left by a kiss? That I couldn’t simply overlook.

I had never spoken to my father about boys. In truth, I never had any to even begin a conversation with. All my knowledge of romance came from books and the awkward, halting discussions with my mother. Still, some of my classmates fared no better. Back when I studied in Rostov, one girl had once run through the corridors, panicked, asking anyone who passed, “Is it true that wearing a tampon can kill you?” Ignorance breeds fear, insecurity, and shame. Understanding my own body had spared me from such panicked mistakes. I felt quietly grateful to my mother for enduring those awkward conversations, even as Maria would often avert her gaze, twisting a napkin in her hands whenever discomfort got the better of her.

Putting everything back into the first-aid kit, I stepped out of the car. I bypassed it, holding the results of the jewelry work with solemn ceremony—an attempt, perhaps, to distract from the scratch on my neck. Nikita only gave a faint smile. He didn’t glance in my direction, his eyes instead wandering through the trunks of the trees. They lingered on nothing, as though somewhere deep in the forest, the fragile spark of something newly kindled had already lost its magic, leaving only a residue of feeling stranded by the roadside.

I parted my lips slightly but realized immediately that I didn’t know how to break the silence. The pine-scented air filled my lungs, as if trying to soothe the ache in my chest. Had I done something wrong?

After the warm, close interior of the car, the outdoors felt impossibly cold. Dew had collected overnight on the pine needles, and sunlight turned each droplet into a glittering crystal sphere. I zipped up my jacket and buried my hands in the pockets, seeking warmth that seemed to come from nowhere. There was no point in returning to the car while Nikita remained outside, pensive and distant. Perhaps if I waited, he would find the words to speak.

“We’re almost there,” Nikita said, his tone transparent, his gaze fixed on the distance.

I looked around. Broken asphalt, the car, and the sparse forest were all that met my eyes.

“Are you sure? I don’t see any buildings anywhere.”

“Because we’re on the other side of the sawmill,” Nik clarified. “I didn’t want to go through the main entrance. It’s better not to attract unnecessary attention.”

He fell silent, his gaze dropping to a small stone, which he nudged with the tip of his sneaker.

“Listen, I…” Nikita started, then stopped, swallowing. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

I looked at him, confused. Was he apologizing for the kiss?

“Do I… kiss that badly?” I wanted to ask, teasingly, hoping to ease the tension, but the words tasted bitter in my mouth.

“No, not at all,” he replied quickly, then lapsed into silence again. I noticed the brief tightening of his face, the way he licked his lower lip and swallowed as though it pained him.

“You regret it,” I said coldly, though inside I was unraveling. “You feel awkward around me.” This wasn’t how I’d imagined my first kiss. In novels, such moments were monumental: passionate, long-awaited, binding two hearts with an invisible thread. So why did the distance between us feel wider than ever?

Finally, Nik looked at me. His eyes glimmered as if on the verge of tears. He turned fully to face me. His warm, familiar palms cupped my cheeks, anchoring my attention as if he wanted to drink in every detail of me. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned closer, emphasizing the fragility of this small treasure I allowed him to touch. Our eyes met, unflinching.

My body felt impossibly heavy, frozen by fear. It was easy to mistake something fleeting for deep connection, a casual kiss for a promise. In less than five minutes, I had built a castle of fantasies and furnished its rooms with hope.

Fear accelerated my heartbeat, quickened my breath. Not knowing what would happen next left me tense, restless, desperate for escape. I prayed my heart would shatter so I could forget, retreat to the car, return to school, maybe even make it to the third lesson.

But Nik leaned in again. This kiss was different—gentle, tender, brief. It demanded nothing, yet said everything.

“I regret not doing this sooner. Not asking you to dance the moment you wanted,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear with careful fingers. His gaze fell to the small band-aid on my neck, a delicate marker of our earlier closeness.

I leaned into him, tasting reality. Nik returned the kiss, and warmth spread through me like sunlight breaking through frost. Even if snow began to fall, I would not have noticed. In that moment, there was only the silent forest, the faint scent of lemon marmalade, and the soft, steady press of his lips against mine.

As soon as the kiss ended, Karimov wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me close. My height only allowed me to rest my cheek against his chest. I wished, just for a moment, that I could hear his heartbeat through the fabric of his jacket.

“Is it too late to ask about the dance?” His voice carried its familiar playful lilt.

“Too late, alas,” I replied, matching his tone. “I’m going with my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend? Just like that?”

“Why complicate things when it’s all perfectly clear now?”

In response, Nik pressed a gentle kiss to the top of my head. Words were unnecessary; we both understood that.

Remembering why we had come, we made our way back to the car. Nik checked the navigator and concluded that we would have to continue on foot. We tucked our backpacks under the seat, hiding them from view, and stepped into the forest, following the narrow trail that led to the old estate. Between the trees, the soil was carpeted with tetraphis moss, soft and springy underfoot. Here and there, ferns spread their leaves, twisting and tangling as though trying to hold us back, warning us of the secrets the grand mansion concealed. Their stubborn leaves clutched at our pants, but I kept pace with Nikita, who led confidently, never hesitating even at the forked paths.

“Have you been here before?” I asked.

Nikita nodded. “My father worked at the sawmill. When I was a child, my mother would bring me here often, so I know the area as well as I know the city.”

“It must get tiring, wandering the same places over and over.”

“Not really.” Nik pushed aside a spruce branch, holding it back for me to pass. “Seeing the same place repeatedly lets you notice how it changes. The older Kserton gets, the more it grows. Especially after they built the new road.”

“I think you mentioned that before.”

“I’m still surprised we didn’t meet earlier. You came to visit your father, right?”

I nodded, though he likely couldn’t see it from behind. Realizing this, I hurriedly added, “Actually, I stopped coming a few years ago. My mother used to send me to my father for the summer, but I quickly got bored. Kostya didn’t have many friends here, and maybe that’s why. People were more intimidated by my father than the other way around. I rarely saw anyone my age, so summer in Kserton inevitably became a synonym for loneliness and boredom. Eventually, my father and I agreed to vacation elsewhere.”

“Have you seen a lot?”

I drifted into memory, remembering past trips. Mostly, my father took me somewhere warm. Transfers through Moscow were inevitable, whether we were heading to Turkey or Egypt, but I never felt entirely comfortable—locals’ attitudes and the ubiquitous litter often spoiled the picture. Why couldn’t people carry their trash with them? The sight saddened me, contrasting with the natural beauty around us. Turkey was lush and colorful, Egypt memorable for underwater corals and endless deserts dotted with clay-brick buildings, standing like sentinels against time. Their exact material often escaped me, and I never checked online.

Images of the Kurtatinsky gorge and the small necropolis of Dargavs in the Caucasus also surfaced, ninety-five family graves packed tightly together. I would never forget the guide’s story: in Dargavs, the dead were not buried in the ground but placed in small crypts with their possessions. During the cholera outbreak in the 18th century, many sought death in these crypts, leaving bones stacked in niches meant for treasured belongings. The climate mummified the bodies, lending the site a ghastly aura. Even Egypt’s tombs never sent a shiver down my spine quite like Dargavs.

“Yeah, you know,” I began aloud, “we managed to visit the Caucasus, Egypt, parts of Turkey, and Cyprus.”

Nikita whistled softly. “Wow. That’s quite a list. Besides Kserton, I haven’t really been anywhere—Novosibirsk and Yekaterinburg, maybe. My father sometimes takes me on trips for work or just to wander. I guess he gets bored traveling alone. My mother rarely leaves the house unless she needs to shop.”

The forest thinned, and a clearing appeared ahead.

“And which place did you like best?”

Though the Caucasus had intrigued me most, I avoided recounting graveyards and mummified remains. Instead, I recalled the ten days in Cyprus with Kostya.

“Cyprus. I loved the pebble beaches, the clear water, the tall palms. You should have seen them!”

“Maybe one day I will.” Nik’s voice softened. “I never seriously thought about leaving here. And I don’t think anything good would come of it.”

I was taken aback.

“But traveling is temporary! Why not see the world, experience how other people live? It’s so fascinating!”

“Maybe for others. Not for me. You’ve heard the saying: when we leave, someone else comes back home instead of us, right?”

“Are you afraid of change?”

Nik sighed and stopped walking. He turned to me, our fingers intertwining. After a long pause, he finally spoke.

“I’m more afraid I won’t like the person who comes back home instead of me.”

His words struck me. I had never realized how thoughtful Nik could be, how much quiet wisdom underpinned his perspective. It was a depth I wanted to listen to, despite our lives seeming not so different. Perhaps, in time, I would understand him better.

“You won’t know until you try,” I said softly.

I had expected a clearing, but instead, we came upon a tall fence, its black metal bars arranged in a strict grid. The gaps between the lines were just wide enough to slip through, and beyond it lay the old estate, waiting silently.

The building truly resembled a palace from the era of Catherine the Great. Even the photos I had seen online barely captured its grandeur: the first-floor windows soared nearly four meters high, flanked by ornate columns crowned with intricate carvings. The façade seemed freshly painted, though perhaps the sunlight played tricks on my eyes. In every photograph, the building had appeared a soft, pale blue, yet before me now stood a stately vision in luminous white.

Heavy chestnut curtains, patterned with delicate motifs, blocked any view of the interior. It was almost impossible to believe that this was a residence. Not just any residence, but the home of our classmates!

“Wow,” I murmured, leaning against the fence. “It’s even more impressive in person.”

“It must have been a different color before,” Nikita said, his tone light. “Apparently, the heirs weren’t satisfied after they returned. Same with the fence. The funniest part is, if you approach the building from the main road through the forest, you’d encounter a tall concrete wall—uglier than this one. From that side, you can’t see a thing. The house only opens to view from the garden, where the Smirnovs live.” He gave the iron bar in front of us a casual kick.

“Do you think it will ever truly belong to the city again?” I asked.

“Well, no one can take away its history. But I doubt the Smirnovs will leave anytime soon. At least not in the next few years.”

“But their children—all five of them—are in our graduating class. Surely they won’t all stay in the city for college. Eventually, the house will be too big…” I trailed off, only to hear Nikita chuckle softly behind me.

“You haven’t met Dr. Smirnov and his wife yet. The house is enormous—even for the whole family. And yet, they manage just fine,” he said, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “By the way, Kserton State University isn’t so bad. They offer eight undergraduate programs.”

“Well, eight programs might just tempt me to apply,” I teased, resting my chin on his hands.

Across the clearing, someone drew back a curtain, and for a moment, it felt as if their gaze pierced right through us.

“Duck!” Nikita hissed, yanking me down. I tumbled onto him, and we both burst into laughter.

“Adorable,” I giggled. “But why are we hiding? We aren’t even on their property.”

“Well,” Nik said, helping me to my feet, “technically, this part of the forest belongs to them. They hold the title, even if they don’t manage it day-to-day.”

“There was no ‘No Trespassing’ sign,” I argued.

“Because that’s on the main entrance side,” he replied with a sly smile.

I crouched behind a brick pillar of the fence, high enough to conceal me completely, tugging at Nikita’s sleeve.

“They’ll notice,” he murmured, attempting to rise, but I held him firmly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. This all happened too fast for anyone to get a good look.”

The figure at the window lingered, peering into the thicket, until finally the curtain dropped. We exhaled in unison.

“Seen enough?” Nik asked.

I shrugged.

“I wonder what it’s like inside.”

“Look it up online,” he replied with a grin.

“I already did. I wonder if they left the place as it was?”

“Who knows? It’s not like they entertain classmates.”

“No one talks to them?”

Nikita’s tone darkened with a hint of irritation. “Ask Stas when he shows up. You sit together in biology, don’t you?”

I paused, suddenly aware of the irony—I had just been spying on the Smirnovs, the very act I had accused Stanislav of doing. Well, at least there was no evidence. For a first date with Nikita, it was admittedly thrilling. But we needed to leave—fast.

Before I could suggest retreat, two figures emerged in the clearing. Viola was unmistakable, her long golden hair glinting in the sunlight. Arthur Smirnov stood beside her, solid and imposing, like a sentinel. Even from a distance, they seemed aware of our hiding place, and I instinctively buried my face closer into Nikita’s shoulder.

“I think I’ve seen enough,” I whispered. “Let’s go.”

We began retreating into the woods in careful, measured steps, my eyes never leaving the Smirnovs as they approached the entrance. As they neared the door, another figure appeared, cloaked in dark gray, indistinct among the others.

“You can get up now,” Nik said softly, placing a hand on my shoulder. I jumped, but managed not to scream.

We returned silently to the forest trail, the quiet only broken by the crunch of leaves beneath our feet. Questions buzzed in my mind: Why weren’t the Smirnovs at school today? Could half the class really be absent? Parents would start getting calls—Kostya included.

“What do you think,” I asked, keeping pace with Nikita, “can we still go back to school?”

“Why?” he asked, perplexed. “Our date’s in full swing.”

“Yes, what a lovely date—spying on classmates’ houses,” I muttered, but said aloud only, “They’re skipping too. Who knows how many others joined in? Parents might get calls, even Kostya’s.”

Nikita considered this for a moment, then nodded.

“They’ve been absent so long, no one will call because of them.”

“Right,” I replied, feeling the lingering anxiety of the forest pressing in. The beauty of nature was now tinged with unease, a subtle fear threading through the shadows. Every rustle of leaves made me glance over my shoulder, only to find the same ochre tree crowns and soft moss undisturbed. Yet the sensation of being watched clung to me like a second skin.

***

The problem with dating in a small town during school hours was that options were painfully limited. Pulling up the map of Kserton on the navigator, we mentally crossed off the off-limits areas: the school, the police station, and the Nik’s family supermarket. Beyond that, the usable parts of the town—anything resembling a place to go—were scarce: a patchwork of farmland and scattered forest clearings that offered little in the way of privacy or charm.

We settled on a roadside pizzeria along the new highway, positioned just beneath the city exit sign. From the street, it appeared orderly enough, the sort of place frequented by truck drivers and managers alike during the workweek, picking up orders from the government offices that, in my observation, occupied nearly every third building in the district.

The facade gleamed white, though a single panoramic window at the center was marred by a garish discount banner. Bold red letters swallowed most of the glass, an eye-catching offense against the otherwise plain exterior. Inside, I was surprised to find nearly every table occupied despite the early hour. We wound our way through the room and claimed a corner table. High-backed chairs on either side created a sense of separation from other diners, a quiet little alcove. Laminated menus waited at each place, accompanied by bottles of salt and pepper perched on the wall, and elongated glass vases holding single white roses—small touches that transformed the room from simple pizzeria to a semblance of intimacy.

Finally, this felt like a proper date. Nikita sank onto the couch against the wall, and I realized I should wash my hands after the forest excursion. I set my phone on the table and approached the waitress.

“Oh dear, our bathroom broke over the weekend—pressure issues in the pipes. They’ll fix it tomorrow,” the middle-aged woman replied, her lips painted a garish raspberry hue, annoyance etched into every word. “But you can use the one to the right of the truck parking lot. Tell them you’re from the pizzeria; they’ll let you in for free.”

Grateful, I made for the exit. But as I grasped the door handle, someone yanked it open from the other side. Caught off guard, I stumbled into an unfamiliar man. He wore a thin red checkered wool shirt, and looking up, I froze.

I had never seen anyone like him outside of a movie. His scruffy black beard, broken nose, wide flaring nostrils, and tightly pressed lips made his face a map of hostility. His eyes, unnaturally clouded, narrowed as he appraised me from head to toe. Everything about him screamed danger, a raw animosity aimed directly at me, though I had done nothing to provoke it.

He finally pulled his cap lower over his brow and stepped aside, letting me pass. “Thank you,” I muttered, pressing against the opposite wall in the narrow passageway. He was massive, broad enough to block half the corridor. Likely a trucker from the parking lot.

Outside, I headed toward the bathroom the waitress had indicated. At eleven in the morning, the city buzzed with surprising life. Cars streamed along the highway in an unbroken line. Trucks, furry and industrial, sat in formation across the administration building’s parking lot, while smaller vans jumbled into the asphalted space in chaotic disarray.

Inside the administration building, I located the restroom. After washing my hands, icy water flowing despite my desperate twisting of the hot faucet, I pressed soap onto my fingers. The lemon-scented foam was pleasant enough, but nowhere near as sweet as the memory of Nik’s soft lips, the jelly-scented trace of our first kiss. I smiled briefly, lost in that memory, until a hand slammed onto my shoulders.

A wet cloth pressed against my face, the scent sharp and acrid. I flailed, trying to free myself, but my hands slipped uselessly. My legs buckled, weak but not entirely giving way. With a surge of desperate strength, I stomped wildly, aiming my foot at the attacker’s toe, only to meet the worn, yellowed sole of his shoe. The fire of the chemical burn raced through my sinuses, and each forced breath sent sharp pain across thousands of nerve endings.

Clinging to the last shred of awareness, I dug my fingers into the hand pinning me. The last image I registered before darkness took me was the thin red plaid of his shirt.

***

Voices echoed in my head—one light and feminine, oddly familiar, though I couldn’t place it, and the other deep, resonant, clipped, as if the speaker were hastily defending some action. Their words slipped away from me, like smoke, leaving a sharp ache behind my temples. I leaned against the cold, hard surface behind me, squinting into the dim, distant light that barely cut through the gloom. Carefully, I turned my head, testing my neck. My temples throbbed, but the pain didn’t worsen. A good sign.

I tried to piece together how I had ended up here. Flickering fragments passed through my mind: a mansion, a forest, Nikita’s car, the pizzeria, and a red plaid shirt. I clung to each memory in turn, but when I reached the last, my throat tightened. Was this… a kidnapping? In broad daylight?

Panic rose, but as soon as I tried to stand, the room spun violently, and my body dragged me back down.

Okay. Don’t panic. I need to see my surroundings, find something to steady myself.

I squinted into the half-light, making out vague silhouettes. An old, worn couch crouched in the far corner, surrounded by scattered boxes. A lantern hung, casting a weak glow on the pale walls. Every surface—the ceiling, floor, walls—was painted the same washed-out color. My right hand balled into a fist, tapping the floor. The sound was muted, almost plastic-like. I tried the walls—same result. Was I imagining it, or had they really lined the room with some synthetic material? My subconscious whispered, darkly humorous, that a serial killer might find plastic practical. My conscious mind didn’t appreciate the joke.

As clarity returned, a chilling realization struck: the voices weren’t in my head. They were real. Behind the wall, a man and a woman were arguing, loud enough that every word carried through the thin partition. The woman’s voice was sharp, angry; the man’s low and defensive.

I pressed my ear to the wall, straining to catch their words:

"If someone saw you with her, we’re screwed, Gleb!"

"But you sent the girl to the bathroom yourself!"

A sharp smack followed—a hit, I assumed, from the woman to the man’s face.

"Of course I sent her! Some visitor flushed something down the toilet, and the pipes couldn’t handle it! There’s a warning on the door about personal hygiene items, but they ignored it. The café got clogged. They only managed to clean it yesterday to recover the lost revenue. Timofeyevich couldn’t fix it properly; materials were missing. Delivery won’t arrive until next week. That’s why I sent the girl elsewhere, and you snatched her!"

Another slap. The man muttered something remorseful:

"...usually the girls you send here for feeding. I saw her and packed her quickly. Habit, nothing more."

"Idiot! Didn’t you ask me first? Did you see who she was sitting with?"

"There were plenty of people. Just like last time, I swear."

Another strike.

"Moron! We never take girls in daylight! Nobody gave you the signal!"

My stomach dropped. Feeding? Cannibals? Father had never mentioned anything like this—but maybe that was why: no remains, no evidence, only missing girls.

"What do we do with her now?"

"I don’t know. We need to think. Fast."

"I can’t keep her in the van. I have to load tonight."

The woman’s scream was nearly a roar. The van. My mind raced.

The room made sense now—the light walls, the synthetic finish. Beyond the wall was the driver’s compartment. Two people spoke inside: Gleb, the man in the red plaid shirt—the “abductor”—and the woman, unmistakably the pizzeria waitress. A perfect pair. Their scheme had malfunctioned. Their target: lonely girls, quietly lured from the pizzeria. Lost souls seeking help, a phone, or a toilet were guided straight to them by the angelic waitress, her gentle voice concealing a ruthless purpose.

"I have an idea," the woman said sharply, as if afraid to lose it.

The car doors slammed. I had to move. Crawling on all fours, I reached the boxes, hiding behind them. A creak betrayed someone unlocking a latch. Daylight flooded the space—the morning had barely begun. Maybe I could escape before Nik realized, before anyone else intervened.

"Where is she? Has she woken?" the man asked.

"Don’t panic," the waitress said. "Gleb, sniff around. Her scent is strong. She can’t be far. Check behind the boxes."

My heart sank. I scanned the room, searching for a path, but the only exit led directly to them. Sniff her? How could they track me by scent? I tried pressing my hair, my jacket to my nose—nothing. In my panic, I nudged a box. Its top tumbled to the floor.

In an instant, Gleb appeared, towering over me, uncertain for the first time.

"Gleb, please—" I choked, finding no words. Beg, threaten, appeal? None would save me—not with Galina waiting outside.

"Galya," he called, and she responded. "Bring her here."

He lifted me effortlessly, my protests weak against his strength.

"Let me go! Please! I won’t tell anyone, I swear!"

His expression softened briefly, and for a moment, I dared hope. Then he shook it off, carrying me outside.

Galina’s command: "Put her down."

The world shifted. The pizzeria was gone. We were in a forest. A broken dirt road sprawled beneath us, littered with leaves and puddles. The van loomed nearby. If I screamed, would anyone hear? Probably not—but I tried anyway, letting my voice cut through the silence.

The waitress stood with an expression of sheer boredom, hands folded neatly in front of her. I screamed at the top of my lungs, my voice piercing the silence, echoing through the familiar yet strangely alien forest. But then again, could anyone really distinguish one Siberian forest from another? I doubted it.

I only stopped when my throat felt raw and dry, the cords vibrating under tension. I tried to scream again, but a coughing fit doubled me over in pain.

“Are you done?” The waitress, Galina, lifted the hem of her dark blue coat and crouched down so our eyes were level. She kept a careful distance—close enough to speak, too far to reach her hand if I wanted to.

I nodded, still coughing.

“Then listen,” her voice softened, almost hypnotically soothing. “Listen very carefully. You want to sleep. Very much. There’s nothing to fear. Nothing is going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

I realized I did want to sleep. The forest no longer seemed menacing, nor did the fact that I’d been kidnapped. My throat eased, the ache fading. Even Gleb and Galina appeared friendly. And why had I been so frightened? I was safe.

“Your eyelids are growing heavy. Soon you’ll drift into a sweet, gentle dream…”

Blinking grew difficult. I yawned, long and unashamed, letting the lull of her voice wash over me. Galina’s words felt like a lullaby. What a remarkable woman. It was a shame I hadn’t tried the pizza—no doubt it had been perfect. No wonder she worked at the café.

“You…” Galina began, but a sudden gust of wind brushed across my nose, and she vanished. Drowsiness evaporated instantly. I rubbed my eyes. Sleep, in the middle of the street? Ridiculous. Then the reality of the kidnapping crashed back. Kidnapped! Oh God, some strong man had taken me in broad daylight, and I had almost fallen asleep? Madness.

Fear ignited a surge of energy. I jumped to my feet, scanning the chaos around me. Colors blurred and twisted—a shimmering, multicolored haze jittering across the air. Was it real, or just a hallucination? A rag pressed to my face? A drug?

Gleb’s gaze followed the haze as closely as mine. Good—so I wasn’t hallucinating alone.

But his stance was strange. Legs spread wide, back slightly arched, arms out like a wrestler’s. Fists clenched, eyes fixed on the quivering mist.

Then, with a scream, a body burst from the haze, tumbling violently against a massive truck wheel. Galina landed on her back for a moment before springing upright. Gleb mirrored her, back-to-back, ready for battle.

And then something impossible: they both hissed, mouths wide open. I thought I saw fangs curling inward from their upper jaws. Such teeth shouldn’t exist.

“Asya, lie down!” someone shouted behind me. Before I could turn, a hand slammed onto my shoulder, pushing me down. I stumbled, but before I hit the ground, arms caught me under the knees and waist. The world spun like a carousel, and I was pressed against my savior’s chest.

In a blink, the forest vanished, replaced by a grand room with soaring ceilings and vast windows, reminiscent of St. Petersburg halls. I blinked again and realized I was lying on a soft velvet couch, deep burgundy, sumptuous beneath me. The room was vast—where to look first? The endless bookshelves, each spine perfectly aligned, or the glossy black grand piano dominating the center? I must have blacked out. No other explanation could account for such a sudden change.

“Are you okay?” A familiar voice. I turned and froze. Stanislav Smirnov stood before me.

I couldn’t blink. I could only stare, trying to reconcile the impossible. Kidnapped, trapped in a truck, chased by a resourceful waitress and a driver—and now here I was, on a couch older than my grandmother, staring at Stas.

“How did I…” I began, but the hall doors opened, and Viola entered, moving with confident purpose straight toward the couch.

“Did she get bitten? Did you check?” she demanded, addressing Stanislav. He shook his head. Viola, unhesitating, grabbed my hand, rolled my sleeves up to my elbows, and examined me meticulously. She tied my hair back, inspected my neck, yanked off the plaster, checked my back, even tried to peek under my shirt—but I slapped her hand away.

“Hey! Stop!” I exclaimed. I wasn’t used to anyone touching me without permission. Viola and I weren’t friends—barely acquaintances—where did she get the audacity? I’d never even changed in the gym locker room without privacy!

She ignored me, finishing her inspection. “It’s clean,” she declared without looking at me. As she left, she added, “I’ll bring Arthur. We’ll wipe her memory quickly and be done.”

Stanislav’s gaze lingered on me. “Who put you and Max onto the turncoats?”

“Karimov. Call him—have him pick up the girl, fast.”

Viola’s departure left the doors slamming shut behind her. Amazingly, she hadn’t touched them. Perhaps the mansion only looked old, hiding modern tech that allowed doors to open and close automatically.

Stanislav sank into an armchair opposite, his posture relaxed, yet his gaze heavy with the weight of the world. “You and Karimov Jr.? Really?”

“Want to explain instead? My personal life isn’t exactly riveting.”

“No,” he replied promptly, and we held each other’s gaze, testing silently.

I straightened, feet touching the floor. “You’ll have to, if you want the details.”

He tilted his head, weighing, then said simply, “You’ve been kidnapped.”

I smiled. “Thanks. I knew that. Can you tell me more?”

Stanislav licked his lips. His foot tapped a rhythm I didn’t recognize. God alone knew what he was thinking.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he waved, “you won’t remember anyway. Let me have some fun. You were kidnapped by… turned vampires—for fun. We’ve been tracking them and your father for a while, but the scheme eluded everyone. Thanks to Karimov’s involvement—personal issues aside—we got a lead. Max and Viola, excellent hunters, caught up with the van before the others could cover their tracks.”

I stopped breathing. Nonsense. Pure nonsense.

“Wait… you’re seriously saying I was abducted by vampires?”

He nodded, a smile tugging at his lips, dimples deepening. Perfectly absurd.

“Yes. Absolutely.” Leaning back, he stroked his chin thoughtfully, amused by my reaction. He looked like a man enjoying a private comedy show.

“Fine,” I said, “let’s say I believe you.”

Stanislav threw his head back and laughed, uncontrollable, as if he couldn’t bear to look at me. Arrogant. Infuriating. I felt trapped in this museum-like mansion, unable to converse normally. I waited for him to calm down.

“Don’t act like this happens every day. Maybe it’s normal for you, but not for me. Show some humanity and explain properly. I won’t ask more.”

I could hardly believe that the Smirnov family spent their days rescuing damsels from kidnappers. My incredulous expression—or perhaps the incredulity in my voice—must have betrayed me, because Stas's gaze sharpened with a new, teasing mockery. Yet this time, he did not laugh. He sank deeper into his chair, legs sprawled wide, exuding a casual authority.

“Alright,” he said slowly, his playful smirk fading, “I’ll explain—clearly, and without interruptions.” His voice shifted, assuming a weight and precision that demanded attention. “My family belongs to an ancient vampire clan. By tradition and right, we protect both our territory and the people who inhabit it. Our lineage allows us to remain in one place for centuries, unlike other vampires who are forced to wander. Not all vampires have such privileges.

“The ones who kidnapped you are turned vampires. I won’t bore you with endless details, but the crucial point is that they trespassed into our territory without permission. We do not know who turned them, or from whence they came. And now, it seems unlikely we ever will.” He paused, exhaling a long, pained sigh, as if the thought itself was heavy with regret.

“Their hunger is… different from ours. One drop of blood can unbalance them. Hunger is a constant, gnawing torment they cannot quell. In desperation, they cross every moral line, eventually resorting to radical measures. Gleb and Galina acted together, preying on girls in cafes. You… became one of their victims. Karimov alerted us in time. Viola and Maxim arrived swiftly. Max’s tracking skills are unparalleled, and the twins arrived just in time. Viola brought you here, while Max handled the rest.”

I listened, mouth agape, my mind struggling to catch up. Vampires? Again? Did he really expect me to swallow this absurd tale? Vampires were nothing more than the relics of childhood nightmares—romanticized creatures meant to scare children into caution. They belonged to storybooks, not reality. The world was too logical, too ordered for creatures that thrived on superstition.

“Why keep feeding me these fairy tales with Nikita? He doesn’t believe a word of it either, does he?” I asked.

Stas’s lips twitched, betraying his hesitation.

“But he himself…”

He didn’t finish. The doors swung open once more, and Viola stepped inside. Behind her loomed Arthur, the sheer scale of him astonishing. He was immense, his strength evident in the effortless bulk of his arms. I realized, with a pang of awe, that he could lift both me and this sofa with ease, yet his eyes—kind and warm, lined with the faint wrinkles of a life touched by laughter—belied any threat. For a moment, it was hard to believe we were the same age.

“Hello, Asya,” Arthur said gently, crouching to meet my gaze. “How’s your head? Any pain?”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you,” I croaked, hoarse from disbelief.

Viola positioned herself beside Stanislav’s chair, her expression tight with disapproval.

“I heard everything. Why did you tell her?” she demanded.

Stas shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“What difference does it make?” he replied. “She won’t remember anyway.”

“But you wanted her to remember, didn’t you?” Viola’s voice cut like steel.

Arthur raised his hands toward his head, hesitating as though seeking my permission. I gave a subtle nod, and only then did his cool palms settle against my temples. He closed his eyes, lips trembling. Seconds stretched. A strange vibration coursed through my skull, traveling down my neck with a tickling, feather-light sensation. I couldn’t help it—I laughed. Arthur jerked his hands back, struggling to swallow.

“No, it’s not working,” he muttered.

Viola inhaled sharply, gathering her resolve, and then erupted: “Idiot! Your carelessness has put us all in danger!”

Stas’s lips formed a thin line, yet relief gleamed in his eyes. He answered her quietly, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on me. I felt foolish, trapped in a scene that teetered between absurdity and menace. Was this some elaborate joke? A test of credulity?

“Listen,” I said sharply, addressing the room at large. “Enough. I won’t believe any of this vampire nonsense. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but leave me out of it. Just tell me—can we call a taxi from… wherever we are? If you don’t want to explain, fine. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

I felt irritation flare. Just a hidden camera was missing—broadcasting my disbelief to the world for laughs. They’d misjudged me completely.

Silence. The Smirnov family exchanged glances, hesitating, as if passing responsibility like a hot potato, each unwilling to be the last to hold it. I rose from the sofa, ready to escape the pretense, and no one moved to stop me.

“Fine. Whatever you want,” I muttered, fastening my jacket. I approached the door, expecting the usual magical opening, but it remained stubbornly shut. Cautiously, I stepped back a meter and waved my hand above my head—still nothing.

“What are you doing?” Viola asked, her face a mask of indifference.

“Trying to leave. Is the sensor upstairs?” I replied, smirking.

“What sensor?” She sighed, clearly tired of the question.

“The one that opens the door, of course,” I said, teasing.

“Oh, that one.” Viola raised a hand lazily. Instantly, the doors swung open with a thunderous crash, colliding with the wall.

“At your service.”

Chapter Text

Stepping out of the hall, I entered a sunlit corridor where tall windows soared almost to the ceiling on one side, and the opposite wall was adorned with oil paintings. My eyes were immediately drawn to them. I had dreamt of stepping inside the founders’ house for so long, and now that I was here, the thought of passing by without studying at least some of its treasures felt impossible.

As I moved toward the first painting, the hall doors groaned shut behind me, sealing off the Smirnov siblings from sight.

Most of the works depicted golden fields rippling with wheat, bathed in a light so warm I could almost feel it on my skin. Perhaps, before Kserton became a city, this land had been nothing but farmland. One painting showed the fields giving way to a dense forest, its pines like emerald spires under a serene blue sky. High above, a flock of birds drifted lazily. They were painted too far away to make out—mere dark specks with outstretched wings. Seen from a distance, they reminded me of the careless ink marks I used to make on my school tests to indicate the right answers.

Then the landscapes shifted into something more human. A larger canvas showed lumberjacks working at the forest’s edge—five men, if I counted correctly. One swung an axe into a pine trunk, while two others struggled to load cut logs onto a cart pulled by a black-maned horse, following the gestures of a third man giving orders. Off to the side sat an older figure, his beard spilling almost to the collar of his worn caftan. He rested heavily on a stump, legs apart, elbows braced on his knees, his back slightly hunched. Fatigue radiated from him—but so did something else, something quieter. Regret, perhaps. The artist had clearly given this man special weight in the scene.

I was still studying his face, trying to unearth the source of that sadness, when one of the hall doors creaked open and Stanislav stepped out.

“Good thing you haven’t left,” he said with a smile tinged with relief. “I’d have had to hunt for you in the woods.”

“Why hunt for me when you could just call?” I asked.

“Do you have your phone?”

I patted my jacket pocket—empty.

“I must have left it on the table at the café,” I admitted.

“You lose your phone too often,” he teased, pulling his own from his back pocket and tapping the screen. A moment later it buzzed, and he nodded in satisfaction. “It’s at Karimov’s. Let’s go—I’ll take you home.”

“Ask if Kostya called,” I said distractedly, my gaze still fixed on the bearded man in the painting. The longer I looked, the more it felt like he would eventually reveal his secret—if I stood there long enough.

“No calls. No messages,” Stanislav replied. But instead of looking at the painting, he studied me, as if my reaction to it was more interesting than the work itself.

“Trying to figure out why he’s upset?” he asked.

“Look at his posture,” I said, pointing without touching the canvas. “See how he leans on his knees, the way his shoulders nearly reach his ears? He’s uncomfortable.”

Stanislav’s eyebrows rose. “Good eye. But you’ve missed something.”

My mother once taught me to step back from a painting to see the whole truth of it. I did so now, scanning every detail, but nothing leapt out. Eventually, Stanislav took pity on me.

“I’ll show you.” He pointed to the forest, just left of the man on the stump. At first I saw nothing, but then—hidden among the trunks—a tall wooden totem emerged. Faces upon faces had been carved into it, their lines so intricate they melted into the shadows and branches, as if the forest itself were wearing a mask.

“He’s sad,” Stanislav began, “because he’s old enough to remember the beliefs of this land. The forest is sacred to him, home to gods who’ve guarded him all his life. But times change. The fields no longer feed the town, and to survive, he must join in the destruction of the forest he reveres. To him, it is a betrayal of the old gods—forced upon him by hunger.”

His voice was smooth, deliberate, carrying the weight of the story. Without realizing it, I wound a strand of hair around my finger.

“It’s strange you keep this painting,” I murmured.

“Why?”

“You’re from the founding family. This is a story about someone who was forced to destroy what he loved most.”

“Or,” Stanislav countered, leaning closer until our shoulders brushed, “it’s a story about a man who mistook salvation for evil—who thought he’d betrayed his gods when, in truth, he saved what mattered most. Tell me—what do you think he valued more? Gods he’d never seen… or the starving family waiting at home?”

“It depends on the man,” I said after a pause. “Maybe he saw the cycle of life and death as natural. Or maybe his faith in the gods was stronger than anything. We can’t know for sure.”

“No, we can only guess,” Stanislav agreed. “But if the gods were more important—would he still betray them to feed his children?”

I didn’t answer. The truth was, we could never know the worker’s heart.

“Come on,” he said finally. “If you want to be home before Kostya, we should leave.”

We walked together toward the massive doors leading outside. “You know,” I said, “we could always talk like this.”

Stanislav opened the door, holding it for me. His voice was quiet, almost regretful.

“We couldn’t.”

***

We drove in silence all the way to the house. I wasn’t even surprised to discover a small underground parking lot beneath the mansion, resembling a miniature Petersburg Palace, lined with expensive foreign cars. There weren’t many, considering the family’s size—just two vehicles and an empty space—but it was baffling how the Smirnovs could afford such luxury on a doctor’s salary. Even maintaining a place that opened its doors to curious city-dwellers like a living museum must have cost a fortune. I didn’t like to count other people’s money, but when reality threw such glaring contradictions in my face, it was impossible not to wonder. Perhaps the cars weren’t as costly as I imagined—though I had never bothered to check—but I had never seen emblems like these before. Maybe they were Chinese. Asking felt awkward, even though my curiosity burned; I held back. A quick online search would have sufficed.

Stanislav hadn’t asked for my address when we got into the silver car, which reminded me of a nervous guinea pig. He drove as if he already knew exactly where to go—another subtle confirmation of his watchfulness, a thought that made me uneasy. Conflicting emotions wrestled for attention inside me. One screamed in horror at Stanislav’s odd, often irrational behavior. Each new detail seemed to reinforce the notion of being stalked. Yet simultaneously, he was revealing a side of himself I had never seen—his interest in art and the city’s history drew me in. I hadn’t discussed art with anyone so freely, speculating about historical possibilities. I missed conversations like this in my life, but the speaker had too many troubling “buts” for me to ignore.

“Damn it!” I cursed aloud, pressing my hand to my forehead. “I completely forgot! I can’t go straight home. What time is it now?”

Stanislav glanced at a small clock under the speedometer. “Almost four,” he said.

My jaw dropped. Kostya was supposed to pick me up half an hour ago. A shiver ran down my spine as I realized how much trouble I was in.

“Kostya was supposed to pick me up after class,” I said.

Stanislav kept both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. “I warned him. We talked after you said you were leaving,” he said coldly.

“We talked?”

I wasn’t sure what shocked me more—Stas calling my father without my knowledge, or the fact that he even knew Kostya’s number.

“What did you tell him?” I asked, heart hammering, hoping my father hadn’t found out about the kidnapping.

“I told him I’d take you home after the excursion.”

My eyebrows shot up in surprise and indignation.

“Do you seriously think Dad doesn’t know the museum is closed?”

“Of course Konstantin knows,” Stanislav said reluctantly, as if explaining the obvious to a foolish child. “I said our family decided to invite you instead of a medical examination at the mansion, citing your recent arrival, a gesture of goodwill, and respect for the esteemed police officer. Since you’re new here, it would be nice to learn about the city’s history, and since the house is temporarily closed to the public, you’d have a private tour, so to speak.”

So I had skipped not classes, but a medical exam? Incredible. When had it even been announced? I must have been completely inattentive. Note to self: start writing down everything important.

“Did he really fall for this nonsense?”

Stanislav’s expression shifted into mock surprise.

“And why not? I thought he was even pleased and agreed to let you come on Saturday as well.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if you want, you can really see the mansion and explore the history of Ksertoni.”

I couldn’t believe it. Who from the Smirnov family had invented the vampire story to scare me? Probably Viola—after all, she had used the door trick. I imagined her holding a remote, one hand gesturing dramatically while the other pressed the buttons to open the doors. It made sense; magicians often distract attention from the real action.

Yet I still didn’t understand what had happened after the pizzeria. Was there even a cafe date? Or did I get sick in the forest, and the Smirnovs simply came to help without ulterior motives? Maybe the kidnapping nightmare and the truck were my imagination. Why would anyone try to abduct me in broad daylight? Even without the heroic vampire subplot, it all sounded absurd.

Maybe I had hit my head. I wanted to hope the pleasant parts of the date were real. I had to check, but I didn’t know how to ask Nik. First, I needed a doctor. Then I could sort everything else.

“How kind of you,” I said, teasing. “So your family decided not to give up until I looked like a fool on camera? What will you do with the recording? Post it online or send it somewhere?”

“What are you talking about?” Stas frowned.

“This fake kidnapping-vampire story is quite a prank, I admit, but it’s low for the town’s most popular family. I didn’t think the popular kids from a good family would bully the new girl with such a tale. It’s 2017, and kids are still doing this.”

Stas’s jaw tightened, lips pressed into a thin line. He looked paler.

“Think what you want. If you want to get to the bottom of it, come to our house.”

“What? Unannounced, whenever you feel like it?”

Stanislav smirked, unkindly.

“Don’t they teach basic courtesy in your family? Call before you come.”

“I don’t have your number.”

The car stopped. Only then did I notice Nik’s car parked opposite my entrance. He was sitting on the hood, watching the road where I had just arrived with Stanislav.

“Ask Karimov,” Smirnov said, pressing the unlock button. “Until tomorrow.”

“Goodbye,” I said, hastily stepping out and moving toward Nik.

He raised his arms, beckoning me. I quickened my pace, heart racing, wanting to dissolve into his embrace. I hugged him tightly, pressing my cheek against the cold fabric of his jacket. Nik kissed my forehead and whispered,

“I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Should I not be okay?” I scrutinized him, trying to discern reality from illusion. Only he could not have been part of the Smirnov prank.

Nik’s touch was careful, inspecting my face, tucking hair behind my ear, checking for scrapes. Finding none, he nodded, then spoke.

“Of course,” he began, pausing as he glanced behind me. “Of course you’re okay. The tour took so long… I was worried you wouldn’t get home before Kostya arrived. Here’s your phone.”

His words pierced me. I looked at the smartphone in his palm, and the day’s events clicked into place: the morning argument with my father, my attempted escape, my mother’s call, the walk in the woods, our first kiss, and the pizzeria incident with the plaid-shirted trucker, Gleb, and his accomplice, the fair-haired waitress Galina. Everything screamed real. And then—the crushing disappointment:

“You’re with them, aren’t you?” I snatched the phone.

Pain flickered in Nik’s eyes, but he quickly masked it, loosening his embrace. Hands in his jacket pockets, he said,

“We’re not in this together. Asya, I have no choice. I have to obey.”

“Have to harass the newcomer and make her a laughingstock? What did they promise you—ads for your dad’s store in the video?”

Nik opened his mouth but said nothing, eyes flicking behind me. I turned and saw Smirnov’s car, still in the driveway, its driver shamelessly observing.

“Asya,” Nik touched my shoulder, trying to get my attention. “What hounding? What advertising? What are you talking about?”

I shrugged off his hand sharply.

“Obviously, it didn’t work out,” I said, my voice dripping with resentment and anger. Betrayal tasted bitter. I wanted to cry, but not for their entertainment. Determined, I marched to the entrance. The door slammed behind me, leaving blessed silence. Unable to hold back, I sat on the steps and cried.

I don’t know how long I sat in that damp, shadowed hallway, letting the tears flow freely. Months of insults and hardships poured out of me along with the sobs I couldn’t hold back. From the very moment I arrived, Kserton had rejected me, a foreign intruder in its midst, never allowing me the chance to discover myself or get close to anyone. Every spark of kindness, every beginning of something good, had been extinguished in a single day. The friendship I had cherished—one I had thought might blossom into something more—had turned into betrayal. I didn’t get along with the girls in my class, but that wasn’t new. In Rostov, I’d had only two close friends, who had disappeared into Kserton’s fog, leaving my messages unanswered. Elementary school had been easier, but by seventh grade, I’d distanced myself from most people, unable to keep pace with the relentless changes pushing me out of the spiral of growing up. Perhaps people like me were truly “born at the wrong time.”

Wiping my cheeks, I finally rose and made my way to my apartment. As soon as I opened the door, the irresistible scent of pancakes enveloped me. Butter hissed in the pan, and the soft murmur of the television floated from the kitchen. Was Kostya in a good mood?

I kicked off my shoes, hung my jacket, and caught my reflection in the mirror. For someone who had cried twice in a single day, I looked remarkably fresh. Almost impossibly so.

Smoothing my damp, forest-curled hair, I pinched my cheeks to coax a rosy glow, as if I’d just come in from a brisk walk outside. Shoulders squared, sweater straightened, I took a deep breath. Nothing could make today worse; there was no point in worrying.

In the kitchen, Kostya stood at the stove, a towel slung over his shoulder. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped a pancake in the sizzling pan. Steam rose, hissing as it met the hot surface. I had always assumed his cooking skills peaked at fried eggs or, at worst, watery porridge. Leaning against the wall, hugging myself, I watched silently as golden pancakes stacked neatly on the plate.

“What are you waiting for?” my father asked, glancing over. “Grab the butter and spread it on the pancakes.”

I obeyed, slipping beside him to move the plate closer. Using a rounded knife, I spread butter on each pancake before transferring them to another plate. As soon as Kostya prepared another hot pancake, he handed it to me.

“Maria called,” he said carefully, watching my reaction. I forced myself to focus on the intricate pattern of the next pancake.

“We discussed the whole situation with the maniac in the city—your safety. We talked for hours, even argued a little,” he said, smiling softly, nostalgia creeping into his tone. “She suggested you return to Rostov in November. If that’s what you want, I won’t stop you. In fact, I’ll be glad if you can stay far from these local troubles.”

He faltered, each word seemingly heavy. His shoulders slumped slightly, and the last pancake burned.

“Oh, you…” Kostya muttered, frustration edging his words as he separated the pancake from the pan. Tossing it onto the stack, he brought out plates and utensils. Following suit, I spread jam on the last pancake and carried it carefully to the table. The fridge door slammed shut, and soon Kostya sat beside me on the couch, holding cans of condensed milk, strawberry jam, and honey close. In our family, everyone loved sweet toppings.

Father reached for the stack, counting out three pancakes onto his plate. I grabbed the top one, heaping jam without measuring, watching it stretch beautifully as it oozed across the surface.

“Just like childhood,” I said, smiling. Kostya ruffled my hair affectionately.

“This morning, I got carried away,” he began cautiously. “I was young once too, and I understand how much you crave freedom… fun. But I… I just can’t give that to you. I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

I’d heard these speeches before, but today his voice was softer, more measured. He was trying to soothe me, to make me understand the weight of decisions, to reconcile me with reality. Yet, after Kserton’s rejection, I felt trapped. Why did I think I could live here, build a future? Kserton was no better than Rostov. At least there, my mother allowed me freedom, let me make choices, treated me like an adult. Beside my father, I felt thirteen again. I was seventeen now, almost legally accountable for my own life. How could I step into adulthood under a glass dome?

“I’ve been thinking, with your mother,” he continued, “and I think I’ve found a solution. Until the end of the month, until Maria returns to Rostov, you can choose to stay here in Ksertoni or go to your mother. Dr. Smirnov’s son said you can visit their estate whenever you like. It’s secluded, private. Stanislav can drive you there and back safely. You could hang out with five peers there—a proper group. What do you think?”

I choked on my pancake at the mention of Stanislav.

“We’re not friends,” I said after clearing my throat, heading for water.

“You will be!” Kostya’s enthusiasm was contagious. “They’ll tell you about the city, Ksertoni’s past. Who knows it better than the founder’s family? Five of them—surely you’ll find common ground. Just try, then refuse if you want.”

“I already tried,” I muttered grimly. “They’re not as interesting as you think.”

Father shook his head. “They’re quite remarkable. I work with Dr. Smirnov often. One of the children volunteers at the hospital—Stanislav can read X-rays like a pro.”

“And he tells stories, all sorts of legends,” Kostya added.

“Legends of the city?” Father asked, intrigued.

“Yes. Some myths, horror tales about vampires.”

Kostya nodded, chewing a pancake soaked in condensed milk. “Vampires are among the most fascinating local legends. They recently adopted the foreign term, but it fits. ‘Upyr’ evokes something ugly, terrifying. But locally, the stories speak of beautiful, virtuous creatures, despite their curse.”

“What curse?”

Father realized he forgot a mug, sipping mine, then smiled. “You’ll find out at the Smirnovs.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Ah-ha!” Kostya exclaimed. “You’re intrigued.”

“You may be intrigued, but I won’t go. They tried to convince me they were vampires. A whole staged performance, as if I’m from the countryside and have never seen automatic doors. I never found a camera, though.”

“Camera?”

“Of course,” I said, washing a whisk. “They probably filmed everything for the internet—headline: ‘New girl fooled at school.’ Hilarious.”

Kostya cleared his throat. “Maybe it’s an educational performance. Museums do immersive things like that nowadays.”

I scoffed, then reconsidered. Maybe he was right. The only odd thing was that no one explained anything when I reacted, as a normal host might. Perhaps it was all performance, like immersive theater.

“Maybe you should give the Smirnovs another chance,” he suggested. “They know better than anyone what it’s like to be a newcomer in Ksertoni.”

“Okay,” I said, turning off the faucet and reaching for the towel. “You’ve convinced me.”

***

After dinner, I retreated to my room. As soon as I closed the door, a sigh of relief escaped me, and I sank against the cool wall, briefly covering my eyes. The day’s madness swirled through my thoughts, blurring the line between reality and imagination. Could vampires really exist? What nonsense.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Pulling it out, I saw a message from Nik pop up on the screen. I didn’t want to speak to Karimov until I could at least make sense of my own thoughts. To give myself some space, I switched my phone to airplane mode and set it face down on the table. Gathering my hair into a high ponytail, I sat at the computer, hoping to uncover something—any thread in local folklore that might lend meaning to the Smirnovs’ strange performance. But before I could type a single query, a knock echoed at the door.

“Yes?” I called.

The door cracked open. My father stood there, now clad in his duty uniform.

“I’m on a call. I’ll be late. Don’t go anywhere, okay?” His face was tense, his eyes unusually grave.

I glanced at the clock: eight in the evening. Darkness had long since settled outside, and the city had quieted; shops and offices were shuttered.

“Did something happen?” I asked.

Kostya hesitated, his expression uncertain. “They found a van near the Smirnov estate, in the forest. The cargo door was wide open, and a letter… a confession, taped to the center… Our people think it’s him.”

“Him?”

“The Kserton maniac.”

Images from earlier in the day flickered through my mind. Was it the same truck? Could I see it with my own eyes? The van was proof that none of this was a hallucination—everything was real. But why leave the doors open? Why leave a note?

“And the driver? Did they find him?”

“They did,” Kostya cleared his throat. “Dead, in the cab. At first, they thought he’d fallen asleep… they didn’t notice the bloodstains on his red shirt. He shot himself in the throat. Can you imagine?”

“They didn’t notice the blood on red…” The words repeated in my mind. I tried to recall the kidnapper’s clothes. A red checkered shirt. The pieces aligned, detail by detail. My throat went dry. Nausea churned in my stomach. Why had Gleb killed himself… and let me go?

“Everything looks very strange,” Kostya continued. “We need to inspect the site carefully and study the note.”

“Do you think he couldn’t have killed himself?”

Kostya shook his head. “Not his type. But who knows? I’ll tell you if I learn more. If it really is him, the city will be safer. We’ll see. Okay, I’m off.” He pulled the door closed, then paused. “Just… don’t tell anyone at school. No need to raise hopes until we know more.”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Asya,” he said, offering a brief, gentle smile.

“Night, Dad.”

The kidnapping was real. Just like that first kiss with Nik, or skipping school. Something was missing, a fragment that could change everything. I tried to retrace the day’s events, but the more I tried, the more the missing piece eluded me. Slowly, as I reconstructed the events in order, it felt like searching for a needle in a haystack. Then Arthur’s figure surfaced in my mind—how he crouched in front of me, palms pressed to his temples. A shiver ran through me. Fear glimmered in his eyes. “It doesn’t work?” What didn’t work? I pressed my hands to my head, hoping it might help. I closed my eyes, clinging to the memory.

A dark van. I hid behind boxes as the door swung open, light spilling inside. Voices. Two of them—one male, one female. Galina and Gleb. Bright pink, almost raspberry lipstick. Gleb lifted me effortlessly, the jacket tight under my arms. The driver pulled me into the street. I tried to remember what came next, and a stabbing pain erupted in my temples, sharp as needles warring inside my skull. Tears sprang, but I refused to release the memory. My inner voice warned: let go, and the missing fragment would vanish forever.

A hum rose in my ears, drowning out all other sounds. My head threatened to explode. When Gleb pulled me from the truck, I screamed—piercingly, until my throat burned. Galina stood before me, her predator-like gray-blue eyes bright and almost translucent, like the ice of Lake Baikal. She spoke softly, calmly, lulling me as my mother’s lullabies once had. Sleep beckoned, warm and irresistible—but suddenly it vanished.

The air thickened into a haze, almost human in shape, swirling deliberately in the stairwell, sometimes approaching, sometimes receding. Colored flecks danced inside it. In an instant, Galina emerged, propelled by some unseen force, and flung me toward the van like a rag doll. Gleb braced himself, legs wide, arms spread, preparing to strike. His mouth opened wide, an animalistic growl rumbling from deep within. That’s when I noticed his teeth—two long, sharp fangs, towering over the rest.

“Vampire,” I whispered—and the pain ceased, the puzzle finally complete.

Exhausted, I slumped in my chair, staring at nothing. Why had I forgotten the strange haze, the final vision in the forest? Someone had called my name… a familiar voice? Relief had washed over me, fleeting but real. Then the memory ended. I had been swept away by some invisible force, multicolored streaks flashing before my eyes, until I awoke on a soft couch in an old estate. Stanislav was there, a seed of doubt planted in my mind.

That night, sleep eluded me. One overlooked detail could change everything. By morning, I was certain of one thing: I needed to talk to Smirnov.

Chapter Text

Kostya hadn’t returned yet when the shrill ring of my phone alarm cut through the silence. I lay in bed, staring at the pale, blank ceiling. My thoughts from the previous night clung to me so tightly that I hadn’t even bothered to change out of my clothes. Pushing myself up, I started to get ready for school and called my father. After a few long, impatient rings, he finally answered.

“Hello?”

“Good morning.”

“Yeah…” Kostya’s voice sounded heavy, tired. “It’s him. All signs point to the Kserton maniac having killed himself. The suicide note seems genuine. We’re still investigating, but I’m almost certain it’s over. I won’t be able to pick you up or send anyone to school. It’s… a real emergency here. Can you ask someone else? Maybe Stas?”

The suggestion felt both tempting and frightening. I could finally ask Stanislav all the questions that had been gnawing at me through the night—but how safe would it be? I didn’t know. Caution felt like the only sensible choice.

“Listen, it’s a bit inconvenient. Could you talk to him and arrange it? I talked to Stas so much yesterday, I think he might refuse.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Just some things,” I replied evasively. “So… can you handle it?”

There was a pause. I could hear the bustling noise from the station through the line—restlessness, urgency.

“Give me a couple of minutes.”

“Okay.”

My father hung up. Stanislav might refuse, I realized, but at least there was a backup plan—a bike. Not ideal, but it would do.

Outside, the world seemed brighter than usual. A thin layer of snow had settled overnight, glittering faintly in the early light. If I wanted to get to school on the bike, I should have left twenty minutes ago. But there was nothing to do now. Waiting for Kostya’s call, I went to the kitchen, set the kettle on, and made myself two sandwiches while the water boiled. I brewed a cup of Earl Grey, sat at the table, and turned on the TV. Just as I took the last sip, a sharp triple knock sounded at the door.

How strange—who knocks on a solid leather door when there’s a doorbell? Curious, I approached the peephole. A dark silhouette shifted in the dim light. The lamp above was burnt out, hiding the face. The figure was short, hair sticking out in every direction.

“Who is it?” I called.

“Hey, Asya!” a friendly voice replied. “It’s Diana, Stas’s sister. Your dad called—he asked Ed to give you a ride to school, but he can’t today. I offered to help. Can I come in?”

I unlatched the door and let her in. Diana’s light-colored coat hung open over her shoulders, and her shiny black stilettos gave her a touch of height. Snowflakes clung to the ends of her tousled black hair, catching hints of red in the strands.

“Ready?” she asked, brushing away the remaining flakes.

“Just a minute,” I said, grabbing my backpack and scarf. When I returned, I fumbled with my jacket, tangled in the sleeves. Diana stepped in to help, holding the fabric at my shoulders. I zipped it up, and her eyes immediately narrowed.

“Are you sure you won’t freeze? It’s below zero, and the wind is strong.”

“We’re taking the car anyway.”

“Yes, but what if you need the bus later, or wait for Kostya tonight?” She touched my jacket, her brow furrowing. “Anyway, I can drive you there and back—if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. That would be great.”

I trusted Diana. She hadn’t been involved in yesterday’s events—a secret I intended to keep that way.

Once seated, I fastened my seatbelt. Winter had arrived overnight; snow continued to fall, shimmering under the half-moon still visible in the pre-dawn sky. Diana removed her gloves, started the engine, and released the handbrake.

“Don’t you want to buckle up?” I asked, noticing her focus.

“Damn,” she muttered, pulling the belt across herself. “I keep forgetting.”

“Not worried about getting pulled over?”

Diana chuckled. “I rarely drive. I only think about getting from point A to point B in one piece. Everything else—stressful.”

“Some people love the speed. Others just like owning a big, intimidating car, I guess. Does everyone in your family drive?”

The car eased out of the courtyard.

“Everyone. I was last. The twins got theirs earlier. Only Arthur doesn’t—he prefers motorcycles.”

“Motorcycles? I didn’t see any in the garage.”

“And you won’t. Dad is strictly against it. He says Arthur would race around Ksertoni, attracting unnecessary attention. Vladimir works hard to keep a good image, but it’s not easy. I think you’ve noticed—we’re still outsiders here.”

I nodded. “Interesting—your family avoids attention while saving girls from being kidnapped.”

Diana’s grip on the wheel tightened. “So you remember,” she said.

“I forgot… but not for long. Last night gave me a lot to think about.”

At the traffic light, I recognized the intersection by the fishing shop with the giant pike on its sign. Diana flicked the lever, and the wipers swept snowflakes aside.

“I was planning to ask Stas about it, but it seems I’ll ask you instead,” I said.

She exhaled sharply. “He made the mess and sent his sister to deal with it. Classic Ed-style.”

“Skipping the first class, then?” she asked.

“Not great. I missed yesterday, too.”

“You had a medical check-up. Skipping Russian won’t matter—they won’t teach anything new.”

“That’s what you think. Let’s see next year’s exams,” I countered.

Diana shrugged. “We’ll see. Ask while we still have time.”

“Are you really vampires?” I blurted.

“Yes,” she said immediately.

“And you drink blood?”

“Sometimes.”

“Human blood?”

“Preferably.”

Her curt answers unnerved me, yet I pressed on. My mind was still trapped in yesterday’s terror, a world of mystical creatures I had only read about, now frighteningly real.

“The man who kidnapped me—was he one of you?”

“Yes and no.”

“Explain.”

Diana exhaled, gathering herself. “It’s complicated. Want me to give a full guide titled Bloodsucking Creatures and Where They Live?”

“Simplify,” I urged, eyes pleading.

“Vampire is a broad term for creatures that feed on blood. I’m a vampire. My father, Vladimir, is one too. Your kidnapper is as well. We’re part of a single species. I’m eighteen, born this way—I know no other life. Vladimir, however, was turned. Your kidnapper too. But they aren’t the same. Those turned by non-firsts are weaker, doomed to insatiable thirst and slow madness.”

The first bell rang faintly. Diana paused, glancing at me. I cursed myself for refusing to skip class.

“The basics are explained. Shall we?” She opened the door, stepped out, and retrieved our bags from the trunk. I followed, catching up just before the school doors.

“Here’s your backpack. Was my kidnapper merciful?”

Diana nodded, glancing around. “Not here. Lunch?”

“Sure.”

She ascended the steps gracefully, heels clicking lightly—a dancer in every movement. I watched for a moment, mesmerized, then hurried to class.

By the time I stepped into the classroom, everyone had already claimed their seats. My arrival drew a ripple of quiet attention — glances heavy with a peculiar curiosity I couldn’t quite place. The room, though spacious, seemed to barely hold even half our graduating class. I scanned quickly for somewhere to sit, moving deeper in so as not to interrupt the lesson. My heart sank. Only one seat remained.

Nik caught my eye, his expression apologetic, and lifted a hand in a subtle greeting. I searched the room one last time, as if another option might magically appear, but there was none. Sliding into the chair beside him, I busied myself with my backpack — pencil case, notebook, textbook — anything to avoid the awkward silence that settled between us. He waited, giving me space to speak first, but my mind was tangled. Yesterday had started with promise and ended in unsettling revelations; Nik’s evasive answers about the Smirnovs made it clear he knew more than he let on. How could I talk about romance when the fragile framework of my reality had cracked and vampires were no longer myths?

I tried to fix my attention on the teacher, but her words blurred into a whirlwind of scattered thoughts. The mention of Vladimir tugged at my imagination — how long had he walked this earth? Could nature truly birth such creatures and bind their survival to another’s blood? The idea was both horrifying and strangely logical, like wolves maintaining the balance of the forest. Predators kept the world in order; perhaps vampires were no different. That thought chilled me.

A touch on my hand jolted me back. Nik’s fingers were ice-cold, as though he’d just come in from winter air. He nodded toward the desk, where a small note lay folded into a tight square.

N: Are you okay?

I scribbled back, fingers tense around the pencil.
A: Yes. How long have you known about them?

His answer came after a pause:
N: For a long time. Always, really.

The words were clipped, frustratingly so. My fingers brushed the bandage at my neck. The memory of yesterday — of the car, of Nik pulling away — surged up unbidden. Could it be that once you learned vampires existed, suspicion spread like a stain, darkening everyone around you? Or was it my instinct whispering a truth I didn’t want to hear?

I chose my next question carefully, as though the phrasing itself might protect me.
A: You too?

His reply was almost immediate. I hesitated before opening it, afraid of what I might see.
N: Me too. But I’m different.

The air between us shifted. Our pens moved in hurried exchange:
A: Should I be afraid?
N: Of them? Definitely.
A: And of you?
N: No.

Then he placed his palm on the desk — an invitation. His eyes, warm and pleading beneath the gold of his hair, undid my fear. I slipped my hand into his. His smile was almost a vow.

When the bell rang, we left together, hand in hand, under the quiet scrutiny of our classmates. Tatiana’s gaze followed us, her surprise poorly masked. Nik kissed my cheek before parting, and with him went a piece of my heart. Love, I thought, was strange — it made the world tremble when they were near, yet left you hollow when they walked away.

By the time I reached my next class, the neighboring seat sat empty. Even knowing Stanislav wouldn’t come, I felt a small ache — the dread of facing the lab alone settling in my bones.

My silent wish was answered. The click of high heels rang crisply against the linoleum, announcing Diana’s entrance. To be honest, I’d never noticed her in biology before — hardly surprising, since I always sat up front and rarely looked back.

To my surprise, she went straight to the teacher. Leaning ever so slightly toward him, she offered a bright, calculated smile and whispered something I couldn’t catch. The effect was immediate. The teacher’s face softened; he nodded as though granting a small favor. Diana, clearly satisfied, turned on her heel and strode to my desk. Without hesitation, she pulled back the empty chair beside me — Stanislav’s usual place — and sat down.

“I thought you could use a partner while Stanislav’s out. Mine’s missing today too,” she said, already fishing a notebook from her bag.

“That’d be great. Do you know what we’re doing?” I asked.

She tilted her chin toward the board. At the top, in neat, rounded script, was written: Analysis and Evaluation of Different Hypotheses on the Origin of Man.

“Oh.” My enthusiasm deflated. “So… lots of reading and writing, then.”

“Please.” Diana flicked her hand dismissively, then picked up the textbook. With a practiced glance at the table of contents, she landed on the page we needed. “Three pages. We’ll spend more time drawing the table than reading.”

Relieved, I shifted closer so we could both see.

When the bell rang, the teacher closed the door and took his place at the board. He announced the lab’s topic, sketched a rough table in chalk, and wrote nine names along its side. We were to locate nine corresponding theories in the textbook, then choose the one we found most convincing. The choice had to be defended in a short essay.

Diana took charge immediately, scanning for the relevant details while I recorded them in our table. In no time, we’d filled in every slot. She began reading aloud.

“I like this one,” she said, smiling faintly as she read: ‘Man is the kin of all creatures, a brother to everything on Earth — not only beasts, birds, and fish, but also trees and fungi… Above all, man resembles the animals in his remarkable similarity to them.’

“Why that one?” I asked.

“Because it doesn’t reek of arrogance. It praises equality, sees man as the brother of all living things. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Sure. But doesn’t Darwin also say humans come from animals?”

She cut me off. “Yes, but Darwin still puts man above them — top of the pyramid. Every other creature becomes a lesser copy, a failed prototype.”

Frowning, I pulled the textbook closer and found the relevant line. “That sounds more like Robbins’s theory. Look.”

She leaned in to read, smelling faintly of fresh soap.

“You’re right. Robbins did call animals ‘unsuccessful attempts’ at perfection. Sorry, Uncle Darwin!” she declared loudly enough to stir a ripple of amusement — though the teacher didn’t even glance up.

“So, which one will you choose?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Definitely not Isokata and his ‘man is man because he speaks’ nonsense. He’s clearly never met a crow.”

“What’s wrong with crows?”

“Nothing. They talk as much as parrots do.”

Her brows lifted in genuine surprise.

“In any case, I’m not drawn to the ‘pinnacle of creation’ stuff,” I said.

Diana’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Would you still say that if you didn’t know about vampires?”

“Shh!” The hiss escaped me before I could stop it. It wasn’t my secret to risk.

She smirked. “Relax. No one’s listening. People rarely notice what’s right under their noses.”

“Tell that to the half of the school who didn’t notice me and Nik walking in hand in hand.”

“With Nik?” Her tone shifted — cooler, edged. “Karimov?”

“That’s the one. Just goes to show people see only what they want to.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she returned to her textbook. “How long have you been talking to him?”

“We’re dating,” I corrected.

“Dating?!” Her voice rose before she caught herself. Even the teacher’s pen tapped a warning against his desk.

“Yes. What’s the big deal?”

“Do you even know who he is?”

“He told me. Why are you acting like this?”

“What exactly did he tell you?”

“That he’s also a vampire.”

She repeated the words slowly, almost in disbelief. “Also a vampire. Asya, not all vampires are created equal. I thought I’d made that clear.”

“You talk like I’m only allowed to socialize with your little Smirnov circle.”

“And the Yakovlevs,” she added. “Max and Viola are actually twins.”

I tried to recall Max’s face — faint memory from the cafeteria — but could only match him vaguely to Viola’s coloring. She was striking, almost mythic; Max, though well-groomed, left no lasting impression.

“So the Smirnovs and the Yakovlevs are the good vampires?”

“That’s right.”

I laughed, expecting her to join me, but her expression stayed grave.

“I’m not joking.”

“I see. I just don’t get why I can talk to you, but not date Nik.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“Funny,” I murmured, jotting my final sentence and capping it with a period. “Nik said the same thing about you.”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “How prudent of him.”

We finished our essays in silence. When I finally set down my pen, Diana’s eyes were on me, unblinking.

“Asya, you should be more careful with Nik.”

“And shouldn’t I be careful with you, too? Why should I trust a girl I only met this morning over someone who’s stood by me for two months?”

“Because I don’t want anything from you.”

“But he does, right?”

Her answer never came. The teacher began collecting our work, starting at our desk. We handed over our sheets, and class was dismissed. Diana was quick to gather her things and head for the door.

I hurried to follow — but collided headfirst with someone just outside. Pain flared, and I stumbled back, pressing a cool hand to my brow.

“Asya, I’m sorry!” Nik’s hands landed gently but firmly on my shoulders, his voice laced with genuine concern. “Did you hit yourself badly?”

I only nodded, still mute from the jolt. The instant his fingers brushed me, the familiar flutter of butterflies came alive in my stomach.

“Nik? What are you doing here? Class isn’t over yet,” Diana asked, eyebrows raised.

“They let us out early, so I thought I’d wait by your classroom. Then I saw people leaving and wondered how you were doing… and, well—boom. Not my most graceful moment,” he admitted with an awkward smile.

“It’s fine,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Let’s go to the cafeteria. I’m craving something hot.”

“Absolutely. My treat—just not pizza,” he teased with a wink.

I laughed and gave his shoulder a playful tap. “And no kidnappings this time.”

“As you command.”

We slipped into the cafeteria and found seats at a long table crowded with our loud, excitable classmates. Their chatter was all about the upcoming school disco, each voice weaving into a tapestry of anticipation.

“The theme’s already set,” Tatiana announced like a herald delivering great news. “We’re having a real Halloween!” Her eyes shone as she recounted the details she’d overheard from her mother’s phone call. “They’ve ordered glowing garlands, ghost cut-outs—parents are even helping with decorations. And on the DJ table, there’ll be an actual carved pumpkin! Oh, and a contest for the best costume.”

“Will there be sweets?” Dasha asked timidly, hope tugging at her voice.

“Of course! Everything will be authentic,” Tatiana assured.

“I can already guess your costumes,” Andrey smirked, sweeping a hand toward the girls. “Witches or cats. Every one of you.”

A flush crept over Dasha’s cheeks, and she dropped her gaze. “I like stories about witch familiars,” she murmured so softly I barely caught it from across the table.

“And you boys will all be zombies,” Tatiana shot back, flipping her hair. “Which means if you skip showering after gym, you won’t even need makeup.”

Andrey’s lips tightened, his glare almost daring her chair to burst into flames. Trying to cut through the tension, I said lightly, “I think I’ll go as a vampire.”

Nik’s arm, which had been comfortably looped around my waist, suddenly stilled.

“That would make… an excellent costume,” he replied evenly, though something in his tone made me pause. I thought it was a harmless joke—to match my ‘costume’ with his reality—but the flicker in his expression hinted otherwise. Even as I searched for a quick recovery, another voice cut in from behind me.

“A vampire? Now that’s intriguing, Asya.”

I turned, and my heart stumbled. Stanislav stood there as if nothing had happened—backpack slung over one shoulder, copper hair damp and tousled, as though he’d just come in from the rain. His grin was slow, deliberate. “Gothic elegance or something a little more… modern?”

I turned—and for a heartbeat, my mind refused to believe what my eyes told me.
Stanislav stood there as if nothing had happened, a backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. His copper hair, damp and unruly, clung to his forehead, as though he’d just stepped in from the rain.

Across the table, Tatiana seized my hand like an actress taking center stage. “We could all go as Dracula’s brides!” she exclaimed, her eyes darting between me and Dasha. “We even match in hair color—no wigs required!”

Stanislav slid into an empty chair, as if the tension around the table didn’t exist. Most of the guys stiffened. Tatiana, however, leaned forward, practically glowing with the opportunity to perform.

“Verona, Marishka, and Aleera,” she recited, savoring each name. “I’ll be Marishka—obviously—because of my hair, Dasha will be Verona… and Aleera will be you, Asya. You could be our Dracula.” She rested her chin in her palm, smiling at Stanislav with syrupy sweetness that made my stomach knot.

Stanislav played along, trading lazy banter with her about the best film adaptation, their voices laced with a flirtation so deliberate it might have been scripted.

“I can’t be Aleera,” I cut in, loud enough to slice through their conversation.

Tatiana blinked. “Why not?”

“I’m not a redhead.”

She gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Maybe not, but your shade’s close enough.”

The heat rose in me. I could feel myself bristling as she turned back to Stanislav, laughing—too loudly, too sweetly—at something he’d said. I wasn’t going to let her erase me from my own presence.

“I don’t like the character,” I said firmly. “So I won’t dress as her.”

Tatiana gave me a slow once-over, as if measuring the challenge. Before the air could sharpen further, Dasha leaned in hesitantly. “We could switch,” she offered. “You can be Verona, I’ll take Aleera.”

Stanislav’s lips curved. “Asya—the main bride of Dracula?” he teased. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tatiana’s smile falter, the smallest crack in her performance. The sight was strangely satisfying.

And before I could think better of it, the words tumbled out. “We could even plan something for the contest. A… joint dance.” I paused deliberately, locking eyes with Stanislav. “Yours and mine.”

Smirnov’s gaze didn’t waver. There was a depth to it, like he was rifling through the backrooms of his mind in search of a plan. He didn’t back down—not in front of me, not in front of the others.

“I agree,” he said simply.

The table fell silent. Only Tatiana dared to break it, her tongue clicking with irritation.

And then—I felt it. Nik’s arm slipping from my waist. The weight of what I’d done landed like a stone in my chest. Why had I said that? Why had I challenged Stanislav in front of everyone—when I was with Nik?

Every gaze shifted toward us. I turned to him. His features had dimmed, his shoulders drawn in. He wouldn’t meet my eyes; his stare drifted as if searching for a lifeline in open water.

“I should go,” he said abruptly, snatching his backpack. “Big test coming up. Need to review.” The words came too quickly, and he was already halfway to the door.

“Nik, wait!” I stumbled out from behind the table, my pulse pounding, knowing even before I spoke that apologies might be useless.

Behind me, laughter rippled through the cafeteria. My face burned.

I caught up to him on the stairs, calling his name again and again. He didn’t turn. Finally, I reached for his shoulder—only for him to jerk away, and something inside me splintered.

“It was a joke,” I said, breathless. “I didn’t mean—”

“But you did.” His voice was low, flat.

I tried to step in front of him, but he turned away again. “You’d better go.”

“Nik, please—”

“Leave.”

His back was rigid, trembling faintly. The air between us vibrated with it.

“At least listen. I’m new to this—being with someone. I speak without thinking sometimes. Stanislav’s been avoiding me, even sent his sister this morning to sing praises about their family. I just… I wanted to get under his skin.”

“But you got under mine.” The sudden flare in his voice was like a spark to dry tinder. “And Stanislav looked like he enjoyed every second of it!”

His fist struck the railing. The metal groaned under the blow. I gasped—more from the shock than the sound.

“What’s going on here?” The voice came from behind.

Nik turned, and my breath caught. His deep blue eyes had burned to crimson—predatory, wrong.

“Not your business,” he growled at Stanislav.

“Oh, it’s very much my business when your eyes look like that.” Stanislav ascended the stairs with deliberate calm, placing himself between us.

Nik’s hand grazed his own cheek, then he fumbled for his phone, flipping to the front camera. One glance, and he swore. “Damn it. Guess I’m missing that test.”

“Go home,” Stanislav ordered.

“I don’t need you to tell me.” Nik shoved past him, but not before meeting my gaze. “We’ll talk tonight.”

Relief and unease tangled in my chest—grateful the tension had broken, but chilled by what I’d just seen.

“I didn’t know vampires could change their eyes,” I murmured.

“You don’t know much about us,” Stanislav replied.

“If you keep avoiding me, I never will.”

He sighed, the sound heavy as stone. “Do you really want to know?”

The question lodged in my throat. I shook my head slightly, trying to scatter the thoughts buzzing like wasps in my mind. When had everything become so tangled? We were supposed to be ordinary seniors—worrying about exams, dancing at parties—not… this. Not peeling back the veil on creatures out of myth.

“Then why send your sister?” I asked finally.

“Because your father asked me to,” he said, weariness sharpening into annoyance. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me alone—that you’d keep digging. But, Asya… you don’t need the answers. Live your life. Forget what you saw. Be grateful, and let’s end this here.”

The fervor in his voice stunned me. “Thank you,” I murmured, unsure if I meant it.

We stood there, alone on the landing. The school was nearly empty now; distant echoes from the cafeteria were the only sounds. Stanislav studied me with quiet intensity, biting his lip as if restraining more words.

From one step below, I looked up at him—tall, solid, unyielding. Like Atlas, bearing a weight only he understood.

“Thank you,” I repeated softly. “For yesterday. For today.”

Only then did I notice the warmth in his gaze. His skin was pale as carved marble, smooth and flawless, almost unreal. My fingers ached to touch it, to test whether it was truly flesh or the polished mask of something far older.

“You’ll keep digging,” he said—not a question, but a truth.

“I can’t help it.”

He raked a hand through his copper hair, already turning to go. “Then remember—forgetting would be better.”

***

Tatiana slid into the seat beside me during physics, and my stomach tightened. No one had ever chosen to sit with me in this class, and if Rostova had deigned to do so now, it could only mean trouble.

For the first half of the lesson, she was uncharacteristically silent, which only wound the tension at our table tighter. I tried to focus on the teacher’s voice, but his words slipped through my mind like water through cupped hands. My eyes drifted, again and again, to the empty chair where Nikita should have been.

I could only hope he was all right. And yet… it was strange. My feelings for him seemed to shift the moment he was no longer in sight. Without Nik nearby, there was only a sort of gentle fondness; but when he touched me, my temples would throb, my heart would race, as if trying to prolong that dizzy sweetness. In the classroom, even replaying our first kiss in my head felt oddly hollow, stripped of longing.

It was as if someone deep inside me was flipping a hidden switch—swapping tenderness for something darker. All the warmth was smothered by the cold dread that came when I remembered the crimson flare in his eyes. Was that the real face of a vampire?

The memory of his fist slamming into the railing still made my skin prickle. What if, one day, it wasn’t the railing but me in his grip? No matter how gentle Nik always was, that thought slithered into my mind and chilled me. I tugged my sweater sleeves as far over my hands as they would go, but it wasn’t enough. Leaning forward, I breathed into my cupped fingers, trying to warm them.

“Cold?” Tatiana’s voice finally broke the silence.

I nodded, keeping my eyes on the teacher, who was balancing an open textbook in one hand while scribbling equations on the board.

“You know,” she began, her tone light but edged, “it’s not very fair—flirting with two of the most popular guys in school at once.”

Her words blindsided me. I turned, searching her face for any sign she was joking.

“What are you talking about? I’m only dating Nikita.”

She rolled her eyes in open disbelief. “Oh, please. You’ve got a thing for Stas too. You’re giving him false hope.”

“And how exactly am I doing that?”

“Seriously? What was that in the cafeteria? You were clearly flirting with Smirnov.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” I said quickly. “I just… agreed with your idea.”

Tatiana’s brow arched. “Agreed with it? You invited him to dance.”

“I didn’t invite him,” I insisted. “The dance number could’ve included all of us.”

I couldn’t tell her the truth—not without handing the school’s biggest gossip the kind of secret that would never stay buried. And if Ksertoni had known about vampires for years, I would’ve seen the signs. This wasn’t something to risk.

“So, it was just his idea?” she pressed, skeptical.

“I thought you’d like it,” I said smoothly. “Help plan it, come up with the choreography. You’re great at pulling people together.”

She studied me, lips quirking into the faintest of smiles. My flattery had landed.

“So, no interest in Stas at all?” she asked.

I raised my left hand, palm out, and traced an invisible cross over my chest with my right—straight from every teen movie oath ever made.

“I swear on my heart.”

Tatiana smirked and turned back to the board, but her elbow jabbed into my ribs a moment later. I followed her gaze—

The teacher was standing at the front, arms crossed, eyes glinting ominously beneath the rim of his lowered glasses.

“Anastasia Chernaya,” his bass voice rolled through the room like distant thunder, “to the board.”

***

Nikita never returned for the rest of the day’s lessons. No one lingered by the classroom door to walk me to the next period. Instead, I drifted into step with Dasha—thankfully, our schedules overlapped for two more classes.

I found myself enjoying her company. We shared the same taste in books—both English and Russian classics—and had laughed over our mutual fondness for Private School and the travel show Heads & Tails. Like me, Dasha dreamed of seeing the world. On her list were Japan and the United Arab Emirates; mine, oddly enough, was Lake Baikal in the dead of winter.

The cold scared me, but I clung to the belief that the right clothing could solve almost anything. I’d spent hours staring at photographs of Baikal’s thick, glassy ice—deep cornflower-blue cracks threading down into blackness, as if the entire lake had frozen solid. I imagined standing alone in the middle of that endless mirror, my breath clouding in the air, the world reduced to silence and sky and ice. That moment of stillness would be worth the long flight, the jet lag, and three layers of thermals.

At the end of our last class together, I pulled out my phone and showed her pictures I’d found online. She leaned closer, eyes bright with unfeigned admiration, and warmth bloomed in my chest.

“Wow! I’d love to see that,” she said.

“Too bad it’s not happening this year,” I sighed.

“Yeah,” she agreed, her tone tinged with disappointment. “Probably not next year either. You have to go in winter for it to look like that. Who knows how our first year will even go?”

“Do you know where you’re applying yet?”

“I think so. I’m still torn about the faculty. And you?”

I slung my backpack over my shoulder as we left the classroom together.

“No idea. I haven’t even chosen the city yet.”

“I get it,” she said. “It’s hard starting from scratch somewhere new. I don’t think I could do it.”

We reached the ground-floor recreation area. I dropped my backpack onto a bench, shrugged into my jacket, and wound my scarf around my neck. Through the small window at the duty desk, I saw the snow had stopped. Then I remembered—Kostya wasn’t meeting me today—and muttered a curse under my breath.

“Something wrong?” Dasha asked.

“Unfortunately,” I admitted, pulling out my phone before realizing I didn’t have Diana’s number. Irritation prickled—today had been unraveling from the moment I woke up, and this was just the latest knot in the string.

“I need to call my dad,” I said. “Diana was supposed to give me a ride, but I think she’s already left.”

“Can’t you call her?”

“I don’t have her number.” I smiled faintly at the absurdity: hours ago I’d been discussing supernatural creatures with a girl I barely knew, yet I hadn’t thought to get her friend’s contact info.

“Let’s check outside—maybe she’s still in the car,” Dasha suggested.

I could have hugged her. She was an island of calm in the chaos of my day, and I clung to that. One more setback and I might have fallen apart completely. A strange thought slipped in—what if Dasha herself wasn’t human? What if she was… something else? How much truth hid in the stories meant to frighten children into guarding their lives? The more I thought about it, the more I realized I barely understood the world I was living in.

Lost in these musings, I followed her outside—and there it was, the familiar silver car, parked exactly where it had been that morning. But Diana wasn’t in sight. Instead, Stas leaned casually against the hood, his graphite coat short enough to bare his wrists to the cold, arms open in an easy gesture.

Spotting us, Smirnov raised a hand in greeting. I stepped toward him, but Dasha hesitated. Then the passenger-side window slid down and Tatiana’s head popped out.

“Hey, girls! Let’s go get costumes. Stas can drive us.”

When had Rostova gotten in with Smirnov—the same Smirnov who usually avoided everyone? I glanced at Dasha and saw the same question in her eyes.

“I can’t,” she said at once. “I didn’t bring any money.” Her polite smile carried a quiet sadness.

“No problem, I’ll cover it,” Stas replied, circling the car and swinging the door open with a flourish. “Hop in.”

I hesitated. I was supposed to go straight home with Diana, but now the car was in Stas’s hands, and they were headed to shop for costumes. It wasn’t in my nature to make Tatiana happy, but in this case, I saw the opportunity—she’d see for herself I had no interest in Stas. Besides, I still had a story to finish—the one I’d started in the cafeteria about Dracula’s brides.

As Dasha climbed in, I stepped closer to Stanislav and murmured, “Kostya won’t let me.”

“How do you know?”

The question caught me off guard.

“This morning, he had to get someone to drive me to school.”

Stas’s expression softened with understanding. “He’s just afraid to leave you alone. I get it. But there’s no more Kserton maniac. You and I both know that.”

“Yes, but my father’s still uneasy. He needs time. Please—take me home first.”

Stas’s eyes widened. He glanced over his shoulder toward Tatiana, as if checking she was still occupied with Dasha, then leaned closer until his breath warmed my ear.

“What if I call Kostya and ask?”

Skepticism prickled at me, but I remembered how warmly my father had always spoken of Stas—and that they already had each other’s numbers. I gave a reluctant nod.

He slipped his phone from his coat pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and raised it to his ear. To my surprise, Kostya didn’t object to the trip. Stas’s smile deepened as they spoke, as if the conversation were not only easy but pleasant.

“Well, that’s settled,” he said after hanging up. “I’ll take you home after, of course. I’ll drop the girls first—you’ll be the last. Then we’ll talk.” His eyes locked on mine, holding the challenge there for a moment before he nodded toward the passenger seat. “Now get in before Tanya starts asking what we’re whispering about.”

Loud music pulsed through the car, turning the ride into a wordless blur. Tanya had claimed the aux cord from Stanislav and, without hesitation, flooded the speakers with dance remixes of love songs from the eighties. The volume made conversation impossible—which, truth be told, was a relief. I had no idea what to say, and the music neatly patched that silence. At least in the store, we’d be able to hear ourselves think.

Through the narrow gap between the seats, I watched Stanislav. Tanya’s hand appeared, offering something, and Smirnov accepted it without hesitation, lips brushing whatever sweet or snack she’d given him. The sight pricked at me with a faint, sour déjà vu, an ache settling unpleasantly in my chest. Since when had he started indulging her so openly? They could have exchanged whatever tender little gestures they wanted somewhere—anywhere—other than right in front of me. Feeling like an intruder at a private play, I turned to the window.

Rain streaked the glass in thin rivulets, racing each other until they vanished in the blur of our speed. Outside, the autumn forest was surrendering to dusk, the colors drained to muted browns and grays, as though someone had turned the saturation dial down to zero. A gray day, a gray city—perfect camouflage for my mood.

Costume shopping was the last thing I wanted. But the promise of answers—real answers—was worth the detour. The sooner I pieced the truth together, the sooner I could claw my way back to something resembling a normal life. Crushes, awkward school dances, looming college applications… anything but this. I told myself to at least try to treat this like an ordinary errand with classmates. What could be more harmless than a group of seniors picking out costumes for a party?

I’d never been to this part of town before. Past the railway tracks, a row of dark-green garages sagged under years of road dust, abandoned by owners who no longer cared. Across from them stretched a sprawl of covered market stalls, a labyrinth of themed shopfronts and faded signage. Stanislav’s car slowed at the checkpoint, passing displays of bathroom fixtures, second-hand furniture, and building supplies. Nothing here suggested the exotic, vaguely “Eastern” aesthetic we were meant to find—unless Tanya had decided to abandon the whole Dracula’s-brides idea, which, truth be told, only existed because of a decade-old Van Helsing adaptation.

Then we turned the corner.

The building ahead was squat and sprawling, its windows masked entirely in printed film. Cartoon Santas, fairy-tale heroines, and glossy comic-book heroes peered out from the advertisements, all rendered in vibrant costume.

Stanislav finally turned the music down. The sudden quiet made the ringing in my ears obvious, and I mentally added “turn it down on the way back” to my list of requests. We unbuckled in unison. I was just reaching for the door when Tanya’s hand slid across Stanislav’s palm in an unmistakably intimate stroke. He didn’t flinch—or even look particularly bothered. A thin bitterness coated my tongue, along with the ridiculous impulse to say something sharp. But I swallowed it. The last thing I needed was for Tanya to think I cared.

Tanya joined Stanislav at the front of the car, threading her arm through his as we braved the icy road toward the store. Under the dim glow of the lamps, the frozen surface glittered like powdered diamonds—beautiful, treacherous. The moment our soles hit it, they skidded. I grabbed Dasha’s arm for balance; she gripped mine without hesitation, and together we shuffled forward in small, deliberate steps. Tanya took the hint and latched onto Stanislav—who, instead of walking carefully, gave a sudden push-off, gliding across the ice with practiced ease and towing her along like a reluctant passenger. Her horrified squeal nearly broke my composure; I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing outright.

They made it to the asphalt just outside the store’s canopy. Tanya, less graceful, lost her grip and teetered backward—until Stanislav caught her at the waist. She straightened instantly, but instead of letting go, she melted against him.

“Oh!” she breathed, all mock-innocence. “If it weren’t for you, I’d have fallen. You’re so attentive, Stanislav.”

His answering smile was all gallant warmth. I found it nauseating.

“Asya?” Dasha’s voice cut through my thoughts, her fingers tightening on my arm. “You okay?”

Only then did I realize I was still standing in the middle of the icy road, cheeks hot.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Just felt a little… dizzy in the car.”

Without missing a beat, Dasha fished in her pocket and produced a mint in a crinkling blue wrapper. “Here—this will help.”

I accepted it gratefully, unwrapping and letting the cool sweetness spread across my tongue. “Thanks,” I said, the relief of her simple kindness outweighing the candy itself.

Stanislav and Tanya were already at the entrance, heads bent in quiet conversation. I caught the moment his hand brushed a strand of her pale hair behind her ear, his fingers ghosting across her flushed cheek. My jaw tightened.

“Let’s just go in,” I said loudly, grabbing the handle and pushing the door open.

Inside, a riot of color and texture unfolded—rows upon rows of costumes spilling in serpentine racks deep into the store. Every corner beckoned, every fabric shimmered in the low light. No signs. No labels. Just chaos.

“Oh, God,” I muttered. “How are we ever going to find what we need?”

Tatiana arched a brow, a sly smile playing on her lips, before waving a dismissive hand.
“We’ll find it, don’t worry. Eastern motifs are in the back, on the right.”

I trailed after her, taking in the ceiling garlands that swayed ever so slightly, the flicker of silver streamers, and other festive trinkets that glimmered under the shop’s bright lights. It felt strange that such a sprawling, specialized store existed in small, quiet Ksertoni.

“How does it even stay in business?” I murmured aloud without meaning to.

“Why wouldn’t it?” Tatiana glanced over her shoulder. “People will always want to celebrate. Children’s parties, corporate events, city festivals—this is the only place to buy anything for them. You can even get a prom dress here if you want.”

“And don’t forget rentals!” Dasha chimed in. “Remember last year’s talent contest? We got all our costumes here.”

Tatiana nodded at each of Dasha’s words as if underlining them.

“Do things like that happen often at school?” I asked.

“Mostly in spring. You’ll have your chance—unless you drown yourself in homework.” Tatiana threw me a wink. “Well, here we are.”

The “Eastern section” turned out to be a wall ablaze with color and sparkle—tops stitched with rhinestones and glass beads, each more dazzling than the last. There were styles for every taste: flowing chiffon sleeves, shoulder-baring cutouts, and—my gaze faltered—bras masquerading as tops, cups dripping with teardrop crystals and golden chains radiating outward like sunbursts. The kind of thing I would never wear to a school disco, no matter how much Tatiana insisted. Naturally, it was the very piece she reached for.

“Fuchsia is definitely my color!” she declared, discreetly folding the price tag into the cup. “And my size, too.”

My eyes flicked from her chest to the garment, biting back a smirk. Those cups were clearly built for a far more generous figure. I wasn’t even sure I knew exactly what a size four looked like—but at seventeen, with barely a size two myself, I had my doubts.

“Not really my style,” I said quickly, before Dasha could be tempted. “For a school event, maybe something… more restrained?”

“Where else can you show off if not at a school disco?” Dasha protested.

“Well…” Stanislav’s voice drifted in from behind, and I almost forgot he was with us. “I’m with Asya. Teachers won’t love the whole ‘beaded bra’ thing.”

“And they might not even let us in,” Dasha added, reluctantly conceding.

Tatiana sighed theatrically and stepped aside.
“Fine. Let Asya choose. But I call dibs on the number—I won’t tolerate objections.”

Stanislav gave a low chuckle. “So much for teamwork.”

I set to work, flipping through hangers with growing enthusiasm. By the time I emerged with three coordinated sets, Tatiana and Dasha had vanished to investigate jars of fake blood and plastic fangs. Stanislav’s choice was far simpler—a reversible velvet cloak, crimson on one side, black on the other.

At the register, I saw him reach for his wallet.
“Can’t we just rent them? It’ll be cheaper,” I offered.

“Nonsense,” he said warmly. “Call it a belated welcome gift.”

“For what?”

“For coming to Kserton.”

“Just… no farewell gift, okay?”

His brow furrowed slightly. “You planning to go back to Rostov?”

I shook my head. “Haven’t decided.”

By the time Tatiana and Dasha returned, conversation had shifted, but I caught a glimmer in Tanya’s eyes when she kissed Stanislav’s cheek in thanks. Something was brewing there—and I couldn’t decide whether I found it amusing or dangerous.

We piled back into the car. The cabin was icy, the seats cold through my jacket. As the engine warmed, we discussed our performance: Dracula would be the centerpiece. I envisioned something classical, telling the story of his wives—each with her own desires, her own way of loving. Tatiana wanted a viral crowd-pleaser. Stanislav quietly sided with me, though doubt lingered in his voice.

When we dropped Dasha off, Tanya leaned forward, her breath warm between the seats.
“Great idea, Asya. Now each of us gets to dance with Stanislav. Can’t wait.”

“Friend,” she’d called me—and the word struck harder than expected.

Her neighborhood was gated, the iron doors swinging open only after an exchange with a grim-faced guard. Stanislav drove slowly down the dim, winding streets until we stopped before a two-story brick house, warm light glowing behind its curtains.

And I couldn’t help but wonder—how far did Tanya have to walk each morning just to reach school?

I said goodbye to Rostova in the car, and she hurried out, intercepting Stanislav at the trunk. Almost deliberately, she steered him toward the hood—right into my line of sight. Tanya tilted her head up to meet his gaze, a soft smile playing on her lips. They spoke quietly, but the sealed windows muted every word into silence.

Stanislav took her hands in his, pressing them gently against his chest. Her eyes shone—whether with joy or unshed tears, I couldn’t tell. She listened intently, not interrupting, as if trying to drink in every syllable he spoke. Hope glimmered in her face… but the longer they stood there, the more that warmth drained away. In its place crept a familiar, impenetrable mask—the same one I had seen her wear at school.

Stanislav slowly released her hands, and she immediately folded them against her jacket. He bent from his height to brush a brief kiss against her cheek, but she gave no sign of happiness in return. Her gaze dimmed, dropping to the ground. She said something else, forcing a brittle smile, then took her costume package and walked toward the house. Stanislav’s eyes followed her until she reached the door, and only then did I feel a strange, inexplicable relief.

He returned to the car without a word, fastening his seatbelt before shifting gears. The vehicle rolled forward, gliding away from the manicured streets that stood in stark contrast to the rest of Kserton. It felt less like we had crossed into another neighborhood, and more like we had slipped into another country entirely—one where tidy houses hid behind high brick fences, their neat order a world apart from the town’s weathered charm.

“My mom always dreamed of living in a place like this,” I murmured, unsure who I was speaking to, pointing toward a small white house with a wide porch and an apple orchard. The bare branches twisted into graceful shapes, and even from a distance it seemed the thinnest twigs reached toward their neighbors, yearning to weave together into one living net. Unlike its neighbors, the house stood unfenced, as though inviting weary travelers to rest at its doorstep.

“But the dream never came true?” Stanislav asked.

I shook my head, watching the house fade from view until another unremarkable brick wall—topped with cold, steel scrollwork—took its place.
“No. There was never spare money, no matter how hard my mother worked. It can’t be easy—lacking the skills to do anything properly, trying to take care of yourself while raising a daughter alone.”

“I thought your mother was married,” he said, genuinely surprised.

“She is now. Recently.” I allowed myself a faint smile. “I never thought people still fell in love at that age, but somehow my mom managed it.”

“Is that why you left?”

“Yes and no.” I paused, recalling the summer. “She never asked me to. I just couldn’t keep watching her torn between her old life and the fragile new one she was building. Leaving for Costa felt… right at the time.”

I fell silent, picturing her familiar face—her habit of forgetting where she’d left things, the little pencil sketches scattered across the house. I missed her. A phone call could never replace the presence of someone dear.

“Felt?” Stanislav asked, emphasizing the word. “You planning to go back?”

I shrugged, unsure how to answer, and glanced at him. His profile, set in concentration on the road, was almost impossibly perfect—sharp, defined, as though he belonged on a runway, not in a classroom. People like him seemed to have every path open before them. Neither I nor my pale-haired mother had ever dared to dream that far.

“Do you know what you want to do after school?” I asked.

“More no than yes.”

A strange heaviness settled over me—sticky, consuming, like a shadowed abyss ahead. All I wanted was to reach for the light, to feel solid ground beneath my feet and, looking back, know I had done the right thing. But what counted as “right” now was harder than ever to imagine.

I decided to shift the subject. “Did you deliberately send Diana to me?”

Stanislav said nothing at first, his brows knitting, eyes fixed on the empty road ahead. The town after sunset felt deserted, as though life itself had retreated with the light.

“She told me about your father,” he said at last. “About what Vladimir was before he was turned. Unlike us, he had a choice. No one asked me or Diana. We were born this way.”

“For how long?”

He gave a small shrug. “If we’re counting from our father’s age—no. I’m only slightly older than you. Diana and I both turned eighteen recently. Hers was just over a week ago.”

“But you’re not twins,” I pointed out.

“No. We have different mothers and fathers.”

I frowned. “But you both call Vladimir your father?”

Stanislav nodded. “He raised us. My mother loved another vampire and died giving birth to me. She knew exactly what he was, and still chose to carry me to term. Vladimir found her in time to save her… and to end my life before it began. She refused. She believed her lover would return once he learned of the child.”

The car’s interior was shadowed. As we reached the highway, the streetlights brushed across his face in passing glimmers, revealing the tight mask that hid his grief. I had the sudden, sharp impression that if he continued, that mask might crack—releasing a flood of pain that had followed him all his life.

“But he never came back?” I asked carefully.

Stanislav’s lips curved into a cold, mirthless smile that sent a chill through me. “No. Even after Vladimir sent word. The first line read, ‘You have a son.’ An address followed. But he never knocked on the door.”

“Maybe the letter was lost?” I offered, though I wasn’t sure whom I was trying to comfort.

“I doubt it.” His voice was flat.

We were both jolted back to the present when the light ahead flared red and Stanislav braked sharply, my seatbelt the only thing keeping me from hitting the dashboard. My heart thudded hard, and before I could speak, the car was moving again, weaving through the familiar streets toward my neighborhood.

Only as we neared my building did he speak again. “Every year on my mother’s birthday, I take flowers to her grave. And every year, there’s already another bouquet waiting—fresh white chrysanthemums. Her favorite.”

“Maybe someone else from her family—”

“She had none. Orphanage girl. No parents, no siblings. I tried to find relatives when I turned thirteen. Vladimir helped. The truth was painful: the only family I have is the one he gave me. I don’t need anyone else.”

Stanislav parked and cut the engine. We stepped out together, but I slipped on a patch of ice, catching the car door before I could fall. He didn’t notice—already at the trunk, pulling out my costume package. When I reached for it, he pulled it just out of reach.

“I’ll carry it.”

“You don’t have to walk me to the door.”

“To the door? Oh no.” A grin replaced the sadness in his expression. “Konstantine would tear my head off if I didn’t see you up. I’m willing to bet he’s got chores lined up for me… and tea.”

He started for the entrance, and I followed, tucking my face into my coat collar.

“You’ve gone quiet. Want to ask me something else?”

He paused at the door, looking back at me. My mind swirled with questions, some clumsy, some intrusive. I picked one.

“Can vampires drink anything other than blood? Or is food… an issue?”

Stanislav’s eyes crinkled faintly. “No problem with either. We’re not dead, whatever people think. We’re alive—just differently. Born vampires have it easier than turned ones. Less thirst, less need, fewer… complications. That’s the short answer. My father can give you the full lecture. Now—” he nodded toward the lock—“open the door.”

Chapter Text

As I reached our floor, I dug the apartment keys out of my backpack. The lock clicked, and the door swung open to the sound of Kostya’s voice drifting from the kitchen. He was speaking to someone about an upcoming party. Odd. Since when did the parent council report to him?

Before I could piece it together, the front door banged shut behind me. The voice in the kitchen cut off. Footsteps—quick, decisive—approached.

“Dad, I’m home!” I called, bending to unlace my shoes.

“Oh, Asya, and Stas!” Kostya emerged into the hallway with a smile that felt just a shade too bright. “I told you they’d be here soon!”

And then I saw him. Nik was standing just behind my father.

The air in the hallway seemed to crystallize—charged, brittle—as Karimov and Smirnov locked eyes in a silent standoff. Stanislav stepped forward, subtly edging me away from Nik. Kostya noticed the motion, his gaze flicking between them, puzzled.

“You said we’d talk tonight,” I told Nik, searching his face for signs that he’d recovered from the outburst at school. His eyes were their usual shade again—no crimson bleeding through. He looked… himself. And yet, I couldn’t shake the anxious knot in my stomach.

“That’s why I came,” he said, his voice sharpened with distaste as he looked at Stanislav. “I even called. You didn’t answer.”

I fished my phone from my pocket. Four missed calls flashed on the screen—three from him, one from Kostya.

“Maybe you didn’t hear because of the music,” Nik went on. “Tatiana plays it loud.”

“Or maybe,” he added, eyes narrowing, “you were distracted by something else. Or someone.”

The accusation was a splash of ice water.

“What’s gotten into you? You’re not yourself.”

Nik bit down on whatever words he wanted to say—whether from restraint or sheer unwillingness to argue in front of my father, I couldn’t tell. The silence thickened. Even Kostya looked uneasy.

Finally, he clapped a hand on Nik’s shoulder and nodded toward the kitchen. “Come on. Make us some tea. And you two—stop freezing in the hallway and join us. No need for drama at the door.”

I exhaled, grateful for the reprieve, and followed Stas inside.

“Sorry,” I murmured to him. “If I’d just picked up the phone, none of this—”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” he cut in. “This is on your prince charming.”

The phrase made me flinch.

“Don’t call him that.”

“What, your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” I said, holding his gaze. “My boyfriend. And stop calling him ‘buddy’ like he’s a dog.”

“Don’t like dogs?” he teased.

“I like them,” I said as we entered the living room. “I just don’t date them.”

Stas laughed—too amused for my taste—but I didn’t press.

Nik and Kostya were already seated, a polite gulf of sofa cushion between them. I chose the spot beside my father, close enough to feel anchored. Nik clicked his tongue, his displeasure palpable.

Stanislav slid between them like it was nothing, which only tightened Nik’s jaw. I prayed Stas wouldn’t provoke him into a slip—into those eyes I didn’t want Kostya to see.

And that’s when it hit me: this was how it would always be. Being with Nik meant living with the constant, coiled threat of what he was. If there was a cure, he’d have taken it long before I came along.

Kostya broke the silence, asking after our costumes. I told him about Tatiana’s idea—Dracula’s brides, with Stas as one of them. Nik’s stare burned into me, the same unspoken disapproval as before.

We drifted into talk of old films, then folklore. Kostya mentioned that in Kserton, werewolves had always been more famous than vampires. Nik and Stas answered in unison, as if sharing some private knowledge. I tried to draw the legends out of them, but the moment slid sideways—Nik’s temper sparking again when he heard Stas’s family had been teaching me about the town.

He was just about to unload the reason for his strange mood when Kostya’s phone rang.

The change in my father’s face was immediate. He listened in silence, gaze fixed on some invisible point on the table.

“I’ll call work, get time off, look at tickets. First flight we can manage. Just try to rest,” he said softly into the phone.

The voice on the other end trembled with worry, and my chest tightened when I realized who it was.

“Maria… we’ll handle this together,” he promised.

By the time he ended the call, I was cold all over. Mom was alive—but something awful had happened.

“This can wait a few days,” Kostya finally said, his tone firm. “Right now, you two stay here. This is family business.”

Nik and Stas left with their father. I stayed rooted to the couch, the sense of dread pressing harder with each passing second.

Kostya returned and sat beside me, taking my hands. He hesitated before speaking, as if bracing himself.

“Asya,” he said quietly, “your grandmother… she’s gone.”

***

For the first time in my life, the days bled into one another—thick, sluggish, and indistinguishable, like a river of silt. Time carried me forward without shape or pause, while inside, a hollow darkness swelled. It was a black hole, devouring not only my silence, but the fragments of the little girl with the wide, crystalline eyes I’d once seen in our family album.

I had never known death before. Seeing my grandmother in the coffin was like looking at a stranger in borrowed skin. Every familiar line of her face had been smoothed away. Her pallor was dense, unnatural, as if her features had been cast in plastic. The neat, plump lips I remembered were stretched unnervingly across her face, dividing it into two still, foreign halves. Was this what death did to a person? Or was it the cold handiwork of pathologists toiling under the stench of formalin in hidden basements?

I must have lingered too long beside her. A heavy hand came to rest on my shoulder. I turned and found my father’s eyes—brimming with compassion, edged with something like fear. Was he afraid I wouldn’t survive this loss, that I’d stay behind in Rostov? Or was his mind already on Maria? My grandmother had been her anchor, her ally, the one who helped her raise me. They’d argued sometimes, but she had been Maria’s closest friend.

I thought of how raw this must be for her as my father gently steered me aside. A thin, silver-haired man with a bald crown stepped forward, clutching his hat in both hands. His lashes quivered with unshed tears as he bent over my grandmother, whispering words too soft to catch. He adjusted the collar of the blouse Maria had chosen, then retreated to sit opposite me.

When the farewells ended, two men gripped the steel handles of the coffin and lifted it onto a conveyor. The lid closed with a muted finality. Music swelled—too loud, too triumphant, so jarringly wrong that I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself. The shutters parted, revealing darkness, and the coffin began to move toward it. My breath caught, my body rooted. Beneath the music’s din, I heard the low hum of the belt.

And then I understood. This was the end. No more afternoons with Tamara Vasilievna and her stories of youth; no more tea from the samovar, no more cabbage pastries whose scent embraced you at her door. No more envelopes with birthday cards painted by hand, each with its own imagined tale. All of it would vanish once the last inch of the coffin disappeared into shadow.

I wasn’t the only one thinking this. From the corner of my eye, I saw movement—Maria breaking from Kostya’s side. My father caught her halfway across the room, arms reaching desperately toward the coffin. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her face twisted in anguish. She tried to fight her way forward, but he held her tight. The others stood silent, eyes flicking between her and the disappearing casket.

Maria’s scream rose above the music—a raw, unshielded sound that seemed to tear the air apart. I stood frozen, afraid that if I moved, the grief would sweep me under like a black wave. I locked my gaze on her until the final chord faded and the shutters sealed with a muffled clang.

It was over. My grandmother was gone.

Maria’s legs gave way, and only my father’s grip kept her from collapsing. Across the room, her new husband stood apart, watching without stepping forward. The sight hardened something inside me. How could I leave her here? How could I trust a man who, at her worst moment, wouldn’t offer her his shoulder?

Finding strength I didn’t know I had, I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around both my parents, holding them until my fingers ached. In that moment, I made a silent vow: I would never leave them—no matter what came between us.

***

I didn’t move in with my mother and stepfather, though technically my room in their apartment was still mine. For now, distant relatives from Arkhangelsk had claimed it during the funeral. Instead, I accepted Kostya’s offer and spent ten nights in a modest hotel on the edge of the city, in the room next to his. It was a strange relief—to be alone, even briefly—trying to make peace with a reality that refused to soften.

What struck me most was how, after my grandmother’s death, the world didn’t even pause. It kept spinning, indifferent, allowing new lives to begin as others quietly vanished. Each morning I sat by the wide window framed with lace curtains, watching strangers pass in both directions. Scarves wrapped snugly, coat collars turned up, their breath puffed in pale clouds—each person immersed in errands I’d never know.

“Asya,” my father said, sitting across from me in the hotel café, eyes scanning the menu. “What’ll you have?”

“The usual.”

He sighed, closing the menu with deliberate dissatisfaction.
“You can’t live on khachapuri adjaruli forever. At least get a salad.”

I shrugged, turning back toward the street. Silence filled the space between us, each of us lost in our own thoughts. In those first days, Nikita had flooded my messenger with worried texts, but they all orbited around our relationship, and I didn’t have the will—or the patience—to untangle that knot now. I barely touched my phone except to answer Dasha. She spoke to me the same way she always had, without tiptoeing around grief, without the constant, suffocating “Are you okay?” She told me school gossip, and sometimes we’d call to go over homework. It was she who mentioned, almost offhand, that rehearsals had started without me. A small sting, though I knew it was the right thing for them to move on.
“I think Tatiana is seeing Stas,” she’d whispered last night. The thought had clung to me all morning.

“Asya, eat,” Kostya urged. A moment later, the waitress set down a large wooden board before me: a golden-brown bread boat cradling a molten sea of cheese, with a sunny yolk gleaming at its center.

I tore off a piece from the edge, scooping up cheese and egg. The salty richness melted into the airy dough, dissolving on my tongue. I closed my eyes briefly, savoring the first bite.

Halfway through, Kostya slid a glass salad bowl toward me with a stern look. “Finish it,” he ordered—the paternal tone that always meant there was no room for negotiation. Inside, among a tangle of greens smothered in white dressing, sat thick slices of tomato, arched cucumbers hollowed of seeds, translucent onion rings, and… something unidentifiable. I speared it with my fork—chewy, fibrous. Beef, though it had taken effort to recognize.

“What’s this salad called?”

He frowned, digging for the name in his memory before surrendering to the menu.
“Prussian.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Me neither. It was just the only one without mayonnaise.”

I smiled faintly, remembering how he used to eat mayonnaise from the jar with a spoon. He ignored the jab, folding his hands and leaning in, his gaze suddenly distant.

“I have to be back on duty tomorrow,” he began softly. “They let me take ten days, but the department’s already short-staffed. Funerals… they’re not a vacation.” He rubbed his neck wearily. “I’ve got tickets for tomorrow morning—Novosibirsk. If you want, you can come with me. If you’d rather stay, I’ll understand. Your mother… she’s struggling. Maybe you should be with her for a while.”

For nine days, neither of us had spoken of the scene at the crematorium. But the truth was, I couldn’t be near my mother and her husband anymore. Something in me recoiled from him—his distance, his detachment. I couldn’t watch them play at love knowing that, when one of them broke, the other wouldn’t catch the pieces. I could barely hold myself together; I had nothing left to give them. My mother had lost her mother, and I had lost my grandmother. If you want to help someone, you have to save yourself first.

“Don’t worry about the hotel,” Kostya continued. “It’s linked to my card—”

“I’ll come with you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Sorry—what?”

“I’ll come,” I repeated, eyes fixed on the empty plate. “I shouldn’t stay here.”

“But your mother—”

“She’s an adult. And she’s not alone. If she needs me, she can say so at the memorial. So—nine days, or should I pack now?”

He exhaled, relief and surprise mingling. “I’ll come. I’ll pack tonight.”

“Good,” I said, tucking a loose strand behind my ear. “If Mom doesn’t mind, I’ll go back to Kserton with you.”

“We’ve decided, then.”

And with that, he called for the bill, both of us content to let the rest remain unsaid.

​​***

Kostya and I arrived last. The house was already heavy with the scent of black wool coats and muted grief. From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes, the muted bustle of hands helping Maria lay the table. I slipped off my shoes in the hallway, pulled my hair into a high ponytail, and went to see where I could be useful.

The kitchen was small, crowded with at least five of my grandmother’s old friends—some she’d gone to school with, others who had lived nearby for decades. Their names still slipped through my memory like water through fingers, but their faces were easy to place from past gatherings. Not finding my mother there, and seeing no gap for my help, I slipped away into the rest of the house.

I found her in the bedroom, standing at the window. Through the thin curtains, Maria gazed at the low, oppressive sky, turning a small golden angel pendant between her fingers—the one my grandmother had once given her. I closed the door softly, circled the bed, and came closer.

“How are you?” I asked.

Her eyes shone as if fresh tears were gathering but refused to fall. She drew in a sharp breath, her chest lifting and sinking in one decisive motion. Her shoulders sagged, and the proud, straight posture I’d always known seemed to give way to something softer, more breakable.

“As well as possible,” she said, the words tinged with both sadness and frustration.

I wanted to pull her into a hug, but I stayed still, afraid of shattering the fragile mask that kept the grief contained like water behind a dam.

“Mom, if you need—”

She cut me off with a raised hand. Her eyes closed for a heartbeat, her throat moving as she swallowed hard. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.

“Don’t worry. Sooner or later, this happens to everyone. We all bury those we love. It’s a weight you can hardly share with anyone.”

“She was my grandmother too,” I said, the protest stinging my own ears. My loss was no smaller than hers—why couldn’t we share it?

“I know, sweetheart.” Her hand slid down my forearm, warm and gentle. “And you have your own way of grieving.”

She drew another breath and reached into her back pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Sliding one between her lips, she pulled the curtain aside.

“Open the window, please.”

I obeyed, still stunned—my mother, the woman who avoided cafés with smoking rooms, who coughed at the faintest whiff of smoke at a bus stop, now lighting up without hesitation.

The lighter flared; the tip glowed. Smoke swirled in the air, sharp and bitter. The smell curled into my stomach like a fist. I couldn’t imagine how such a foul thing could bring anyone comfort, yet I stayed silent, breathing shallowly through my mouth.

When the cigarette was nearly gone, Maria spoke again.
“You should go back to Kserton with Kostya.”

“Are you sure?” I hesitated. I didn’t trust my stepfather to take care of her—not really.

“Yes, little bird. It will be better for everyone. I’ll pick up the urn next week, when the photo for the headstone is ready. I bought a plot—it’s cheaper, easier to tend. I don’t want her grave becoming some forgotten patch with a rusted fence. She deserves the best.”

A knock sounded at the door, and my father appeared in the doorway. His gaze flicked between us, lingering on the faint haze in the room. His nose twitched.

“Has someone been smoking?”

I glanced at Maria. It wasn’t my question to answer. She pulled her scarf tighter, folding her arms.
“Must be coming in from outside.”

“Ugh. Disgusting,” Kostya muttered, crossing to shut the window. “I’ll talk to the neighbors. They should smoke outside, not stink up other people’s rooms.”

“Dad…” I began, but Maria was quicker.

“You can talk to them all you want, but I’m the one who has to live with them,” she said evenly. “You manage your business in Kserton. I’ve been fine without you all these years.”

Her words landed like a slap—sharp enough to still him mid-motion. It sounded as if their whole separation had been his fault. I wasn’t old enough to claim wisdom about love, but I’d already learned that relationships are built from choices made by both sides. She’d left, wanting something different than what Kostya could give. That was her choice. Can you blame someone for not matching the script you wrote for them in your head? Castles in the air crumble at the first touch of a wind that doesn’t fit the blueprint.

“Could you at least not argue today?” I asked.

Two startled faces turned toward me.

“Asya, we weren’t arguing. Where’d you get that idea?”

I remembered the way he had held her at the crematorium, how he would have walked through fire for her if she’d only asked. But their love hadn’t survived anyway. Thinking of them made me think of Nikita—and of how love falters when it’s absent in the moment of greatest need.

“It’s time to go back to the guests,” I said instead, stepping into the hall. “We’ve been gone too long.”

We returned to the living room, where the others were already seated at the table.

Chapter Text

The wake passed as peacefully as such gatherings can—an assembly of near-strangers united by grief for someone they had all known, if in different ways. At least there were no quarrels. My mother and father sat at opposite ends of the table, so far apart it felt almost strategic. My stepfather did his best to keep the air from growing too heavy, nursing his wine and recalling every lighthearted story about Grandma he could summon. A few of them even coaxed smiles, brief but genuine, from around the table. For a moment, it was as if she were still with us—hovering just out of sight, peeking from behind the doorway, her hands busy in the kitchen as she tried to play the perfect hostess.

When night finally settled outside, Kostya pushed back his chair, excused himself with mention of an early flight, and with a small tilt of his head, signaled for me to follow. After hasty goodbyes, I trailed him into the hallway and began digging through the mountain of coats piled high on the dresser.

"I can’t find my scarf," I murmured, already sensing the futility of the task—too many layers of strangers’ belongings tangled together. Kostya, with his usual quiet assurance, began sorting through the heap of scarves, hats, and gloves.

"Remind me—what color?" he asked.

"Here," came my mother’s voice from behind. I hadn’t even noticed her enter. She held the missing scarf in one hand, my forgotten gloves in the other.

Smiling, I took them from her and hurriedly dressed. "When did you have time to put them away?" I asked.

She merely shrugged, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Then she drew me into an embrace so fierce that the cold metal of my jacket zipper pressed sharply against my collarbone.

"Take care of yourself," Maria whispered, her breath warm against my ear.

"Always, Mom."

***

The taxi was already idling at the curb. My father pulled open the rear door for me, and I slid inside without a word. Kostya took the passenger seat beside the driver. As we rolled through the quiet streets, I pressed my forehead lightly against the cool glass, letting my gaze drift over the familiar landscape of my hometown.

I may have been born in Ksertoni, but Rostov had always been my true home. I knew its districts, its narrow streets, its hidden corners—each one layered with memories. They rose now in flashes, vivid and bittersweet, almost all of them tied to my grandmother. Perhaps it’s natural to think so much of the dead in the days just after burying them.

With her, my childhood had gone too. I’d known what death was, in the abstract, but until now I had never stood so close to it. The thought chilled me: I could have been lying in a coffin myself if that unhinged waitress and her thug had been a little quicker… If Viola and Max hadn’t come when they did… A second later, and there might have been two fresh graves in the family.

In this strange new world—brimming with secrets, shadows, and creatures out of half-forgotten legends—I felt small. Breakable. In the past nine days, I had witnessed the raw pain of loss, the kind that swallows people whole. It made my heart ache in ways I couldn’t put into words. If I could, I would have shattered myself into a thousand pieces to patch the wound in my mother’s soul, the one that had opened the moment Grandma slipped away.

And then there was Nik. I remembered the red flare in his eyes. One mistake—one careless word—and I could put us all in danger. No human defense could shield us from that. Twice already Stanislav and his family had stepped in, but who’s to say they would always arrive in time?

No matter what I felt for Nik, the truth was simple: he was dangerous. And no matter how much it hurt, I had to choose. For myself. For my family. For the future.

No more vampires.
No more fantastical entanglements.
Enough.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, opened the messenger app, and found his name instantly. Eighteen unread messages waited there. My thumb hovered, tempted to read them—but I knew that even a single line could unravel my resolve. I took a slow breath, steeling myself, and began to type:

A: Hi, Nik. I’m sorry, but we shouldn’t be together.

***

“Who breaks up over the phone, anyway? It’s so ugly!” Tatiana scolded me the next day at the gym. Kostya had insisted I shouldn’t be left alone. Right after the flight, we had returned home, dropped off our things, and my father had walked me to school, insisting it was for the best.

But instead of our regular classes, the entire class was helping the parents’ committee. The girls had been decorating the gym since early morning for the long-awaited Friday event. Tanya and Dasha were in charge of the garlands, which someone had meticulously and lovingly cut out. Three overflowing boxes held a riot of Halloween colors: orange, white, and black. The black decorations were especially intricate. Beyond the coal-dark paper, cut-out spiders and bats bore subtle highlights—some shimmered with foil accents, catching the spotlights, while others had fragments of velvet paper that gave them a surprising depth.

I pulled out a garland bristling with bats and, armed with tape, climbed the ladder. Dasha stood close, steadying it with both hands.

“Just in case,” she murmured awkwardly, and I realized how startled I had been before.

“Well? Why are you silent?” Tatiana pressed. “You’d love it if Nik just sent a quick breakup message, wouldn’t you?”

“What do you want me to say, Tanya? It’s done. Hold the garland straight, or we’ll tear it,” I muttered, gripping the ribbon.

Tanya rolled out the length on the floor and lifted it higher.

“You haven’t seen him yet, have you?”

“Who, Tanya?”

“Nikita! Who else?” she snapped, her eyes narrowing.

“Not yet. And I hope I don’t.”

Tanya’s face flushed. Her eyes, wide and fierce, seemed to accuse me as if I had ended things with her on the phone, not Karimov.

“What kind of person are you, really?” she demanded.

“Tanya, this isn’t your business,” I said firmly. Words failed me. “You don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand?!” Her voice echoed through the hall. “I understand perfectly! But you… you understand nothing! Do you know what it feels like to think you’ve finally found someone? Your person, the one who would love you no matter what—and then be thrown out of a moving car without explanation?” She paused, staring off for a moment, as if reliving some old pain, and I wondered if someone had done the same to her.

“Tanya, it’s complicated. Very complicated. I’m not proud of what I did. At the time, sending the message seemed like the only way. I wasn’t ready to face him, to talk it through. Nikita wouldn’t have accepted it—he would’ve tried to change my mind,” I admitted, cheeks burning. “And I… I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. Everything would’ve gone back to where it was. Love against all odds… it has too many ‘buts.’”

“Wait.” Tatiana handed me the end of the garland, the only one still unattached. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

“Tanya, of course. But we just… can’t be together,” I said, keeping it brief, wishing I could confide in someone completely. Tanya, though loud and intrusive, was never someone I felt close to. Her energy irritated me; I sometimes wished I could be a bit more like her, but I never could.

Dasha listened quietly, passing me a new garland of delicate, paper ghosts. I accepted it without leaving the ladder. Tatiana again took the heavier end to make it easier for me. Carefully, I taped the garland to the wall.

“Listen… what really happened between you two?” Tatiana asked softly. “You don’t have to say, but if he hurt you or anything like that, everyone should know…”

“No—no, nothing like that!” I said quickly, afraid gossip might spread. “It’s… complicated. Family stuff. After grandma’s funeral, everything changed. My stepfather went off the rails, my parents fought constantly, and I need to study for exams—but I don’t even know what to study, haven’t chosen a major yet.”

“Then pick Ksertonsky State University, simple as that,” Tanya said.

“Yes, but… for what?”

“That, I can’t decide for you.”

“Exactly. How can anyone know what they want to do with their life at our age, if they haven’t really tried anything yet?”

Dasha shrugged, joining the conversation casually.

“For me, it’s simple. I’m going to the philology department.”

Tanya and I stared at her.

“Philology? With your science streak?” Rostova raised an eyebrow.

“Good grades don’t mean I like the subjects,” Dasha replied timidly and fell silent again.

We continued decorating, each absorbed in our role: Dasha passed garlands and steadied the ladder, Tanya kept the decorations aligned, and I taped the strings to the wall. Lost in thought, we worked in harmony, occasionally exchanging small comments about placement or solving minor issues, like fetching another roll of tape or snacks.

During a break, I volunteered to go get food. I asked what everyone wanted, took my wallet, and headed to the cafeteria. Just as I reached the door, I froze. Nikita was walking toward me from the opposite side of the hall. Our eyes met, and the weight in my chest was instant and heavy—there was nowhere to run.

"Hi," Karimov greeted me softly, standing before me yet avoiding my gaze. His face was paler than usual, and he had tucked his hands deep into his jeans pockets.

"Hi… You're wearing jeans?" I asked, surprised, as the silence stretched awkwardly between us.

Karimov raised his eyebrows and glanced downward, as though noticing his clothes for the first time. For a brief moment, a familiar smile flickered across his lips—warm and reassuring—but it vanished almost immediately.

"Ah, yes," he murmured. "We’re dismantling the desks on the first floor and carrying them upstairs with the guys. The teacher said it was okay to wear something we wouldn’t mind getting dirty."

"Oh," I replied, feeling the tension tighten around my chest under his gaze. How quickly someone so close could become almost a stranger. "Well… I should go before the bell rings. The girls need to grab something to eat."

"I’m heading to the cafeteria too," Nikita said, falling in step beside me.

At the counter, I studied the offerings with renewed interest. Steam rose from aromatic buns and puff pastries, neatly arranged on trays. Some were dusted generously with powdered sugar, while others were coated with tiny sugar crystals, melting into a delicate caramelized crust. My eyes lingered on the school’s pizza—the likes of which could never be found in any city restaurant. Soft, round buns of airy dough were adorned with delicate arcs of thinly sliced onion and pink cubes of doctor’s sausage. Oval slices of pickle peeked out from the melted cheese, completing the ensemble. I imagined the dough softening on my tongue, the cheese accentuating the filling, and the pickles adding just the right tang, highlighting each flavor in contrast.

"Can I have a couple of puff pastry crackers, the same number of pizzas, a pack of oatmeal cookies, and three packs of apple juice, please?" I asked the plump woman at the counter, who busily began assembling my order.

"Would you like a large juice? The volume is the same," she offered, opening the refrigerator.

"Sure."

Nikita caught up with me, tilting his head toward my tray.

"Add one more pizza and a hematogen bar."

I blinked in surprise. "Nik, you don’t have to—"

"It’s fine. I want to," he interrupted, pulling a banknote from his back pocket and handing it to the woman.

"You really don’t need to pay for me."

"I didn’t pay only for you, did I?" he replied sharply, taking part of the order. "Give my regards to the girls… especially to Tanya."

Without waiting for an answer, Nikita spun on his heel and left the cafeteria, leaving me alone with my armful of food and a flutter of thoughts. Especially to Tanya? The words lingered, and I realized the full weight of what I was carrying—not just in my hands, but in my chest. The bags of juice pressed against my side, and I struggled to balance the pastries when a familiar voice sounded behind me:

"Wow! Someone’s really hungry today. Welcome back!"

I forced a weak smile, not knowing what he was so pleased about. Funerals were not occasions for cheer, and breaking up with someone you see every day at school was hardly cause for celebration. I would have preferred to stay home another week rather than endure Tatiana’s incessant commentary. Who did she think she was, meddling in my life as if she understood? She wouldn’t dream of breaking up with Stanislav by phone—he was perfect, charming, always well-dressed. Even in worn jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and a crumpled shirt with rolled sleeves, Smirnov had the air of an ancient deity, a living embodiment of perfection. I suspected guys like him broke hearts daily, yet would rarely have their own shattered.

"Are you following me again?" I asked, trying to steady the food, but one bun slid perilously from the pile.

"Not at all," Smirnov said, shaking a package of vanilla milkshake with a small smile.

Realizing I had no other choice, I asked, "Can you help me take this to the gym?"

"Of course," he replied readily, taking half the food from my hands.

We walked in silence. Stanislav whistled a light, unfamiliar tune, which filled the empty corridors with warmth and a strange, fleeting sense of calm.

"So… you and Tatiana?"

He paused on the landing, looking at me with interest, an eyebrow slightly raised.

"What about ‘me and Tatiana’?" I asked cautiously.

"I heard you two were together," he said, tilting his head back, amused as if I had just shared a private joke.

"From Dasha. We sometimes talked on the phone while I was in Rostov."

"You could’ve called me a few times too," he said unexpectedly.

"To say what?" I asked, puzzled.

"I don’t know… whatever I felt like," he said, stopping in front of me, blocking my path. His eyes half-lidded, his lips slightly parted—it was a quiet, insistent invitation, one that made everything inside me tremble.

"Why not," Stanislav murmured, his voice intimate, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Hey, Asya! What took you so long?"

Tatiana’s voice cut through the tension. I blinked, the spell broken, and the world righted itself.

Grumbling inwardly, I began transferring the food from Stanislav’s hands to my arms, my favorite sweater already bearing greasy marks. Skipping steps, I rushed up the stairs, hearing his amused snort and a teasing, "You’re welcome!" followed by heavy footsteps and the clatter of a door frame.

"Serves you right," I muttered under my breath, still fuming.

Tatiana stood silently, arms crossed, as I approached. She scrutinized me for a moment before speaking.

"So, you broke up with Karimov and now you’re back with Smirnov?"

"Don’t be ridiculous," I replied, gesturing toward the pile of food. "Take yours. Where’s Dasha?"

"She’s still in the hall. We’ve just got half a box left to hang, and then we’re done."

"Great. Let’s go," I said, steeling myself for the last stretch of work.

***

The rest of the school day passed without any quarrels, yet my mood left much to be desired. After Dasha discreetly led Tatiana aside and whispered to her, the classmates’ chatter seemed to take a gentler turn, and Rostova ceased her attacks. Perhaps they were discussing matters exclusive to their friendship, but the change was so noticeable that it could hardly go unremarked. Later, when we finished hanging the garlands and the three of us were dismissed to go home, the girls suggested we head into the city center together for a bit of fun. I replied vaguely, genuinely exhausted from the early wake-up and the long trip to Ksertoni, but they persisted. Left with little energy to argue, I surrendered and agreed.

A block from the school, we found a bus stop. Only Dasha seemed confident navigating the city transport. She checked the printed schedule on the wall and announced the number of the bus we needed with certainty. We settled on the narrow bench beneath the shelter and waited. Fortunately, the bus arrived quickly. Its doors opened, and several passengers stepped off, many of whom I recognized from school.

We climbed aboard. The girls moved swiftly through the turnstile, scanning their travel passes, while I lingered near the driver’s cabin to pay my fare, having pre-bought a return ticket, hoping Dasha would guide me home. Tatiana chose a pair of facing seats, and the girls sat opposite me. The aisle seat beside me remained empty.

"Is there a bookstore in the city center?" I asked.

"Of course," Dasha replied seriously, peering at me over her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. "And it’s very, very big."

A small smile tugged at my lips, and I softly clapped my hands together, careful not to disturb the other passengers. Nothing could lift my spirits quite like the thought of buying new books.

"Wonderful! Will you show me?" I asked eagerly.

Tatiana turned to the window, rolling her eyes, her lips forming silent words: Here we go again…

Dasha, however, shared my excitement. She launched into a detailed description of the books she’d discovered on the discount rack, teasing the plot without spoiling the key twists, leaving me hanging with anticipation.

"…the main character’s mother, much like yours, remarried, and Bella decides to move to Forks to live with her father. At her new high school, she meets many people—and falls for the main heartthrob. But here’s the twist: he’s not just anyone… he’s a vampire! Can you imagine?"

I froze, my eyes widening at her words, struck as though by lightning.

"You mean Twilight?" Tatiana asked, frowning, trying to recall the name.

"Yes! Yes, yes!" Dasha exclaimed, her excitement evident. "Did you read it too?"

"Pff…" Tanya snorted, folding her arms. "No way. I just watched all the movies recently. It’s creepy if you think about it."

Dasha’s brow furrowed. She straightened in her seat, ready to defend her beloved story. Her reaction alone made me itch to grab the book and check online reviews. Reaching for my phone, I became absorbed in the girls’ argument, momentarily forgetting my own plans.

"What’s so terrible about it? It’s a beautiful love story, with such an amazing atmosphere," Dasha insisted.

"Ha! Amazing atmosphere," Tatiana scoffed. "Especially Bella’s room, when Edward sneaks in to watch her in the middle of the night like some kind of maniac. A perfect start to a healthy relationship! That’s just stalking. And the worst part? Bella finds it endearing! She throws herself into his arms, spends all her time with him, packs up her things to leave her father—just like that. A great role model for teenage girls: a naive lamb for the predator."

Dasha gasped at each comment, her objections building, but Tatiana’s torrent of indignation wouldn’t pause. Listening to them, the story suddenly seemed like a psychological thriller rather than a romance.

"And the only relatively normal character is Jacob," Tatiana continued, "because if you compare his relationship with Bella’s—"

"NO SPOILERS!" Dasha cried, eyes squeezed shut. I flinched; this was the most restrained girl in class, after all. "I’ve only just finished the first part!"

"It came out in 2017. Kserton is ten years behind the rest of the country. You don’t have to hide spoilers—everything’s online."

"Really? I think Kserton’s fine," I offered, recalling the differences between my hometown of Rostov-on-Don and this small town.

"It’s just that you’re not really active on social media. Most of the school isn’t, either, even though there are plenty of cheap smartphones. Meanwhile, I post all sorts of interesting stuff about cosmetics," Tatiana said, smirking self-satisfiedly. "Half the town doesn’t even know what bloggers are."

"Not everyone has ten thousand rubles to spend on peeking into other people’s lives," Dasha said reproachfully. "And who would even care?"

"Millions! There are apps to share thoughts, discoveries, feelings—you just pick your format," Tatiana said, thrusting her phone toward Dasha. "Podcasts if you like listening. Beautiful pictures if you like visuals. Want educational content? Or cute videos? It’s all here. You can even earn money if you run your page well."

"Fairy tales," Dasha muttered thoughtfully. But her expression changed when she turned to the window, pale, hand slipping onto Tanya’s shoulder. "It’s our stop! Girls, let’s go!"

We tumbled off the bus just in time. The doors slammed behind us, the noise ringing in my ears, and I marveled at how long we’d been chattering.

As I caught my breath, I noticed a fishing shop with a massive blue door across the street and recalled how, on one of the first days of school, the boys had teased us about it being the backyard of a local attraction. Glancing around, I couldn’t see any alleyways through the long building of shops, which made me uneasy. How would we reach the garden?

"We’re going this way," Dasha said, already turning. I grabbed her shoulder.

"Wait," I said, pointing to the fishing shop. "Are there others like this in Kserton?"

Dasha and Tanya exchanged a glance, shrugging.

"The town’s small, but there might be more. The rivers and lakes here are full," Dasha answered hesitantly.

"And it’s not far to the Ob River. My dad and his colleagues often go fishing there," Tanya added.

"What street is this?" I asked, spreading my arms. Too much time had passed; I barely remembered the directions Nikita and Andrei had mentioned.

Dasha pointed to a faded yellow sign above the bus stop: Vesennya Street. The name sounded familiar.

"The guys talked about this place and the garden in the backyard. Have you been there?" I asked.

"No. My father wouldn’t take me there for anything," Dasha replied.

"And me?" I looked at Tanya conspiratorially. She hesitated, opening and closing her mouth as if searching for the right words.

"Fine," Rostova finally said. "But you owe me one."

I nodded, and together we headed toward the door painted a deep, inviting blue. Through the inset of transparent glass, I could make out a charming rectangular sign, suspended by rough cotton threads, its edges adorned with delicately painted watercolor fish in whimsical shapes, shades of turquoise and cool green blending into one another. In the center, a careful hand had scripted the word Open in a fanciful, almost dancing calligraphy. Beneath it, in tiny letters, it read Push, which I did.

Inside, the shop was a miniature world of its own. Every corner teemed with pots of greenery whose names I could only guess. Polished wooden cabinets ran along the walls, while rows of fishing rods and neatly arranged clothing for anglers occupied the center. My eyes swept the room in search of the coveted door to the backyard, but it remained elusive. I scanned the faces of the few customers wandering among the displays—none seemed to be employees.

The girls followed silently, their eyes catching on every intricate detail of the shop. Tanya began recounting memories of her first—and as I gathered, only—fishing trip with her father, but my mind was elsewhere, fixated on the search.

Ahead, a man stood on the far side of a fishing rod display, speaking to someone I could not see. I followed his gaze downward and realized his companion must be hidden behind the stand. Moving past the display with a sense of purpose, I approached the counter. The moment I crossed the threshold, the salesman appeared.

Uncle Dima sat in his usual wheelchair, a black fleece jacket zipped snugly to his chin, and a dark hat with broad brims shadowing his face. When he spotted me, a warm smile lit up his features.

“Asya! Here for your dad’s order?” he called, leaning forward slightly in his chair, arms outstretched.

Surprised, I stepped closer and hugged him.

“Hello, Uncle Dima. Actually, no. But if the box isn’t too big, I can take it with me.”

“It’s nothing big—just a couple of hooks and some tackle. I’ll have Slava get it ready; you won’t even need the box. Can you wait by the checkout?” He gestured vaguely toward the back of the shop, where I glimpsed the counter.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I asked, “Can we see your backyard for a bit? I heard the garden is beautiful.”

Uncle Dima’s cheeks tinged with pink, but the corners of his mouth lifted in a quiet, pleased smile.

“Of course. It’s not spring anymore, so it’s a bit late in the season, but I’ll show you if you ask nicely,” he said, leaning over his armrest and calling loudly, “Denis! Come here!”

I turned, expecting a gawky, awkward boy, perhaps someone still awkwardly caught in puberty. Instead, Denis appeared transformed. He had grown taller, shoulders broader, muscles well-defined beneath the snug fabric of his T-shirt. His once long, unruly hair was cropped short, revealing a clean, sun-kissed face. In a few months, the boy had become unrecognizably striking.

“Wow,” whispered Tatiana behind me. “What a handsome man.”

“Had you not seen him two months ago?” I murmured, barely audible, unsure if Rostova had heard me. She made no comment, her attention fixed elsewhere.

Denis’s eyes met mine for a brief moment, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features before he regained his composure and offered a reserved greeting. Dasha, meanwhile, was absorbed in the display of fishing flies, apparently far more interested than in the handsome young man before her.

I, too, was captivated—but not by vanity or infatuation—by the sheer transformation, and a curious question hovered in my mind: had he seen a dermatologist, or was it some hormonal change that cleared his skin so dramatically?

“Denis,” Uncle Dima said, breaking my reverie, “take the girls to the backyard. Asya wants to see the garden.”

“But Dad—” Denis started, hesitant, “we’re taking inventory—”

“You can finish later. We’re not in a hurry,” his father interrupted, a subtle glance at the girls underscoring his authority.

Denis’s forehead creased, brows rising in an arch of confusion.

“But you said—”

“Now,” Uncle Dima said sharply, and Denis mumbled something resembling assent, cheeks tinged with pink.

I couldn’t help but smile. Sixteen-year-old boys: handsome, aware of attention, yet still awkwardly modest. He would soon grow bolder, perhaps a touch arrogant, sending cryptic signals to any girl who dared notice him—just like Stanislav.

A fleeting thought of Smirnov, however, dampened my mood. Anger flared, directed at him or myself; my mind refused to release him from its grip. He could manipulate Tatiana, but I needed to reclaim my thoughts.

Lost in these musings, I followed Denis down a narrow, dimly lit corridor, the glow of a single overhead lamp guiding our steps. Tanya and Dasha flanked him, peering eagerly over his shoulders, unwilling to miss a word. Drozdov Jr. spoke hesitantly, yet with evident affection, describing the garden his mother had once tended so lovingly.

The moment I stepped into the backyard, it became clear why no passage was visible from the street: there simply wasn’t one. The back door of the store opened onto a rectangular plot of land, hemmed in on all sides by towering buildings. In the center of the square, a sprawling oak stretched its bare branches skyward. Here and there, unknown plants were bundled against the cold, tightly swathed in translucent plastic. To the right, a small greenhouse stood with its cloudy walls, a riot of greenery faintly visible within. To the left, unfamiliar thorny bushes had been meticulously trimmed, forming neat lines beneath the windows. Every ground-floor apartment had its curtains drawn tight, and the paint on the window frames had faded with time. I imagined that, in summer, sunlight must pour in despite the oak’s full canopy.

“Watch the roots,” Denis warned as we approached the greenhouse. “Everything out here withers at the first hint of frost. Perennials are covered until spring. There’s not much to see around the edges right now. The greenhouse is where the real magic happens—but go in one at a time; the aisles are narrow, not meant for visitors. People may talk about this garden in town, but life only flourishes here in season. By late September, only fishermen wander into the store—nobody else comes back here.”

“So why maintain the greenhouse if it’s not for visitors?” I asked.

“For ourselves—and for my mother’s shop,” he replied.

“Does everyone in your family run a business?”

Denis unlocked the greenhouse and pushed the door open, letting me enter first. The doorway was low, forcing me to bend slightly to slip through.

“My dad has his interests, my mom hers. She grows medicinal herbs—you drink them instead of tea, more or less,” Denis explained.

“And do they really work?” I asked skeptically. I’d always thought herbs were no match for modern medicine, though my mother swore by sage for a sore throat and liked burning essential oils at home.

Denis shrugged, as if he’d never wondered. “Probably. I’ve never asked. At least, I haven’t heard of them hurting anyone.”

Dasha frowned, thinking, then her face brightened. “Oh! I think I know your mom. She’s… unusual. Eccentric. Always in long skirts, and barefoot?” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully, trying not to sound unkind.

“That’s her,” Denis said, smirking slightly. “The Kserton Forest Witch, ooooh.” He hunched and thrust his hands forward in mock menace, and the girls laughed. I, on the other hand, felt a flicker of unease—what if another local legend hid a darker truth? Vampires were already around; why not witches too?

“These flowers are beautiful,” Dasha said, crouching to examine a plant with wedge-shaped leaves growing chaotically in all directions. A scattering of tiny star-shaped blossoms crowned the foliage. “What is it?”

“Lemon verbena,” Denis replied, a playful glint in his eye. “Cute, right? But you haven’t seen the medicinal one yet. Guess which it is, and I’ll give you a discount!”

Tatiana frowned. “Excellent offer—three young fishermen, just waiting for worms at a discount.”

I nudged Rostova lightly, and she jumped. Tanya scowled at me, but I shushed her, reminding her to be polite—after all, Denis was my father’s friend’s son, and we were guests. Dasha, however, brimmed with excitement. She rose, moving deliberately from plant to plant, studying leaves, inflorescences, and stems as if a single mistake might cost her dearly.

We watched in silence as she lingered longest in front of one section. The leaves were nearly identical to another type of verbena; only the flowers puzzled her. They resembled miniature cobs, their lilac skirts fanning out like tiny ballerinas.

“I think… this is the medicinal one,” Dasha finally declared, clearing her throat and projecting confidence.

Denis looked at her with barely concealed admiration and slowly applauded, marking the moment’s significance. Clearly, these two had found a kindred spirit in one another.

“Bravo! Discount’s yours!” he exclaimed, raising his arms triumphantly. The stiffness that had lingered in his posture evaporated. In the stifling greenhouse, he seemed more confident than ever, as if the flowers themselves had infused him with strength.

As he moved toward Dasha, I noticed a striking plant behind him for the first time. Bell-shaped flowers shimmered in every shade of charoite, perched atop long, slender stems that somehow bore their weight with grace. Mesmerized, I edged closer. My hand, almost of its own accord, reached toward the nearest blossom.

The moment my fingers brushed its velvety surface, a tingling sensation spread across my skin. At first subtle, it intensified rapidly, forcing me to yank my hand back—and in doing so, I accidentally struck Tatiana.

“What’s wrong?” Rostova asked, eyes wide as they dropped to my palm. “Oh my god, Asya! Your hand!”

Red blisters had swollen on my fingertips. It felt as if the skin were being eaten from the inside. Shock rooted me in place as I watched the bubbles move unnaturally across my fingers, unable to comprehend what was happening. My ears buzzed violently, and suddenly the greenhouse felt suffocating. In an instant, Denis grabbed me by the shoulders and hurried me toward the exit. Behind us, Dasha and Tatiana gasped, a mixture of awe and alarm escaping them. Once inside the store, I held my outstretched hand before me, unable to tear my eyes away from my fingertips. Aside from a lingering burn, I felt no pain—but the sight alone was terrifying. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Denis guided me to a chair behind the cash register and quickly went to call his father. At his instruction, Dasha gripped her own wrist just above the pulse point, squeezing hard as if doing so could halt some invisible venom from spreading under her skin. How strange. How could such a dangerous plant be kept alongside harmless greenery in a greenhouse?

Soon Denis returned, carrying a stack of cotton discs in one hand and a plastic container with a thin, precise nozzle in the other, resembling those used for dispensing hydrogen peroxide. Was he sure about what he was doing? Hydrogen peroxide didn’t seem like it could counteract aconite. My lips trembled with the urge to protest, but they refused to obey. My body shivered as the air in the store thickened, hotter even than the greenhouse, while a cool mist formed on my forehead.

Denis pressed the sponge gently against the back of my injured fingers and began pouring the clear liquid generously. Slowly, the burning sensation eased, the ringing in my ears faded, and the redness surrounding the blisters diminished. He continued, even when the sponge was soaked and droplets began falling onto the polished floor.

“Dasha, you can let go,” Denis said, and Romanova finally released her grip, glancing at me cautiously, expecting some reaction. My senses cleared, focus returned, and the oppressive heat of the greenhouse was replaced by a shivering chill.

“It’s… cold,” I whispered, my own voice alien to me. My throat was parched, craving warmth and comfort.

“I’ll make some tea now,” came Uncle Dima’s calm voice from across the counter, the first I’d noticed him since the incident.

Denis, meanwhile, produced a folded purple hoodie from beneath the counter, unfolding it and draping it over my shoulders atop my jacket, as if the gesture alone could help.

“How are you?” Dasha asked softly, crouched before me, her hand gently stroking my knee.

“Unclear,” I admitted, surveying the concerned faces around me. Tatiana hovered to the side, picking nervously at her thumbnail—a stark contrast to the bold, lively girl I had known. Fear could transform anyone.

“What happened?” I asked Denis. He sighed, heavy with weariness.

“You’re allergic to aconite, like me,” he said, nodding toward my hand. “Even brief contact can cause blisters. Then breathing becomes difficult, and fever sets in—it’s like anaphylactic shock.”

“Isn’t that when you call an ambulance, get medication?” I asked, confusion lacing my voice.

“Yes, normally. But your reaction was different. Allergy to aconite is extremely rare. I’ve only ever seen it in my grandfather, and I assumed it was strictly hereditary. And now, apparently, you have it too.”

“Most people don’t even try touching one of the most poisonous plants, and no one grows it in a greenhouse next to others,” Tatiana muttered bitterly, and I couldn’t ignore the sharp truth in her words.

“One of the most poisonous plants?” I asked Denis. He looked away, leaving the question unanswered. Tatiana rolled her eyes, but explained nonetheless:

“Monkshood—that’s another name for aconite. Do you know what it is? Real poison.”

Denis coughed, a deliberately exaggerated sound, though perhaps it merely seemed so. I had never had to worry about my health before, and now everything felt precarious.

“Sorry, what’s your name again?” Denis asked Tatiana.

“Tanya,” she snapped, slipping effortlessly back into her assertive persona. “Why keep something so dangerous in your backyard? Its flowers can kill even without allergies! Is that legal?”

“Legal—technically,” Uncle Dima replied calmly, adjusting his wheelchair. A large thermos and a stack of plastic cups rested on his knees. “I’ve called Konstantin. He’ll be here soon to pick you up.”

I bit my lip, holding back unnecessary words. The last thing I wanted was for Kostya to hear about this mishap. I imagined him telling my mother, both of them panicking, trying to figure out how to protect me. But now I understood: aconite was rare. I would never touch it again.

“Uncle Dima… it wasn’t worth it…” I murmured, but he only handed me a warm cup of tea.

“Drink,” he instructed firmly. “It will help.”

I held the cup with both hands, careful not to touch my burned fingers.

“Thanks.”

“Still waiting for someone to explain why the hell aconite is in your backyard!” Tatiana demanded, drawing the group’s attention. Denis leaned against the counter silently, eyes fixed ahead, while Uncle Dima began to respond calmly:

“There’s nothing mysterious. My wife makes ointments from aconite root. It helps immensely with back pain and more. When you’re our age, you’ll need it too,” he said with a faint, sad smile, sipping his tea. “Tatiana, right? You could try chamomile—it’s excellent for stress.”

“Oh, thanks,” she replied with forced politeness. “I’ll manage without.”

“Tanya,” I said gently, “no one’s to blame. Calm down.”

“Calm down? Tell that to your father,” she shot back, voice sharp, and stormed to the door. The handle yielded a small crack, but the lock held.

“What’s going on?”

Uncle Dima shrugged. “I locked the shop until Asya’s father arrives. You can take the keys if you must leave. It’s normal to be scared. You froze at the counter, unsure how to help—nothing shameful. Everything is fine now.”

Tanya’s lips pressed thin as she processed his words, her anger slowly softening. She wavered, uncertain whether to leave or stay. Moments passed in tense silence before she finally returned, quieter:

“Show me,” she said in her typical, commanding Rostova tone, then softened with a whisper: “Please.”

***

Kostya arrived about an hour later. By then, darkness had settled over the city, and the snow covering the streets had taken on a smoky, bluish hue, as if it had never been truly white. Before we left, Denis handed me a plastic bottle, identical to the one he had used to rinse my blisters.

“What’s in this? It wasn’t hydrogen peroxide, was it?” I asked, wondering what I would do if the solution ran out—or if I found myself without it entirely. I twisted off the cap and sniffed, but detected no scent.

“No, it wasn’t,” he replied. “Honestly, it’s nothing special. My mom insists on silver water—claims it helps with cuts, scrapes, and so on. Silver supposedly has antiseptic properties.”

I rolled my eyes, ready to chalk it up to Drozdov Jr.’s naïve belief, but he surprised me with a shrug.

“You know, I don’t really believe in it either. But it’s always helped me after touching aconite. We don’t have sinks in the store, and sticking your hand in the toilet… well, you get the idea. Not exactly ideal.”

“So, if I touch aconite next time…”

“Just rinse it well with water. That’s all you need.”

“Thanks, Denis. For everything,” I said, noticing that Kostya and the girls had already reached the car.

“Goodbye, Asya,” Denis called after me.

***

I slid into the passenger seat beside my father. The car was still warm, the heat lingering from earlier. Quiet music played softly, and the sharp scent of pine air freshener filled the cabin—Kostya must have hung a new one from the rearview mirror, though it was barely distinguishable from the old.

Surprisingly, my father didn’t mention the incident at all. Watching him, it was impossible to tell that Kostya had been worried. Instead, he smoothly shifted the conversation, asking the girls about school and the upcoming disco as though nothing had happened. Tanya and Dasha immediately launched into an enthusiastic discussion of the theme and their planned performance. Rostova even complained about having to argue with her mother and the parent committee, who insisted Halloween was a celebration of Satan.

“By the way, I’ve never really known the history of this holiday. Does anyone?” My father glanced in the rearview mirror at the classmates before returning his eyes to the road.

“Oh! Me!” Dasha exclaimed eagerly. She always became a miniature encyclopedia when the topic sparked her interest; otherwise, she vanished behind her usual shyness.

“Once, around the 10th century, if I’m not mistaken…” I smiled, trusting Dasha’s knowledge. “The Celts held a harvest festival called Samhain. It was a major celebration for the time, marking the end of the harvest and giving people a brief respite before winter. Over long festivities, danger arose, and some believe this is how another element appeared: on the last day of October, at the junction of autumn and winter, the spirits of ancestors returned to the mortal world to check on their families. Not all came with goodwill: depending on a household’s behavior over the year, an ancestor could punish the family, guiding them back onto the right path, or something of the sort. These spirits could roam among the living only until dawn. Over time, the story evolved into a frightening tale, and people wondered how to protect themselves.

“They devised a clever defense: to scare away one frightening creature, they pretended to be another. Bonfires were lit, costumes were donned, and people hoped to drive away unwelcome spirits. They sang, offered homage to the greats, and in this way, the holiday eventually became known as All Hallows’ Day.”

I watched my father as he listened, his forehead furrowed and eyebrows knitting together the longer Dasha spoke. He hadn’t expected such a long and detailed explanation. When Dasha finally paused, considering her story complete, he asked:

“Wait, but how did the name Halloween come about? And where did the idea of worshiping Satan on this day originate?”

“I can’t say for sure about the Satan part,” Dasha admitted. “It’s difficult to trace. Perhaps people misunderstood or simply didn’t seek the history. In ancient times, that might make sense, but now, with the internet…” She paused meaningfully before continuing. “But the name itself is simple if you know a bit of English.”

Kostya thought for a moment, nodding slowly. “Alright, tell me, maybe I’ll understand.”

“I’ll simplify,” Romanova said, slowly enunciating: “All hallow ees.” It’s Old English for “mass of all saints.” Over time, the phrase shortened and became Halloween. As for when exactly, I don’t know.”

Kostya reflected silently for a moment. “Ah… that makes sense. Mostly. Still unclear why kids in other countries started dressing up and demanding candy.”

“Probably some candy store owner got creative and started the tradition,” Tanya suggested, and her guess sounded convincing.

“Maybe. We can only speculate. Unlike the Christmas tree, which is well documented,” Kostya said.

“There’s a history behind that too?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course, Asya,” he said. Even without seeing her, I knew Dasha was smiling. “Decorating trees goes back centuries. The real surge, however, came when King George III’s wife hosted a party and, following a German custom, ordered a tree decorated. Guests were so impressed that everyone wanted one at home. The elite copied the royal court, and those seeking status followed suit. Over time, it became a common tradition for every family. Oh, Uncle Kostya, we missed our turn!”

“You’re right,” Father waved his hand dismissively. “It’s okay. We’ll take the next turn. Don’t worry—we haven’t gone far. I know this area well.”

***

Although I was no longer part of the performance, Dasha and Tanya had persuaded me to wear the costume of Dracula’s bride. My classmates insisted that I was an essential part of the team, a kind of talisman who would watch from the crowd and signal movements in case anyone faltered. The idea was flattering, though the girls had to remind me that I barely knew the choreography, having missed all the rehearsals. Still, their insistence lifted my spirits.

The last two days at school slipped by almost unnoticed, except for the moments when Nikita appeared in my line of sight. Each time I saw him, I questioned whether I had made the right decision. Tanya had been right about one thing: breaking up over the phone was wrong. No one deserved that. Only now, watching the pain flicker across Nikita’s face, did I fully understand it. His familiar, once-beloved face lingered in my mind, stubbornly refusing to fade. My feelings had quieted under the shadow of the danger Karimov had brought into my life, but what else could I do? My family had already suffered too much.

I pulled a spacious gray cloak over my costume, its soft lining warming me against the chill. It was so loose and voluminous that it almost reached my knees. I could only hope I wouldn’t freeze on the way to the disco. After all, the costumes of Dracula’s brides—more akin to belly-dancing outfits—were hardly suited for late October in Ksertoni. While my father and I had been in Rostov, a cyclone had swept over the city, blanketing the streets in snow. By Tuesday, some of it had melted, but the largest drifts remained stubbornly in place, a silent promise that winter’s remnants would linger until spring.

Kostya waited patiently, watching TV, while I finished styling my hair in the bathroom. For the first time in months, I dug the straightener out of the cabinet and attempted bouncy curls, following an online tutorial. Skill—or the lack thereof—was evident: my curls were uneven, far from the smooth perfection on the screen. Still, I was pleased. For once, I had achieved something I could call success. What I didn’t like was how much time it had taken. I thought of girls who woke early each day to tame their hair, apply makeup meticulously, eat breakfast, shower, and prepare themselves. No wonder my mother only bothered with makeup on special occasions.

I didn’t know how to draw eyeliner precisely, so I dabbed pastel shades onto my eyelids with my fingertip to add depth, then tried to thicken my eyebrows with short pencil strokes. Next came the false eyelashes. My first attempt ended in disaster: too much adhesive, sticky strips clinging to my fingers. On the second try, I pressed the lashes into place with tweezers, and they held.

Satisfied, I left the bathroom and called to my father, but received no answer. Entering the living room, I saw him spring from the couch, pressing his phone between shoulder and ear as he hurriedly donned his jacket.

“I’m already leaving,” he said into the phone, then ended the call and turned to me, a disappointed frown on his face. “Damn it. Even if we rush, I won’t be able to give you a ride.”

“Don’t worry,” I forced a smile, hiding my disappointment. “Work is work. I understand.”

I wasn’t lying. Urgency in Ksertoni was rare. Over the past two months, I should have grown accustomed to my father’s absences, yet after the maniac’s death, I still hoped for calm. If only I could shield my parents from all harm. Not every choice rested in my hands, but accepting reality was difficult. A nagging doubt had lodged in my mind, whispering that no decision I made could protect my loved ones from every visible and invisible threat.

“Dad, has anyone in our family ever had an allergy like mine?” I asked. My father rarely discussed such matters, which always seemed odd. Now, his expression turned flat.

“Yes. My dad and I. Just don’t touch anything similar again. Even if you’re unsure whether it’s aconite. Just don’t touch it. And if you do, wash the spot thoroughly with water.”

Hearing this surprised me. If Kostya had the same allergy, perhaps it wasn’t so alarming. Maybe I was overthinking it. If he wasn’t worried, I shouldn’t be either.

“You never told me,” I said. My father shrugged and busied himself, pocketing keys and other items.

“Will you find a ride?” Kostya called from the hallway, putting on his shoes.

“Yes. I’ll call Tanya. Maybe we can take a taxi together,” I replied, searching for my phone.

“Great. I left money by the mirror. Have fun! Try to be back not too late.”

“Okay.”

Once the door closed behind him, I dialed Tatiana’s number. She picked up after the third ring, her voice hard to make out over background noise.

“Hello?”

“Tanya, how are you getting there? Kostya left on a call, and I spent forever on my hair. There’s no way I’m riding my bike. Maybe we should order a taxi for both of us?”

“I’m going with Dasha,” she paused, then continued after a moment’s thought. “I’ll call her. How about we meet at your place in half an hour?”

“Perfect! Thanks.”

Before she hung up, I thought I heard a man’s voice faintly in the background, but dismissed it as imagination.

I opened my browser and found a taxi service number, ordering a car to arrive around the time the girls would get to my place. As the kettle boiled for tea, my phone vibrated—an unknown number. Panic shot through me. Had I miscalculated? Was the taxi already here? How much would waiting cost?

“Hello, I only need the car in half an hour,” I stammered, beginning to explain.

Then a sharp, hissing sound cut through the line. I recoiled.

“A-a-a-sya-ya-ya,” a wheeze echoed.

“Hello? Who is this?” I asked, my voice trembling, but the name was repeated relentlessly.

A high-pitched female laugh followed, sending shivers down my spine. Worst of all, I immediately recognized it.

“Galina?” I whispered, my voice cracking.

The connection went dead, leaving only short beeps. I frantically called back, but a mechanical voice repeated endlessly: “The number is not available. Please try again later.”

Maybe it was just my imagination. But how could Galina have known my number? I wasn’t sure if the predator in the guise of a waitress could have escaped the Smirnovs on the day of the abduction. That day had gone badly for her, at least as far as I could recall from the jagged fragments of memory. But what if vampires healed quickly? Perhaps she had survived—and now, she was hunting me. My father had only found the body of the porter who worked with her, and that could mean anything. I needed to ask Stanislav. He might know more.

I was about to search for his number in my recent calls when hesitation froze me. Everyone in class had been waiting for this day for months, anticipating the school disco and Halloween celebrations. Was it worth stirring panic over a single phone call, especially if I wasn’t even certain? Maybe someone was just playing a Halloween prank. Our classmates didn’t know anything about the abduction, let alone the other side of Ksertoni, where vampires lived among humans—and who knew what else. After the funeral, I hadn’t felt like myself. Perhaps I could wait to ask Stanislav about Galina if the calls continued—or if an opportunity arose. After all, a prank call wouldn’t kill me. Even if it really was her. Still, doubt pricked at my mind.

I needed rest, a distraction—something to pull me out of this spiral. Remembering the tea, I went to the kitchen and smiled wryly at myself. Of course, I’d brewed chamomile. Just what my frayed nerves needed. Chamomile’s gentle magic, save me.

I poured the cup to the brim and sank into the couch, legs tucked beneath me, waiting in the quiet. My gaze flicked constantly to the phone on the table, half-expecting the same unknown number to flash again—but it never did.

When the tea was gone, the doorbell rang. I hurried to open it. Tanya and Dasha stood there, identical in their meticulous hairdos: diagonal parts, hair swept back and pinned at the left temple in a crisscross pattern, the rest falling in flawless Hollywood waves. Their faces were decorated with sharp, precise lines of makeup, tiny rhinestones perched at the ends—three on each eye. Black pencil traced their lower lids, smudged for effect. On Tanya, it looked stunning; on Dasha, unnatural, masking her features rather than enhancing them. Tatiana had clearly been thinking of the performance, not of her friend. Poor Dasha.

Despite my thoughts, I kept silent. Nobody had asked for my opinion. Rostova scanned me critically, exclaiming:
“Are you really going like that? Where’s your costume?”

I lifted the hem of my dress slightly to reveal the edge of the Dracula bride outfit beneath.
“I’m wearing it. It’s cold out here. I’ll change at school.”

Tanya raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
“And where will you put all of that?”

“In my backpack?” I answered, frowning at her meaning.

“And then?” she pressed, clearly expecting me to understand.

“Well… in the changing room, probably. Or some other room. The teachers will open something for our things, won’t they?”

Dasha pursed her lips, shaking her head.
“Usually everything’s locked, so students don’t wander around. It’s easier to keep track of us.”

“Keep track of us? Why?” I asked, confused.

Tanya smirked, as if the answer were obvious.
“What if someone brings alcohol?” she said pointedly. “Or… something else. Anyway, drop everything unnecessary and let’s go. You won’t freeze in the car. Come on, move! They’re waiting for us.”

“Who’s waiting? The taxi hasn’t called yet,” I said, bewildered.

“What taxi?” Tanya looked genuinely surprised. “Eddie and his brothers are downstairs—they’ll give us a ride.”

“Oh.” I went to the hall for my phone. “I called a taxi for us.”

“Cancel it!” the girls shouted in unison. My legs took over before my brain caught up, and I broke into a run.

***

Outside the entrance, Stanislav’s silver car was parked neatly, and behind it loomed a dark SUV with its headlights cutting through the evening gloom. I stepped cautiously over the icy pavement, holding Dasha’s hand to steady her, when suddenly the driver-side window of the black SUV slid down, and Violetta’s head appeared.

“Asya!” she called, chewing gum lazily. “You won’t all fit. Come sit in mine.” She tapped the open palm of her hand against the car door, inviting me in.

Dasha and Tanya exchanged a look that was difficult to read. Violetta moved closer to me and whispered, “She gives me chills,” before freeing her hands and adding, “Good luck.”

Tanya circled the car and flitted to the front seat next to Stanislav. As she opened the door, the interior light came on, and I glimpsed Smirnov leaning toward her, their faces drawing close… and then the light went out. I didn’t need to see more to understand. My stomach twisted, and I turned instinctively toward the black SUV. Why hadn’t Stas just told me they were together? It was obvious.

The SUV’s back door swung open just as I approached, silently inviting me in. Once inside, I saw Diana smiling at me from her seat, her eyes appraising me carefully.

“Hey,” I said, reaching for my seatbelt. “I didn’t think you’d come too.”

“Why not?” she asked, genuinely surprised. Before I could answer, Violetta’s sharp exclamation rang out:

“You didn’t close the door.”

Her hand waved in a swift, precise motion—and the door obeyed, sliding shut with a resounding bang. I froze, realization dawning. Violetta could move objects with her mind. It wasn’t any gadget or trick; that explained why the house doors had always seemed to move on their own.

“You look…” Diana leaned closer, studying me. “Surprised?”

I nodded, still staring at the seat in front of me. Diana’s hand rested gently on my knee, and I flinched at the unexpected touch.

“Asya,” she asked cautiously, “are you okay?”

I had no answer. Just when you start to relax in this city, life seems determined to bury you under new revelations. Viola unbuckled her seatbelt and moved into the aisle, her eyebrows furrowed, giving me the serious, almost divine look of a goddess scrutinizing a mortal. Despite her severity, her voice was careful:

“Did you drink, like your friends?” She sniffed, leaning slightly forward. “Though I don’t smell anything strong.”

Diana chimed in, quick and practical: “Do you need water? Or anything else?”

I looked from one sister to the other, silent. Did they not realize what had shaken me? Perhaps, living so long in a hidden, mysterious world, even something as astonishing as telekinesis became ordinary.

“You…” My voice trembled. “You just… closed the door with your hand.”

Diana chuckled softly, while Violetta’s expression tightened. Under her piercing gaze, my throat constricted, and I silently hoped it was nerves, not an attempt to intimidate me.

“Do all vampires do that?” I asked.

“No,” Violetta replied after a pause, already turning away.

The door in front swung open again, and Arthur, Violetta’s classmate, lumbered into the seat beside the driver. The car rocked under his weight, and the dark, musky tang of alcohol mixed with sour berries filled the space.

“Ugh,” Violetta groaned, sensing it too. “Arthur, go… where you drank!” She pushed him toward the door.

“I only had a little,” he protested.

“You smell it from a mile away!” Diana supported her sister.

“Come on, nobody noticed at school,” Arthur waved dismissively, leaning back with a pleased grin.

“It’s strong even here,” I admitted. Immediately, the girls redoubled their accusations.

“Really!” Arthur groaned. “Do I have to walk now?!”

“You should’ve thought of that earlier. I warned you not to drink!” Violetta’s voice rang with sharp authority. But Arthur just tilted his head, brushing a stray strand of golden hair from her face. The gesture was tender, but Viola’s expression remained unsoftened.

“Arthur,” she said slowly, each word deliberate, “you’re putting us all at risk. Father trusted you to go unsupervised, and you—headfirst into trouble. Have you considered how you’d embarrass us in front of the school?”

“It was just one sip,” he protested, “Tatiana insisted, I tried it for fun. Look at me—do I seem drunk?”

Violetta leaned closer, scrutinizing him like an inspector. Her jaw tightened. Then, unexpectedly, she puckered and pressed her lips to the tip of his nose.

“That’s convincing, Smirnov. But grab gum from the glove compartment and crack your window. I can’t breathe otherwise.” She settled behind the wheel, hands poised casually on the steering wheel and gear shift. Then, as if nothing had happened, she looked at everyone and said:

“Well, can we go now?”

***

As we neared the schoolyard, the rhythmic thump of music reached us, mingling with the flickering glow of colorful spotlights through the glass panels of the entrance. The parking lot was alive with activity: groups of students gathered around cars, some with scraps of fabric peeking out from beneath their coats, others flaunting voluminous, ruffled skirts. Viola circled the lot, searching for a spot, but Stanislav’s car soon disappeared from view.

Finally, Viola maneuvered the SUV between two vehicles, leaving plenty of room on either side. We slipped out silently. The Smirnov sisters immediately headed to the trunk, yanking their jackets off by the sleeves. Soon, Arthur joined them.

“Don’t you want to take off your things too?” Viola asked, and recalling Tatiana’s earlier suggestion, the idea suddenly seemed appealing. I shrugged off my jacket, folded it neatly, and handed it to Viola. Then, I started to peel off my voluminous cloak, revealing the Eastern-style costume beneath. Diana retrieved a wide-brimmed witch hat from the trunk, its thick silk ribbon catching the nearest streetlamp’s glow, scattering points of light like a constellation.

Viola’s gaze briefly flickered over me, and she complimented my costume. I wasn’t expecting that. Viola herself was draped in a Greek-style white tunic, cinched with a braided leather belt. One shoulder was secured with a round brooch etched with the image of a towering mountain. A gilded laurel wreath crowned her loosely styled curls, and a wide, intricately designed bracelet adorned her right arm. Arthur’s outfit mirrored hers perfectly: a snowy tunic accented with a thick crimson velvet ribbon embroidered with gold. The same laurel wreath, placed on his head by Viola’s deft hands, completed the ensemble.

“So, who are you dressed as?” I asked the group.

“Aphrodite and Hephaestus,” Arthur said, brandishing a toy blacksmith’s hammer before sizing me up. “And you?”

“One of Dracula’s brides,” I replied.

“Performing with Stanislav tonight?”

“I was supposed to, but I never got the chance to rehearse. My grandmother passed away recently, so I spent the past few weeks in Rostov for the funeral.”

The Smirnovs looked at me with quiet sympathy. Only Diana whispered gently, “I’m sorry for your loss,” her hand brushing my shoulder as though my fragile body might shatter under any more weight. “Losing someone is never easy.”

“We know,” Viola said softly, adjusting items in the trunk with care. Arthur and Diana remained silent.

“By the way, where’s Maxim?” I asked.

“He won’t be coming,” Viola said sharply, slamming the trunk shut with a flourish. Arthur’s eyes widened. “Are you insane? We’re outside! What if someone saw us?”

She glanced around calmly, then shrugged. “Nobody did.”

Before anyone could respond, a voice rang from the side, startling not only me but all the vampires.

In the dim lantern light, I didn’t immediately recognize Tatiana. She staggered forward in a zigzag rather than a straight line, and then, with a sudden movement, launched herself into my arms. I groaned under her weight. She pressed herself against me, her icy jacket against my exposed skin, and for a moment, I wanted to shove her away—but I couldn’t. Gritting my teeth, I wrapped my arms around her waist, guiding her back to solid ground.

Tatiana, like a mischievous child, resisted, sliding slightly on the ice, laughing and shrieking something incomprehensible. My frustration grew as a sharp scent hit me—alcohol. Just like Arthur. I realized that Tatiana hadn’t just drunk alone; she had been instigating the same reckless mischief.

“Are you drunk?” I asked, my voice trembling.

She only laughed, full of spirited amusement. I saw nothing funny. A fresh wave of anxiety replaced my initial worry: what if the teachers noticed? What if Tatiana fell ill? I knew she would; her mind was clouded, and alcohol never boded well. Memories of a previous encounter, long burned into my memory, surfaced: a drunk neighbor sprawled across the staircase, vomit streaked across his coat, the stench so harsh it stung my eyes and nose. I was a child, unable to help. My mother intervened, and the man survived, but the image haunted me for years.

Even small, casual drinking by friends didn’t disturb me, but drunkenness like Tatiana’s—stumbling, laughing for no reason—filled me with disgust. I tried to steady her, only to notice Dasha approaching, swaying similarly, and felt my stomach churn. How did Tatiana have such a destructive influence on others? What a parasite.

“Do you hear that?” Violetta said, keeping me from freeing Tatiana.

Arthur turned his head slightly and nodded.

“Like a phone ringing. Yours?”

“Not mine,” Viola muttered, bustling around, trying to locate the sound. “Seems to be coming from the trunk. Did anyone leave a phone in a jacket?”

I realized instantly: my smartphone. Whoever was calling, I needed it—maybe Dad was trying to reach me. I cursed Tatiana, forced her release, and finally set her feet on the asphalt.

“Asya, move! Otherwise, we’ll freeze to death,” Violetta snapped.

I hurried after her, uneasy, feeling as though all eyes were on me. My anger at my drunken classmates burned, yet I reminded myself: their missteps were their own. I rummaged through the trunk, imagining the deputy principal pulling Tatiana aside, only to have her vomit on his suit. Parents called, music halted, the chaos spreading, justice served in real time.

At last, I found my neatly folded jacket—likely Diana’s doing—and retrieved my phone. The screen glowed: Kostya was calling. I pressed the button in haste.

“Dad, sorry, I didn’t hear the phone. What’s up…”

“And hello again, dear,” came a pretentious, icy voice that made my skin crawl. “Listen carefully if you want to keep your father safe. If you understand, say ‘Yes, Dad,’ loudly and cheerfully, so your friends don’t suspect a thing.”

Summoning every shred of self-control I possessed, I forced a smile and repeated exactly what Galina had commanded. The anger that had burned so fiercely inside me evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, creeping fear that settled into every fiber of my body. I wasn’t even sure I could move without betraying myself. All I could do was hope the trunk door above me opened wide enough to cast a forgiving shadow, a dim veil behind which my trembling fingers and the unshed tears might remain unseen, as if the phone clutched in my hand could somehow protect me.

“Well done,” the vampire purred through the phone, her voice silky and cruel. “Now, listen quietly. Nod occasionally to make it believable. When we’re finished, you’ll hang up and say you need to urgently retrieve something from your father’s car. He’s almost here. You’ll dash to the car through the forest edge and return. If you bring anyone with you, I’ll rip the throat out of the first hero policeman you see—before he even squeaks. Understand?”

“Yes,” I whispered, voice trembling despite my effort.

“Now hang up and go to the forest edge. You’ll see a rusted trailer at the entrance. Go straight from it, deeper into the woods, until you reach a large, rotten stump. When you see it, turn right, pushing through the thick, low-hanging spruce branches. Keep going straight—soon, we’ll meet. Edge—trailer—stump—right through the spruce. Got it?”

“Yes, Dad,” I managed, my throat tight.

“I’m waiting. Hurry. My patience is not endless, and who knows what might happen if it runs out,” she said, and her ominous chuckle cut off as she hung up.

For a long moment, I stood frozen, staring at the blank screen. My mind screamed at the absurdity, at the impossibility of it all. Why me? Why now? Kostya’s apologetic face flashed in my memory—how he had rushed off, unable to drive us to school because of his duties. Everything had seemed ordinary, routine, and now fate had slammed a door I wasn’t ready to face. If only I had known… If only I had clutched the doorframe and refused to let him leave.

If only. If only I had known.

Now, everything rested on me. I had to give Galina what she wanted—but what price would she demand for my father’s life? My mind recoiled at the thought, and yet, somewhere deep inside, a bitter hope whispered that perhaps the price would be bearable.

I tried to steady myself, planning to slip away quietly, circling the car to vanish from sight. But as soon as I took a step, Diana’s gentle voice stopped me in my tracks:

“Asya, are you okay?”

Panic clawed at me. I couldn’t turn around; even the smallest expression could betray me. Time had already been lost to my hesitation. I needed to act, quickly, decisively.

“I’m fine,” I said, closing the trunk door behind me. I moved in the intended direction, keeping my back turned and forcing a casual tone. “Go ahead without me—I’ll catch up with my dad soon. Just need to meet him quickly.”

“Wanna go with you?” Diana asked, her voice warm, and I thought I heard footsteps behind me.

Fear and fury surged together. Her concern was endangering my father even more.

“No,” I snapped, louder than intended. “I need to talk to Kostya. Alone.”

The world seemed to fall silent. Even the distant hum of bass from the school faded. Tatiana froze, unprepared for such sharpness from me. Everyone was used to quiet, yielding Asya—but not this.

“O-o-okay,” Diana stammered, clearly startled. “Family matters.”

“Exactly,” I said, pivoting on my heel and almost breaking into a run toward the forest edge.

Hold on, Dad…

Chapter Text

As soon as I passed through the empty parking lot, my eyes caught the familiar landmark: the rusted car trailer. Heart pounding, I hurried toward it, then plunged into the forest’s depths. The cold, silvery light of the full moon filtered through the protruding branches, casting erratic, ghostly beams onto the untouched snow. Every step was a struggle; my legs sank into the thick powder, each movement slow and exhausting. Thin, icy branches scratched my bare skin, as if the forest itself tried to push me back, to make me turn, to make me give up. But I pressed on, forcing my fear aside. What could a single human hope to do against a real vampire? Especially alone.

I had no answer. All I could do was push forward, thinking of my father’s face. My heart raced with a frantic, irregular rhythm, so intense that a vein throbbed at my temple. I scanned the darkness for the next landmark. The forest finally parted, revealing a small clearing where a lone stump gleamed with frozen droplets in the moonlight. My strength ebbed away, and the panic threatening to overwhelm me grew heavier with each breath.

I bent over, hands on my knees, inhaling deeply, counting the breaths like a prayer. I wasn’t just trying to calm myself—I was trying to summon the courage to throw myself into the jaws of the beast. The thought that nothing good awaited me rooted itself firmly in my mind. Yet I had no choice. If I wanted to save my father, I had to keep moving. I had to find strength where there seemed to be none.

The cold gnawed at me, and for a brief moment, I considered retrieving a jacket from the trunk. But suspicion would arise, and I couldn’t risk it. Shivering, I hugged myself and rubbed my arms furiously, trying to summon some warmth. Time was running out. I straightened, scanning the clearing for the next marker. Confused, my gaze fell upon the dense row of spruces to my right. There it was. I plunged into the tangle of branches. Each needle and twig cut my skin, each step scraped me raw, yet I pressed on, protecting my face with my hands, driven by desperation.

“Do you feel it?” Galina’s voice slithered through the night. “The scent of blood… Our little bird is close.”

My heart leapt into my throat. Finally, I emerged from the thicket—and froze. Face to face with the insane vampire, Galina’s lips curled into a cruel, petty smile, revealing a perfect row of gleaming fangs. Her hair was wild, her carefully constructed mask faltering, revealing torment beneath. Even in the dim moonlight, dark circles under her eyes betrayed exhaustion, obsession, madness.

I scanned the clearing, trying to understand the layout in the silver shadows. The ground melted into darkness; only patches of snow offered contrast. Bones were nowhere to be seen. And then—another silhouette. My blood ran cold.

“Nik? What are you doing here—”

Galina moved in a blur, her palm clamping around my throat. Instantly, my feet left the ground, a buzzing filled my ears, and my lungs burned. I hung there, a limp rag in the grip of a predator. Instinctively, my hands clawed at her, but she didn’t budge.

“Oh,” she murmured, savoring the moment. “It’s exquisite, holding someone else’s life like this. The heart of a rabbit, racing at the sight of a predator…”

Her lips parted, tongue flicking as if tasting the idea of me. In her insane eyes, I glimpsed my own helpless reflection. Revulsion welled up, pure and scorching.

“Put her down,” Nikita’s voice cut through the tension, calm yet strange, almost otherworldly.

Galina grinned, releasing me so suddenly I collapsed onto the snow.

“As you wish,” she murmured, her bare feet crunching softly on the frozen ground. “Sonny.”

“Don’t call me that!” Nikita snapped, anger flashing like a dagger.

I turned from him to the vampire, searching for some connection, some shared trace of humanity. And there it was—a chilling, cruel similarity. Fate’s twisted hand revealed itself: Nikita had lured me to the pizzeria that day, handing me to this monstrous family. If not for the Smirnovs, I would have perished long ago in Galina’s swift grasp. How many others had fallen prey to the same trap? Charming men delivering innocent girls into the clutches of bloodthirsty predators…

Rage burned hotter with every thought. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. Every word of love, a lie. Every tender gesture, a trap. And the cruelest part? They didn’t simply hunt and let go—they tangled me tighter, forcing guilt and despair upon me. Even breaking up over the phone had been a manipulation, a lure. And now Tanya could be next. Fury coiled like a serpent in my chest.

“Where’s my father?” I demanded, voice shaking but loud. Anger made the cold irrelevant—a minor nuisance. My body trembled not from frost but from the heat of fury. If only I had the strength, I would strike Galina right now. But I had to save my energy; the battle wasn’t yet over.

“Where is he?” I shouted again. Galina’s face, reveling in cruelty, contrasted sharply with Nikita’s terrifyingly tender, protective gaze. No. I would not be fooled.

“His bones are not here.”

“If he’s not here,” I said, stepping back toward the fir trees, “then I have no reason to be here either.”

I turned my back—and immediately, Galina blocked me. In the moonlight, her eyes glowed red, hellfire burning within.

“Here he’s not. But wherever you go, your father won’t be there unless I allow it. An eye for an eye, darling.” Her hand rose toward me, and I flinched—but the forest barrier behind me left me trapped.

Startled, I spun—and Nikita was there, impossibly close.

“Get away!” I barked, shoving him, but he didn’t move. Desperate, my hand shot up to strike—but before it could land, he caught my wrist. His look was gentle, almost pleading, but I only sensed the trap. Every instinct screamed: escape, run. This had been a mistake. A fatal, emotional mistake.

“Asya, calm down.”

I laughed, a wild, bitter sound.

“Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I didn’t see what was happening when I saw you together? The good son helping his mother hunt, leading naive girls into a trap. Delivering them like offerings at the cost of a single click! That’s how it works, right?”

Tears streamed down my face, hot against the freezing air. My skin burned, yet I couldn’t stop.

“How many girls like me? How many have you led to slaughter? Do you even have a heart? Or is humanity something vampires are born without?”

Kadyk Karimov flinched as though he had swallowed something sharp and bitter. Pain flashed in his eyes with each word I uttered, like a whip cutting across exposed skin. Yet I no longer believed in anything—no apologies, no excuses. I pressed on, painting in vivid strokes the portrait of his cheerful, ruthless family, how they acted in concert, as predators do. When I finished, we remained facing each other, the cold night air thick with tension. My hand still clutched his wrist, refusing to let go.

“Do you think you know it all? That I’m the villain here?” he exhaled, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping him. “It’s so easy for you to see things in black and white. So much easier than understanding what your family has done to mine.”

I blinked, stunned. My family? What could we have possibly done to him?

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” Nikita scowled. “The moment you left the city with your father, you distanced yourself. You even thought a short, careless message could rid yourself of me.”

He released my hand suddenly, and I recoiled, a flicker of fear racing through me. But Nikita pressed on, voice low, edged with frustration:

“I wish I knew what he told you, how much truth there was in it. But what does it matter now?”

His words struck hollow, echoing in the frozen clearing. Galina stepped back silently, folding her hands, her eyes glinting with anticipation. A tight knot formed in my stomach. I knew a trap awaited.

“What are you talking about? How could my family possibly harm yours? That’s—unthinkable.”

Galina finally spoke, her voice a melodic shriek that cut through the cold night: “She doesn’t know anything. Ha-ha! This is a miracle!”

Her laughter was beautiful yet chilling, each note like ice scraping bone.

“Shut up!” Nikita barked at his mother, then turned to me, a shadow of the boy I once knew. No longer the high school student I had loved, he carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who had survived horrors beyond my imagining. His smile had hardened into a scowl; he was a man, fully aware of what he had become.

He raised his hands toward my face, pausing, silently asking for permission. I recoiled instinctively.

“You don’t trust me,” he said, bitterness sharp in his tone.

I laughed, a harsh, almost insane sound.

“Should I?” I spat. “You kidnapped my father! Lured him into the woods with threats! And now you act like you are the persecuted ones. Do you even realize how this looks from the outside, Nik?”

Anger boiled inside me, overtaking fear. Words tumbled from my mouth in a torrent of disbelief and rage. I wanted to understand the why behind my father’s capture, but more than anything, I wanted to see him safe. Every wasted moment in this forest, entangled in explanations and lies, only sharpened my fury. Where had my calm, measured self gone?

Nikita ran a hand down his neck, collecting his thoughts. Then, slowly, he began to speak, revealing a truth that left me reeling:

“Galina is my real mother,” he said, nodding toward the woman beside him.

“I figured that out after you called her ‘son,’” I replied coolly. Nikita’s lips pressed into a tight line, disapproval etched into his features. His expression seemed to demand, Do you need me to explain further? I lowered my gaze, admitting my oversight silently.

“So here’s the truth,” he continued. “My mother was coerced, against her will, by a zealous doctor—in the middle of delivery. The birth was complicated. Galina lost a lot of blood giving birth to me, and... charming Dr. Smirnov,” his voice curled with contempt, “decided he alone had the right to choose my mother’s fate.”

“Son,” Galina interjected, her voice calm but firm. “This is more my story than yours.”

They exchanged a loaded glance, and Nikita gestured for her to continue.

“I woke up in a blindingly bright room,” she began. “The light made it hard to open my eyes, so I closed them and tried to rely on my other senses. The first thing I noticed was the absence of the familiar signals of my body—no pain, no heaviness, no warmth. My body was something else entirely, freed from its past constraints. I reached for my stomach, searching for my child, but my fingers met only smooth, unbroken skin. In that instant, I prayed to all the gods, desperate for the child I had lost.

Then the doctor appeared—Vladimir Smirnov. He leaned over me, shielding my face from the projector’s relentless glare. His voice was warm, patient. He told me my former life had ended. My child could not be saved, he explained, but he could save me, transform me, grant me a life beyond mortal limits. He spoke of eternal beauty and limitless potential, while my heart shattered into fragments. A piece of me—the mother I had been—was severed, lost to the sterile logic of a man who felt nothing for my grief.

He kept me there, teaching me to drink donor blood, to master this new body, to explore what I had become. Time blurred. Days passed, then months, though I could not measure them. Sleep became unnecessary. Mirrors, clocks, calendars—none existed. I did not know if he came daily or if my mind imagined his presence. All I knew was the absence, and the gnawing ache of what had been stolen from me.”

Everything changed when my hearing sharpened. In the endless stretches of solitude, I sought to avoid sinking back into the sticky quagmire of my subconscious, so I began to listen—truly listen. I trained myself to pick out individual sounds from the cacophony of echoes, to isolate them as if untangling threads from a tightly wound skein. I didn’t know if it was even possible, but for someone with all the time in the world, there could be no better occupation.

Learning to distinguish voices was almost impossible. They merged into a white noise, a tide of hundreds of echoes that refused to yield a single, coherent word. Yet even in failure, I gained something: I realized the voices were not constant. Sometimes, above the towering hospital, the din faded. Night had fallen. The staff dispersed, conversations ceased, and the patients retreated to their rooms, slipping into oblivion until morning.

I began to anticipate the night. It became my time of exploration, my window into the world of precise, concentrated sound. Footsteps, initially indistinct, grew sharper, and soon I could imagine the owners: some shuffled wearily, others tapped their heels to the rhythm of the tile in the stairwell. The chaos of sound gradually shaped itself into order.

As my hearing refined, so did my sense of smell. On ordinary evenings, as darkness draped the ward, I would settle onto the couch, back pressed against the cold concrete, listening. Then, a new sound emerged—one that cut through the thick veil of ordinary noise with surgical clarity. It was a swift, precise tearing, a confident movement through some unseen barrier. A rhythmic drip followed, each drop louder than the last. I closed my eyes, tracing the sound, and detected a raspy, uneven breath. Instantly, an image formed in my mind: an elderly man, face marked with age spots and coarse stubble, seated on a cold shower floor three floors above, legs spread, back against the wall, hand extended. Dark, viscous liquid gleamed across his skin in the moonlight.

My attention was drawn irresistibly to it, as though some hidden force demanded I notice. And then I smelled it—a sweetish, metallic tang that called to me.

I rose from the couch as if compelled. The door yielded to my hand, swinging off its hinges with a satisfying crash, bouncing off the wall and leaving a deep dent, spider-webbed with cracks. I was not surprised. All thought, all caution, had vanished. My mind focused solely on the blood above, and I moved with instinctive precision, tracing the corridors I had memorized by sound, knowing every turn, every staircase, every door.

By the time I reached the third floor, the hallway lay in shadow, deserted. Only the steady, heavy breathing of sleeping patients leaked through the closed doors. The rhythmic drip had stopped. I crossed the floor, finding the shower, and pushed it open.

The scene mirrored my imagination. The old man sat against the wall, legs apart, head drooping, eyes closed. A fragrant pool of blood pooled around his severed hand, its scent sharp, almost sweet, stinging my throat. Thoughts fled; only desire remained. I imagined taking his hand, pressing my lips to the wound, savoring the aroma. The blood carried memory and longing—it transported me to distant, joyful days: to a loving home, to people I had lost.

I tasted it. The liquid filled my mouth, vivid and alive, and when it was gone, I wanted more. I imagined visiting others, following the trail of hearts calling me, urging me to release the treasure hidden in each vein. Freedom flowed through blood, and I sought it with a blind, irresistible hunger.

Reality and imagination blurred. By the end of that night, I had walked the entire floor, moving from room to room. At first, I was careful, precise, almost gentle. But by the last, caution abandoned me entirely, replaced by a raw, animal instinct.

When it was over, satisfaction came in a hollow, sickening wave. My legs barely obeyed, weighed down by the poison of what I had consumed. Was this what a vampire felt? I wiped my mouth, glancing up at a mirror. My hair was tangled, matted; my features sharper, harsher; dark shadows framed my eyes. For a moment, I almost surrendered to sleep—but then I noticed the calendar on the wall. Ordinary, unremarkable, yet the month and year were sharply marked.

A scream erupted from my chest, rattling walls and floor alike. If I could, I would have torn this hospital to its foundations. And Dr. Smirnov… I would have dragged him from the earth with my own hands.

Seventeen years of solitude. Seventeen years as a test subject.

Finding the doctor’s office was almost anticlimactically easy. A wide, golden plaque on one of the doors proclaimed in bold black letters: “Deputy Chief Physician Vladimir Vladimirovich Smirnov.” The door yielded to my touch with the same eerie ease as the basement entrance. Inside, a broad desk dominated the room, a leather chair tucked neatly beneath it. Stacks of papers were meticulously organized into labeled folders—but none of the labels called to me. I opened drawer after drawer, rifling through the contents with mounting urgency.

I needed answers. Any clue about what this man had done to shape—or ruin—my life. I sifted through the pages, deciphering sprawling, looping handwriting. Frustration gnawed at me. Nothing seemed meaningful.

Leaning back in the chair, I felt the familiar dizziness pressing at my temples. My head ached, yet I knew I wouldn’t have another opportunity. I rose obediently and turned my attention to the archive shelves. A thick folder with a pronounced spine caught my eye. I tugged at it—but my grip faltered, and the folder slipped to the floor, opening as if inviting me. One page slid under the shelf, and I knelt to retrieve it. My breath caught when I read the title: “Birth Certificate.”

It was issued to a boy named Nikita. My heart thudded violently. That was the name I had chosen for my son. My fingers burned as they touched the paper, and a sick premonition clawed at my gut—but I forced myself to read every detail. The date of birth matched the day my child had been born. The listed parents were strangers: the Karimovs. On the back, a sticky note bore familiar handwriting, directing me to an address.

I returned to the folder. My own death certificate lay there like a cruel joke. No one would ever search for a long-dead woman. No one to bury me. I had always been a shadow in Ksertoni, without past, present, or future. Only during pregnancy had I allowed myself a foolish, fleeting hope that life might change.

The folder held more: impersonal notes chronicling my changes during years in the basement. Nothing mentioned the transformation of my body’s nature. The blood Vladimir delivered was clinically labeled “food,” its “quality” and “frequency of intake” measured and recorded. The more I read, the less sense it made. Years of sterile experimentation, leaving only guesses about his true motives.

Dawn’s first rays crept through the window. Time had run out. If answers waited here, they would have to remain for another day. I snatched both certificates and the note with the address, dressed hastily in clothing from a nearby room, and considered my exit. The main door was too risky; workers might arrive, a duty doctor might be lurking. My choice narrowed: the window of the men’s shower room.

I perched on the sill, peering downward. Fear twisted inside me. What if I was insane? What if my earlier escape—doors flung off hinges, floors crossed in impossible leaps—was the delirium of a mind unhinged? But the thought of my son steadied me.

Eyes closed, I pushed off. Gravity betrayed nothing; the ground welcomed me without resistance. I was still myself. The thought was a small, profound relief. If this was real, then perhaps my son might still live.

I knew the city well enough. The address led to the outskirts, a private sector where a large, three-story log house stood alone, embraced by forest. Construction marks hinted at a stable in progress. Through the warm glow of a kitchen window, I caught sight of movement—but I did not dare approach. I crouched behind a thick bush, listening.

Sounds of domesticity reached me: a woman pacing, the stove humming, oil sizzling. Breakfast in motion. Familiar scents of dough, yet empty of appetite. Then came a voice that froze me:

“Nikita, come down! Food’s on the table!”

The boy’s name. My breath caught. I froze, heart hammering.

Rhythmic tapping signaled his descent. I scanned for a vantage point, but there was none. Reluctantly, I climbed a tall pine, effortless as if my renewed body were weightless clay, shaped entirely by its own will. From this perch, I could see him.

A teenage boy, light-haired, sat at the edge of a wooden table. Slowly, I traced his silhouette, each detail sharpening. Hand propping up his head, the other idly manipulating morsels on the plate—a sticky mess of caramel-colored fragments in syrup. Yet in his eyes, lips, and nose, I recognized myself. There was no doubt: this was my son.

The woman moved to him, concern etched into her features.

“Please, at least eat a little,” she urged.

“I can’t,” he replied, voice flat, sorrow creeping in. “You know that.”

“You should at least try,” she coaxed.

“Even if I eat everything, it won’t help. We’ve been through this before.”

“Please, just try. If your stomach is always full, maybe someday…”

He leaned back, releasing a bitter laugh.

“I might as well eat rocks.”

“Nikita…”

“But am I wrong? My stomach will always be full.”

“But you can still taste it.”

“Yes. I can taste it. But it changes nothing. Hunger only grows stronger with each day. No matter how delicious you cook, I cannot satisfy myself with human food alone. I need blood, Mom. When will you understand?”

She won’t, I thought. She isn’t your mother.

The conversation swelled with tension, and I felt a dark satisfaction. Not everything was perfect here—perhaps there was a place for me in his life.

The woman knelt, lips curving in gentle encouragement. Nikita sighed, lifted his fork reluctantly, and cut a small piece of food. Slowly, painfully, he ate. Halfway through, my dislike for her grew. Could she not see his struggle? Every bite a torment? My fists itched. I wanted to storm inside, to stop this silent cruelty, to rescue him from this blind kindness.

“MOM!” Nikita’s shout cut through the story, and I shook my head. In an instant, Galina’s carefully painted scene dissolved. Her words had a hypnotic pull, immersing me in the past so vividly that I almost felt I had lived it myself. Every emotion, every moment, seemed to pass through me as if we were one.

“Nikita, it’s not polite to interrupt your mother at the most interesting part,” Galina chided gently.

“I don’t like the way you talk about the woman who raised me. Show some respect,” he snapped, his voice sharp with the defensiveness of youth.

Galina’s lips curved into her usual, slightly unhinged smile, and she shrugged:
“Will my side of the story be fair then? I’m only telling you how I felt, and that’s not something anyone can change. Of course, this woman—”

“She has a name,” he interrupted, more forcefully this time.

“Yes, of course she does,” Galina said, conceding, “and your attachment to her is understandable, as are your feelings. But can you expect me to feel the same?”

Karimov fell silent, crossing his arms over his chest and letting out a discontented snort. He had no rebuttal, and Galina nodded with quiet satisfaction before continuing:

“I watched my son for days as he tried to explain to her what the young vampire truly needed. For every desperate plea for blood, there was an equally desperate attempt to eat what human food could offer. Through the suffering etched on his delicate face, he finally finished his plate, rising silently from the table. Soon, the jingle of keys sounded, and Nikita bolted from the house. I followed, keeping my presence hidden among the treetops, observing his path to school. Day after day, the same exchanges repeated—the same struggle, the same silent pain. And slowly, I saw the toll it took: dark circles carved themselves beneath his eyes, his once-vibrant skin drained to a lifeless gray, his frame thinning with each passing week.”

I hesitated to speak. How could I? What could I possibly say? “Hi, this woman isn’t your real mother. I am. Let’s be friends?” The thought paralyzed me. I had nothing to offer him, nothing to bridge the gulf that had grown over years. For what felt like an eternity, I remained a shadow, an observer on the sidelines.

Everything changed the day Nikita deviated from his usual route home. He was following the steps of a girl—probably a classmate—and the shy curiosity of a teenager masked the danger beneath. My instincts screamed, urging me closer, warning me of the impending disaster.

The warning proved true. In the narrow archway leading to the courtyard, among the faceless buildings, Nikita caught up with the girl. In a flash, he seized her from behind, pressing a palm over her mouth, dragging her toward the wall. His predatory gaze burned red in the dim light, eyes glowing as if dipped in fire. But within that glow, I glimpsed the truth: desperation, thirst, and despair had overtaken him. Immediate action was required.

I surged forward. Nikita, like a dog guarding its prize, prepared to sink his fangs into the girl’s flawless skin. Without thinking, I thrust my hand forward, instinctively guiding him. His sharp teeth pierced flesh as easily as a hot knife through butter. For a heartbeat, his wide eyes locked with mine in astonishment. Then, surrendering to the nature I had finally understood, he drank—once, twice, three times. His grip loosened. The girl escaped, running without a backward glance.

Nikita clung to me, greedily drawing every drop. I stroked his hair, murmuring words meant to calm him. Color returned to his cheeks; the gray drained from his face, the dark circles vanished. He lay against the asphalt, sated, bewildered, staring at me as if to ask what had just occurred. I couldn’t explain it. Instinct guided us both, as if fate had written the script in invisible ink.

“We need to leave,” I said, offering my hand. Hesitant, he accepted, and together we melted into the shadows of the forest, far from prying eyes.

At first, Nikita rejected my story. Everyone he knew was human. He couldn’t believe in what he’d seen, and his doubt hit me like a slap. Yet, I held firm. I had no proof beyond the mirrored reflection that showed our shared features. Could he truly see what was real?

Hunger, however, left him no choice. He couldn’t sustain himself on human food, and eventually, he yielded to the compromise I offered: occasional, voluntary feedings. He recoiled at first, unwilling to harm anyone. Gradually, though, he understood that this was the easiest way to survive without cruelty.

Our rare meetings became a window into my life. I shared fragments of myself: my pregnancy, the sweet anticipation, the fleeting joys I had known. Slowly, he began to ask questions. The intervals between feedings lengthened, and I realized the forest was no longer a home, but a cage. I ventured into roadside bars and diners, hunting subtly, carefully, targeting transient truck drivers who were passing through. At first, luck favored me. My presence was soft, my actions unnoticed. Some men mistook the sensation for passion, their minds protecting them from the terror of truth.

But my restraint could not last. One night, in the cab of a truck, the hunger overwhelmed me. The driver’s body went limp beneath me, his breathing ceased. I remembered the first life I had taken in the hospital and vowed never again to let blood claim another. Yet, the allure was irresistible. It called to me like whispered promises, sweet words that offered oblivion, urging me to drink until the emptiness inside me was filled at last.

Seeing the lifeless body of the healthy man before me, reality hit like a blade. The awareness of the irreversible filled me with a cold, suffocating dread, reaching beyond my mind to gnaw at my heart. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I glimpsed the value of another life—not as prey, not as sustenance, but as a human being. My humanity stirred weakly within me, fragile yet undeniable. If not for the desperate thread of thought holding onto my son, that fleeting spark might have been snuffed out entirely. Something inside me had shifted, though the change was short-lived.

Barely conscious of my actions, I bit into my own wrist and pressed it against the dead man’s lips. Warm drops slid over my skin but refused to penetrate, as if the lesson of fate required suffering first. I did not relent. An ancient, instinctive voice urged me to take his flesh, and I obeyed. Leaning over his neck, I sank my fangs in slowly, resisting the urge to drink. A sudden, searing pain shot through my jaws as if my fangs had become exposed nerve endings. I wanted to recoil, terrified, though I had faced death unflinchingly before. A stern inner voice commanded me to endure. The agony crescendoed, then broke.

A thin, silvery thread of liquid stretched from the wound to my face. It glimmered like moonlight, cold and scentless, before pooling and disappearing into my skin. The sensation was subtle but undeniable—inside, a second heart began to beat, faint yet real. And so, Gleb entered my life. A kind, diligent man who traveled the country delivering goods, still whole and rational even after transformation. He cared for me despite everything, naïvely believing we could control fate through sheer will—and for a time, I believed it too.

Together, we tried to live normally. The changing landscapes were intoxicating; I had never left Ksertoni before. Cities unfolded around us in streams of lights, promising the illusion of opportunity, of life unbound. We nourished each other carefully, seeking balance. Yet it soon became clear that our thirsts were mirrored in opposite directions. Gleb’s blood brought forth light and warmth, while my own consumption opened thresholds of madness within me. Each day, the hunger clawed deeper, chasing the faint pulse behind my teeth. I restrained it, training the beast, until one trip changed everything.

In Omsk, I lost control. A girl became my prey, and only afterward did clarity return. Asya, I never wanted to become a killer. I pictured her life stolen, the potential she would never reach, and felt the weight of every lost opportunity, dissolving into the void. A foolish thought whispered that perhaps I could give life as well as take it. I tried. I fed with hope, believing I could mend what I had broken—but the result was a nightmare. The girl screamed, her body blistered and writhed in agony. Bones snapped, limbs twisted into grotesque angles, as if she were a toy of some cruel hand. Desperation left me with one option: her heart. I tore it free, and only then did her gaze dim, her suffering finally silenced.

I could not risk my son facing the same horrors. Independent research was too costly, too dangerous, and too incomplete. I returned to the city, moving under the cover of night. In Dr. Smirnov’s office, I scoured records for anything that could guide me, but all I found were Vladimir’s sparse notes on my transformation. Nothing more. My instincts whispered that answers might lie elsewhere—perhaps at Smirnov’s home, among the creatures born of his own blood, the dark progeny of his experiments.

***

Galina’s story began to feel like a slow, deliberate torture. She spared no detail, tracing the arc of her history with a meticulous precision that made my mind ache. And yet, the longer I listened, the more elusive the purpose of her narrative became—why was she telling me all this? Outside, a frigid wind rose, rattling the skeletal branches, and I became aware of the snow underfoot, crisp and dazzling. Oddly, I no longer felt the cold. Winter itself seemed to vanish. Instead, my body burned from within, as if some inner fire were trying to force me to endure her tale. When would she finally speak of Kostya, rather than dwell on her own tormented existence—a woman who had never sought this life, yet now bore the consequences of another’s cruel decision?

Impatience mounted alongside that strange, consuming heat, until I could restrain myself no longer. I cut her off mid-sentence.

“Listen,” I said, my voice firmer than I expected, “I am sorry this all happened to you. Dr. Smirnov seems… complicated, from what I’ve heard, but I only met him once—and I’m hardly an admirer. I have nothing to do with him. What concerns me far more is my family. Surely, you didn’t bring me here only to recount a heart-wrenching story, did you?”

Galina smirked, a fleeting curl of amusement on her lips, then looked away.

“She’s cheeky,” the vampire commented, glancing at Nik.

“And she’s right,” Nik replied. “Let’s get to the point.”

Galina snorted, waving her hand with an air of mild exasperation, as if disappointed that no one cared about the sprawling drama of her life—one in which multiple families were implicated. Yet, I understood the truth: human lives are intricately woven together, and not every action is deliberately cruel. Dr. Smirnov’s misdeeds toward her did not necessarily stem from malice. Still, one cannot judge a man who is rendered voiceless when recounting his own story.

Galina fell silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the snowy undergrowth, as if seeking the perfect words, choosing only those that fit seamlessly with her narrative.

“Well, Asya,” she finally said, her voice quieter, measured, “let’s skip over Dr. Smirnov’s numerous secret experiments—the many who failed, and the few who… survived. I, apparently, was one of the successful ones. But not everyone could withstand the venom. Many died. And yet he kept meticulous records, hidden in some forgotten corner of his cursed mansion. Every failure and success cataloged. A grotesque labor. So many senseless deaths, wasted lives, all traded like currency for one man’s obsession.”

“You can’t truly judge him without knowing his intentions,” I interjected.

Galina’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze sharp and reproachful.

“You didn’t want to hear the whole story yourself, so please—don’t interrupt now,” she said, her tone icy yet calm. “I know his motives. They are selfish, cold, and entirely human. But to answer your question—about how your family is involved—it’s easier to show you than explain.”

Her hand slipped beneath her blouse, and she produced a small, tightly folded paper, passing a silent command to her son. Nikita obeyed, taking the document and presenting it to me with an unmistakable neutrality, as though he had no stake in the war unfolding around him. I couldn’t help but smirk; did he truly believe our connection could survive such betrayal? Did he think I could continue to love someone whose actions had actively threatened my family?

I unfolded the paper. A printed adoption certificate stared back at me, foreign and opaque. I had never seen such a thing and would have been lost without the bold, explicit title. My eyes scanned the text, and I turned to Galina, shrugging in confusion, silently asking, “And…?”

“Look at the signature, Asya,” she said softly.

My gaze fell on the final line. The registry seal was familiar, but it was the flourish of the signature that stopped my heart—it was my father’s.

“What does this mean? My father doesn’t work in the registry office. How could he have signed this? I don’t understand,” I stammered.

“In small towns, one person can hold multiple positions if staff are scarce,” Galina explained. “Your father was head of the civil registry that year. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to help an old friend—Dr. Smirnov—settle his affairs. That signature is also on my death certificate.”

A horrifying clarity formed in my mind, and part of me recoiled, refusing to accept the truth: Kostya had helped Dr. Smirnov manage the consequences of failed experiments, reducing human lives to mere paperwork.

“There have been many such testimonies,” Nik added gently, seeing my confusion. “Victims were often alone, without close relatives. Funerals were formalities. Connections smoothed over everything—your father had plenty of them. They quietly ensured the surviving child was hidden, as in my case, a favor for an old friend who longed for a child.”

“How can you speak so of your parents?” I demanded.

“What do you mean, Asya?” Nik said softly. “I condemn what your father did, not the people who raised me. I love my parents. That cannot be taken away.”

Galina’s eyes narrowed, and she hissed with fury. “Until new truths come to light, like about Konstantin. Do you really think it was coincidence that they crossed paths? No, son. Those two needed each other. Your father owed a debt, and Dr. Smirnov ensured it was paid. Promises can bind a person for life.”

“My father may have acted out of duty,” Kostya protested, unwilling to see his protector as a villain. His memory of a caring, overprotective father clashed violently with this revelation. He couldn’t have done evil—could he?

“He could,” Galina said, a faint, bitter smirk twisting her lips, “but that doesn’t change anything. He took my child. My final memory of life was stolen, and he must answer for it.”

As Galina spoke, the vampire materialized before me with a movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible. Her hand, fingers splayed like predatory claws, hovered over my throat, and a sweet, almost passionate smile curved her lips. It felt as though she was poised to tear me open, to drink not just my blood—pure and pale as winter snow—but every memory, every fragment of my life. Overwhelmed by terror, I squeezed my eyes shut and screamed—but no strike came. Gathering every ounce of courage, I forced my eyes open again, each movement cautious. Was Galina simply toying with me, savoring my fear before delivering the final blow?

"I could kill you right now," she said, her fangs glinting, her gaze unflinching, "savor every drop of life that flows so hastily through such a young body. You cannot imagine the sweetness of revenge after endless days of captivity and knowing who deserves the blame." Her voice, though calm, carried the weight of menace. "But I won’t. For my son."

Galina’s eyes softened as they fell on Nik, her smile now gentle, brimming with love and care. The swiftness of her emotional swings made her actions impossible to predict, her very presence a freeze that gripped my body. Only when she deliberately stepped aside did the paralysis release me.

"Could you leave us for a moment?" Nik’s mother demanded, her voice leaving no room for refusal.

"Leave?" Galina sneered. "Like in the forest, when you decided you could handle everything alone—and the girl ended up gone?"

Nik said nothing, and I could only guess at her meaning. Fear ebbed, replaced by a tidal wave of anger, raw and unrefined. Something primal stirred deep within me—a nascent, almost animal instinct whispering that the vampires around me were threats to be ended, now, before they could strike again. It was the desperate hope of someone cornered, reaching for the last shred of control, the last chance to survive, even as the body revealed hidden strengths it had long forgotten. Yet one truth was undeniable: hope of escape was gone.

Karimov’s gaze met his mother’s, silent and probing, as though an invisible duel of wills passed between them. Eventually, Galina’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile, and she melted into the thick forest, leaving us behind. Relief tried to rise within me, but I smothered it. Nothing was over.

"Listen," Nik said, his hand finding mine. The familiar warmth of his touch stirred long-dormant strings of the heart, recalling past love and tenderness. "She won’t go far, and I can’t just tell you to run."

Karimov searched my eyes, seeking something solid to cling to. The sight of his familiar face shattered the walls I’d built, the emotions I had locked away—love, fear, longing—bursting free, leaving me nearly defenseless.

"But there’s a way out," Nik continued, his thumb brushing mine in a gentle, warming rhythm. "My mother is willing to compromise, and I think it will suit you." He paused, letting the words sink in. My mind was a battlefield, part of me wanting to flee, part craving the comfort of his embrace, but reason reminded me of my father, and the absurdity of giving in.

"Speak. If it can save Kostya…" I began.

"Galina won’t harm your father," Nik reassured me. "That would serve no purpose. Death is simple to her—a release. But she wants to hurt Konstantin by harming you, Asya. I won’t let that happen." His hands moved to frame my face, as if his touch could lend his words more truth. "Do you hear me? I won’t allow it. You matter to me. I… I love you, and that won’t change. But she’s my mother. I know her, more than you think. She isn’t all darkness; there’s goodness in her. But she has been wounded deeply, and until she exacts her revenge, peace may never touch her heart. Sooner or later, the vampire within her will surface, and reason will not stop her rage. She will strike—whether she intends to harm me or not. Do you understand?"

"That everything is hopeless," I whispered.

"Not entirely," he corrected, a shadow of hope flickering across his face. "Your death would hurt Konstantin, yes, but there is another way to protect you and still inflict pain where it matters."

He didn’t say it outright, letting me draw the conclusion. My pulse raced as I realized his meaning.

"You want to turn me," I said, stepping back, freeing my face from his hands.

"Yes," he admitted, closing the gap immediately, gripping my hand. "It’s the only way. She won’t let you leave alive. Imagine—no fear of death, no worry about harming those you love because your life becomes… endless."

"How do you know my fears?" I asked, but he held me firmly.

"Tatiana told me everything. She heard it from Dasha." His gaze was intense, desperate to connect. "I just wanted to understand why you ended things so abruptly… but if you agree now, all misunderstandings vanish. You’ll have everything you dreamed of—and more."

The words wrapped around me like a spell. I pictured it all: a future unburdened by fear, a life where laughter and light replaced dread. Nik’s voice echoed in my mind, and I ran through sunlit forests, free and young. Kostya waited at the edge, alive, smiling, arms open. I would run to him, embrace him, breathe in the familiar scent of cologne, a scent I had clung to for years.

"All of this can be yours," Nik murmured, and I nodded, caught in the dream.

Then a sharp sting pierced my neck. The silver light of the moon cut across my vision, and the world blurred. Sleep dragged me into its depths, visions of peace and joy colliding with the reality of pain.

I never imagined dying like this. Danger had stalked me for months, but now the darkness had finally reached me. I lay on the cold winter ground, staring into the grinning face of my killer. Blood, once mine, streaked the corners of his mouth. He wiped it away with satisfaction and reached for me.

"Try it," he whispered.

Dying for someone you love isn’t the worst fate. Regret flickered briefly, but as I met his glowing blue eyes, it seemed inconsequential. Obediently, I touched my tongue to the drop of blood. Salt and iron. Agony surged through me, consuming every cell. Pain tore through me like wildfire, a thousand shades of torment refusing to merge. Movies had lied: death wasn’t swift, it was endless, devouring.

Amid the chaos, consciousness clawed its way back. The forest appeared again, and Galina’s manic grin hovered over me. She reached, but a sudden force struck her down. The last sensation before darkness claimed me was the raw scent of wet fur and musk.

Chapter Text

When I opened my eyes, a harsh, bright white light filled the room. It was unfamiliar—a space with pale, almost green-tinged walls. The nearest wall was draped with long vertical blinds; behind them, a window must have been letting in the winter sun. I was lying on a hard bed framed with cold metal rails, and beside it stood a rack of strange, blinking equipment. The top display pulsed in neon green, the line jagged but steady.

A knot of fear tightened in my throat as Galina’s story came back to me. But then I saw my father asleep in a chair at the foot of the bed, leaning forward, hands carefully folded in the far corner as if he were guarding me with his very presence. Relief began to wash over me. Tentatively, I reached to wake him—but a transparent tube restrained my movement. Something pressed against my face, and I instinctively tried to brush it away, only to hear a firm voice:

“Asya, don’t,” cold fingers caught my hand.

“Stanislav?” I whispered, turning my head slightly to see my classmate’s familiar face. “How did you…”

I stopped mid-word as Stas pressed a finger to his lips, signaling me to be silent so as not to wake Kostya. I could hardly believe the last person I expected to see here was Smirnov. Heat rose to my cheeks, though there were no mirrors in the room, as I realized just how terrible I must have looked.

“Quiet,” Stanislav said softly, patting my hand. “We don’t want to wake Konstantin.”

“How did I end up here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Stas leaned back, scrutinizing my face. “Don’t have any idea?”

“No,” I quickly lied, even though the memory of the forest and everything that had happened there was crystal clear.

“Kostya and I were late. Karimov led everyone out,” I added, trying to sound casual, though the words felt strange coming from me. I was alive—obviously—and the pulsating line on the machine beside the bed confirmed it.

“In what sense do you mean ‘passed out’? I’m alive, breathing, and my heart is beating,” I said, frustration rising.

“Yes, it’s beating,” he replied thoughtfully, glancing away. “Maybe we should wake your father. It’s not my place to give such news.”

“What news?” Alarm laced my voice, and in the instant my tone rose, Kostya stirred awake.

He snapped to life, every trace of calm vanishing as his protective instincts flared. He jumped from the chair as if ready to face any threat, only relaxing when he saw me conscious.

“Asya,” he said softly, reaching toward me. “You’re awake!”

Unable to contain myself, I leaned forward as he gently embraced my shoulders. I tried to move closer, but a sharp pain flared across my back. A quiet “ouch” escaped my lips.

“You’ve been through a lot,” Kostya murmured sympathetically. “Don’t worry—you’ll rest soon and regain your strength.”

He brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear with such tender care that tears pricked at my eyes. Seeing him alive, whole, and well after everything felt like a miracle.

“If you want to cry, cry,” Smirnov said quietly. “I swear, no one at school will ever know.”

I shot him a reproachful glance, but his expression remained serious. I couldn’t help but feel grateful in my own way.

“How did I get here?” I asked, shifting my gaze back to Stanislav.

Kostya sighed, returning to his chair. His body looked tense, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

“Asya,” he began, hands folded in front of him, “what is the last thing you remember?”

I hesitated, unsure how to answer without delving into the unreal horrors of the city’s underbelly. My mouth opened and closed; no simple words could describe what had happened.

Seeing my confusion, Stanislav stepped closer and spoke softly, “Asya… your father knows.”

The words hung in the air, insufficient and incomplete. I stared at Stas, wide-eyed, trying to understand: knew about what? Vampires? The serial killer stalking the city? Which version of the recent events did Kostya believe?

The silence grew uncomfortable. Smirnov finally broke it.

“He knows about me, Asya. And about my family.”

I held my breath as the word I feared most hung in the air, altering reality:

“About vampires.”

“But…” I faltered. “If you knew all along, why? Why let me come here? To lock me up, to keep me safe? Nothing would have happened if I had just stayed in Rostov.”

The realization struck me like fire. He had known everything—the danger, the predators, the threats—but had allowed vampires near, had even welcomed them into our home, behaving casually as if nothing were at stake. Rage surged through me, so hot it made the room seem suffocating. I wanted to open the window, tear Smirnov’s smug smile from his face, and destroy it.

“It seems it’s starting again,” Stas said softly, nodding to his father. Both rose. That’s when I noticed the wide leather straps threaded through the metal bedframe on either side.

Before I could react, Kostya gently lifted my hand, guiding it through a strap and tightening it to immobilize me. Stanislav did the same with my other hand.

“What? What are you doing?” I jerked, fear making my voice rise. “Dad?!”

Hurt and anger collided in a chaotic swirl, yet my father’s eyes held only regret. He bent closer, stroking my hair as if to soothe me, and whispered:

“Quiet, wolf. Quiet.”

The end of the first book

Dear reader,

Thank you for opening this book and taking a chance on a story from a new author. What began as a lighthearted experiment soon grew into something deeply personal—characters who refused to let go of me, secrets that demanded to be written, and a world that seemed to take on a life of its own.

In another language, this story was once shared chapter by chapter online, where it gathered over 400,000 reads and, to my amazement, eventually led to a publishing contract with a major publishing house. It has been a long journey from those first hesitant chapters to this moment—seeing Asya's world take its first steps into English.

I have to confess, I was nervous about reaching out to an English-speaking audience. Would her voice feel the same? Would her choices and emotions carry across cultures? For a long time, I wasn't sure. But I realized that at its heart, this story is about things we all understand: love, fear, courage, and the struggle to find your place in a world that feels both beautiful and dangerous. That is something that connects us all, no matter where we are.

Every single read and every comment matters to me more than I can say. Your trust, your curiosity, and your willingness to walk into the shadows of Kserton with me mean everything. Thank you for being here—for giving this story a chance, and for letting me share a part of myself with you.

And this is only the beginning. The trilogy is already complete—the rest of Asya's journey is waiting, though translation takes time. I hope the next volumes will not only meet your expectations, but surprise and move you, just as writing them changed me.

With warmth and gratitude,Lili Mokash

Chapter Text

Book 2

Asya is on the edge of two worlds - just beginning her painful transition into a werewolf, while struggling to hold together the fragile threads of her first real heartbreak. Caught between her mysterious family's dark secrets and the curse coiling like a serpent around her fate, she must confront forces that blur the line between reality and nightmare.

With a powerful curse tethered to her soul, a cryptic dark observer watching her every move, and the shadows of her father's unyielding control looming over her, Asya's journey is anything but ordinary.

Can she find strength in the chaos, untangle the truth from illusion, and survive a love that might never be hers again?

Dive into a tale of supernatural awakening, forbidden desires, and the fierce fight for freedom - where every step forward is shadowed by danger, and every choice could mean the difference between life, love, and losing herself forever.

Prologue. Echoes of long-gone days. Kserton, 1999

Maria studied her reflection in the elevator’s narrow mirror. No loose sweater or flowing dress could disguise her rounded belly anymore; curious eyes would see the truth. A new life was growing inside her, and she waited for her daughter’s birth with equal parts impatience and dread.

It was a fear born of joy she had once believed impossible. The doctors’ verdicts still echoed in her mind, sharp and final as a sentence: infertile. She had learned to live with it, or at least to pretend she had. She had even managed to marry, despite her mother’s warning that no one would want someone “defective” like her. Cruel words, yes — but Masha had believed them. She had poured herself into her studies at the art institute and clung to her fragile dream of illustrating children’s books. In that way, she told herself, she could at least touch the celebration of life that nature had denied her.

Everything changed the day she met Kostya. Their eyes met at one of the small home concerts a mutual friend loved to host, and in that instant, the thread of fate bound them tightly together. Masha had not yet turned twenty, and until then she had never felt drawn to a man. But she wanted to see him, to hear him, to be near him — and she would have sacrificed anything for those moments, though she never had to. He felt the same. Within six months their unconditional, all-consuming love carried them to the registry office. Even when Maria confessed the truth she carried like a stone on her heart, Kostya never flinched. For him, a future without her was no future at all.

Perhaps it was for her acceptance of life’s cruelty that the world rewarded her with its most precious miracle.

But fate, as it often does, had other plans.

The elevator inched upward with agonizing slowness, each moment winding Maria’s nerves tighter. Her palms grew damp; she wiped them against her skirt.

Ding.

The doors slid open, spilling her into the half-darkness of the stairwell — yet she couldn’t make herself move. The fear of rejection rooted her in place. She would rather have been anywhere than here, at the door of her former best friend. They hadn’t spoken since Maria’s wedding. That silence was the price she had knowingly paid for loving Kostya.

She forced herself forward and pressed the doorbell twice, short and sharp. From inside came the mechanical trill of birds, followed by the creak of floorboards. Maria silently prayed that Lyudmila — not her husband — would answer. He wouldn’t even let her speak.

The lock clicked. The door opened to reveal Lyudmila’s startled face. She moved to close it without a word, and Maria’s heart lurched. There would be no second chance. Acting on instinct, Maria caught the door with her foot.

“Lyudmila, wait!” Her voice cracked. Pain shot through her foot.

“What are you doing?” Lyudmila shoved the door just enough to free her and immediately crouched to inspect the bruise. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The words were gentler now, edged with regret Maria couldn’t miss.

“I have nowhere else to go.”

“And that’s by your choice. You knew the coven would turn its back the moment you married that—” Lyudmila cut herself off, lips pressed tight against the curse that wanted to escape. “You have to leave.”

Lyudmila straightened, reaching for the handle, but Maria seized her hand and pressed it to her belly.

For a moment Lyudmila’s expression was unreadable. Then the child stirred, delivering a small kick against her palm. Her eyes widened. She looked from Maria’s face to her stomach, back and forth, as if trying to decide which stirred more strongly within her — joy or fear.

“But… you couldn’t get pregnant.”

“I thought so too. But, as you can see…”

“How far along?”

“Thirty-four weeks.”

Something behind Maria caught Lyudmila’s eye, but when she turned back, her hand was on Maria’s shoulder, and she nodded toward the open door.

“Come in.”

They walked in silence to the kitchen, the quiet so dense it seemed to swallow even the small sounds of movement. Lyudmila drew the curtains, filled the kettle, and set it on to boil. Maria sat in a chair against the wall, her bag in her lap, fingers twisting at its edges. Being here should have calmed her, but the anxiety inside her only sharpened. She searched for the right words, afraid of finally speaking aloud the reason she had come, biting her lip until she tasted blood.

“Damn,” she murmured, pressing her sleeve to her mouth.

“Did you say something?” Lyudmila asked, measuring tea leaves into the pot.

“No. Nothing.”

The kettle whistled. Lyudmila poured the water, filling the teapot to the brim, and waited as the steam curled upward. Her palms rested flat on either side of the counter. To anyone else, it was a casual pose, but Maria knew better — her friend was as tense as she was.

“What can I do for you?” Lyudmila asked softly, still turned away. “I can’t get rid of the baby. Don’t even ask.”

“No, of course not. Would I have come all this way at this stage for that?”

Maria hesitated, fingers gripping the leather strap of her bag. There was no going back.

“I need a prophecy.”

Lyudmila turned, startled.

“A prophecy? You know what that means. Once spoken, fate is bound. Yours was given long ago — and no one’s has ever changed.”

Maria’s smile was faint, almost wistful. She set the bag on the table.

“I’ve made my peace with my fate. It doesn’t trouble me anymore.” She stroked her belly in slow, tender circles. “I want one for my daughter.”

Lyudmila took two cups from the shelf, poured the tea. The scent of peppermint and the faintly sour tang of lemon balm filled the kitchen, making Maria’s empty stomach twist with longing.

“Don’t worry — she won’t be the High Priestess,” Lyudmila said, setting a cup in front of her before sitting down.

“That’s not what I’m afraid of.”

“Then what?”

Maria exhaled a long, weary sigh, pressing her chilled palms against the warmth of the porcelain cup. She avoided Lyudmila’s gaze, shame coiling around her words as she confessed. A hereditary witch, who had never wished for motherhood, had bound herself to the coven’s greatest enemy—and now might be carrying within her the seed of its destruction.
“I’m afraid my daughter will take after her father.”
“You should have thought of that before marrying Konstantin.”
“Lyuda…” Maria’s voice faltered. “You know as well as I do—I was infertile.”
“I was infertile.”

Silence fell. The argument was as old as their friendship, replayed countless times with the same ending: Maria defending Kostya, and Lyudmila left to watch her best friend slip further away.

“I shouldn’t help you. If the coven finds out…”
“You’re not helping,” Maria interrupted, her tone trembling yet firm. “You’re simply giving a prophecy to an unborn child—by right of blood. She never made the choices that broke the code. I did.”
“But you’re the one asking for prophecy, not the child. And if it’s a boy, inheritance is irrelevant.”
“It’s a girl.” Maria’s fingers tightened around the cup. “And she could become either the next High Priestess—or inherit her father’s power. The sooner we know, the sooner we can prepare.”
“Prepare for what, Maria? Once a prophecy is spoken, there’s no taking it back. Sometimes it’s better not to know…”
“But I have to know!” Maria caught Lyudmila’s hand, desperation blazing in her eyes. “Please, Lyuda. I’m begging you.”
Lyudmila’s expression hardened. “You’ll owe me.”
“Anything,” Maria whispered without hesitation.

With a slow, almost solemn nod, Lyudmila pulled her hand free.
“Then finish your tea. You know the ritual.”

Maria quickly drained the cup until only a murky layer of tea leaves remained. She overturned it onto the saucer, sliding it closer. The two women clasped hands and whispered a short incantation in a tongue far older than either of them. Magic stirred—then cracked apart.

A sharp snap broke the stillness. The cup fractured into three jagged pieces.

Startled, Maria looked at Lyudmila, who merely shrugged.
“That’s new. I feel nothing.”
“Maybe because the child isn’t born yet?”
“Unlikely. At this stage, the spirit is already whole. Her fate should be clear.”
“Then why can’t you go into trance?”
Lyudmila bent, picking up a shard, eyes narrowing as she read the shapes within the dregs.
“I don’t know. Let’s try the old way. Hm… I see forest and sun. Or… no, it looks more like a waxing moon. The circle is too broken.”
“Kserton.”
“Perhaps.” She reached for the second shard and frowned. “I see lightning.”
“An evil omen.”
Lyudmila arched a brow. “Do you really need me here for this? You’re interpreting faster than I can.”
“Reading for myself is forbidden,” Maria muttered.
“Then hush and listen. Lightning doesn’t always foretell evil. It can mean upheaval, shocking revelations, a sudden choice.”

Her fingers brushed the third shard. At once she hissed and snatched her hand back. A bead of crimson welled at her fingertip.
“A bad omen. Don’t look.”

But Maria was already reaching. She lifted the fragment, and when her eyes found the image, her throat went dry, lips trembling around the word that escaped like a curse.
“A wolf.”

The apartment fell into a suffocating silence—until it was broken by a sudden cry from the next room. Sharp, raw, almost animal. It twisted mid-sound into something else: unmistakable, painfully familiar. Maria’s heart clenched. Every instinct in her body urged her to rise, to run, to comfort. The rhythm of her pulse had already shifted into the strange frequency of motherhood, drawn helplessly toward the source of the cry.

Lyudmila’s eyes fixed on Maria, wide with horror, and that gaze alone stopped Masha from rising. She froze, afraid even to breathe too loudly, watching as Lyuda’s fingers spread across the tabletop like claws, pressing hard against the wood, tense and ready, a predator sensing threat.

Someone would have to speak first. Yet neither dared break the silence, as if even a single word could shatter the fragile balance and hurl them past the point of no return. The cruel truth was that time itself would not wait; the future Lyudmila so desperately wished to postpone was creeping toward them with relentless certainty.

A simple charm, a flash of wit, and the practiced reflexes honed by years of secrecy could have buried Maria’s dangerous truth deep beneath the earth—at least until another hand unearthed it. Were it anyone else seated across from her, Lyudmila might not have hesitated. But to strike against her best friend, heavy with child—that was a price even she could not bear to pay.

Slowly, Lyudmila drew her hands from the table, brushing the back of her neck as though the motion itself could lend her strength. She exhaled, cheeks puffing, and for a brief instant averted her gaze, as if searching for courage somewhere in the shadowed corners of the room. Maria swallowed hard, her shoulders easing as the tension in Lyudmila shifted. The suffocating cloud of inevitability above them thinned, giving birth to a fragile hope that things might yet end differently. Still, the child’s cries from the next room went on, unrelenting.

“Seems they’re already calling for you,” Maria murmured, her voice raw.
“Let’s go,” Lyudmila replied, rising swiftly and disappearing down the corridor.

Maria hesitated, then followed, her hand lifted before her in a protective gesture, three fingers pinched together in a spell she could still muster if cornered. Day by day her magic ebbed away, but enough remained for her to seize a moment’s advantage—enough, perhaps, to flee if danger struck.

The door ahead stood ajar, and Maria caught sight of the white crib beyond. Lyudmila was already leaning over it, her voice soft, sweet, almost maternal as she cooed to the infant. The tone scarcely shifted when she called:
“Come closer. Closer.” Supporting the baby’s head with practiced care, Lyudmila lifted her into her arms. “I’ll keep your secret—if you keep mine.”

Maria’s hand fell, powerless, and she stepped into the room. At Lyudmila’s side, she gazed at the tiny creature, fists waving clumsily against round cheeks flushed with warmth. Gently, Lyuda tugged down the neckline of the baby’s shirt, revealing the birthmark etched near the collarbone: a sharp, unmistakable star.

Maria gasped.
“The mark of the High Priestess!”
Lyudmila only nodded.
“But that means—”
“Shhh.” Lyudmila hushed her quickly as the child stirred, eyes fluttering, then sank once more into sleep.

Relief and dread tangled inside Maria’s chest. The discovery lifted one crushing burden only to replace it with another. Her child, she realized, would not be bound into the fate of multiple clans—yet the certainty of what awaited was no kinder. The idea of a normal childhood seemed as distant and impossible as the miracle of her pregnancy had once seemed.

Perhaps the girl would inherit fragments of magic. But they would fade, as Maria’s had: she had tested this herself. The closer her due date approached, the weaker she became. And now, after the prophecy glimpsed in broken shards, Maria could no longer deny what she carried. The wolf’s blood pulsed in her unborn daughter.

Lyudmila laid her baby back into the crib and crossed to the dresser, pressing the switch on a small mushroom-shaped nightlight. A faint lullaby filled the room, tender and unobtrusive. With a beckon, she urged Maria out, and together they slipped down the hall, careful not to wake the sleeping child.

Back in the kitchen, the silence between them broke once more.
“Does the coven know yet?” Maria asked.
Lyudmila shook her head.
“I pray they never do. Otherwise, she’ll be robbed of any chance to grow, to simply be a child—even for a short while.”

Maria sank into a chair, massaging her swollen ankles with a sigh.
“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating? Times have changed. The last High Priestess was born long before either of us.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” Lyudmila shot back, pouring fresh tea. “Look how easily they cast you aside after your wedding. If that law holds stronger than blood itself, then what makes you think they’ll soften when it comes to tradition?”
“Maybe you’re right. But how long can you hide her? A month? A year? Two? She won’t even know what’s happening by then. Childhood won’t even be a question.”

Lyudmila set the kettle down.
“We could help each other.”
Maria managed a faint smile.
“If it’s a prophecy you want, I’ll lend my hand in ritual. But honestly—your daughter’s fate seems plain enough already.”
“I mean something more.”

Maria’s brows drew together, her mind racing through every possible and impossible scenario, yet none of them touched the truth Lyudmila carried.
“But what can we do? My powers are nearly gone. And yours must be fading too. No mother comes away untouched after bearing a High Priestess.”
“That’s true. But if we joined forces in ritual, it might still work. We’d need a third for the triad—then it would be certain.”
“I know where this is going. Don’t even ask.”
“Has your mother turned her back on you too?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then there it is!” Lyudmila’s eyes flashed with triumph, as though she had just claimed a fortune. “The three of us could protect them both.”
“How? Build a shield around them? Hide them from sight?”
“Almost.” Lyudmila sipped her tea, voice lowering. “What if I told you I’ve found a way to seal their power? But the cost… will be high.”

Maria’s breath caught. The idea of involving her mother tugged at her heart with both fear and longing. She would give anything to keep her unborn daughter safe from the curse of inherited magic. Yet to place another life in the balance—it was a decision too heavy to bear alone. Still, she reasoned, asking was not a crime. Her mother could decide for herself, if told honestly, if warned of risks Maria could not yet imagine.

“Alright,” she whispered at last. “Where’s your phone?”
“In the living room.”

Chapter 10. The Yellow Walls of the Hospital. Kserton, 2017

“So, it really is serious, then?”

It was my last day in the hospital, and Stas had decided to celebrate with burgers. By the time I’d managed two cautious bites, he’d already polished off half of his cheeseburger — without a single spot on his beige corduroys. Always immaculate. Always perfect. Always every inch the vampire.

Meanwhile, my palms were smeared in grease and ketchup, and I sat helplessly on the bed, hands raised like some supplicant saint, trying to figure out how to make it to the sink without redecorating the blanket along the way.

“I told you,” I reminded him, half sulking, “we have an open relationship. Love, plans, domestic bliss — none of that’s my thing.”

Stas stopped chewing long enough to rummage in the paper bag, fish out a couple of napkins, and hand them over like he was granting me a royal favor.

“Does Tatyana even know about this little arrangement?” I asked, dabbing uselessly at my fingers. The shine on them wouldn’t go away.

“Of course she knows. Do you think I’d bother otherwise? As long as we’re having fun, why complicate it?”

“And if one of you actually falls in love?”

He popped the last bite into his mouth, chewed with maddening slowness, and washed it down with a sip of soda. I couldn’t tell if he was dragging it out just to watch me squirm or if he genuinely needed the time to come up with an answer.

“Then we part ways as easily as we came together,” he said at last. “She’s human. Even if I wanted a future, it’d be absurd. In less than ten years, her face will change. Wrinkles. Time. All that. And me? At some point, I’ll stop changing. Freeze.” He shrugged. “That’s what my father says, anyway.”

“So as long as it’s casual, she’s your shiny new toy. But the moment it smells like commitment — tail between your legs, and you vanish?”

“That metaphor suits your kind better,” Stas grinned.

I ignored the jab, though it stung more than I wanted to admit.

“I still don’t see it. Is the game worth it?”

He tilted his head, thoughtful, like he wanted to explain something too complicated for words.

After that Halloween night, Stas and I had grown close — close enough that I might have called him a friend, if not for one inconvenient detail: Tatyana. Jealous, watchful, always nearby with Dasha. We never had the chance to talk properly in her presence. Since the accident, she seemed to hold a private grudge against me, barbed but subtle, slipped between words like hidden needles.

And the worst part? I had no idea why. Neither she nor Dasha knew what had really happened that night in the woods. They believed Dad’s convenient story about a wild animal attack — the same story everyone in town swallowed without question. That explained the hospital stay, the missing month. Not the truth.

“This might sound selfish,” Stas went on, “but I want to spend my senior year like a normal teenager just as much as you do. Hanging out with girls, sneaking into movies, going to parties, doing all those stupid firsts just to remember what it’s like to be ordinary.”

I burst out laughing. The way he pronounced that word — “ordinary” — made it sound like a punchline.

“And this is your version of ordinary? Dating the richest, most popular girl in school?”

“She’s pretty, too.”

“Compared to Violetta and Diana, anyone’s beauty fades.”

“They’re my sisters.”

“That doesn’t stop Artur and Maxim,” I shot back, barely suppressing a grin. I liked these arguments — sparring with Stas always forced me to think about things I usually avoided. And it was easier than letting my mind spiral into dark theories about what I was becoming. A werewolf. Whatever that actually meant.

“The twins came later,” Stas protested, indignant. “That’s different. Diana was always there, in my earliest memory. Artur came a year after. Viola and Max showed up at fifteen. Love at first sight, if you believe them. Birds of a feather. It happened so fast I barely understood anything before they were telling mom and dad everything.”

“Speaking of Vladimir…” I glanced at the clock. “Isn’t he late today?”

“Hope I’m not being mentioned in vain?”

The door to the ward creaked open, and Dr. Smirnov stepped inside.

Every time he entered, a chill crawled down my spine. I saw Galina’s ruined face in my mind — the life he had shattered. A month later, I still couldn’t relax in his presence. He was my doctor, yes, but that only made it worse.

I wanted to run. To put as much distance between myself and this deceptively gentle man as possible. But two things chained me here. First, Kostya trusted him. And that trust, inexplicable as it was, terrified me more than Smirnov himself. Second — there was simply no one else. No other doctor who even pretended to understand lycanthropy. Believe me, I checked. It’s not hard to imagine what Yandex spits out if you type in how to cure lycanthropy.

“Not at all, Father,” Stas said smoothly.

“I need to examine Asya. Stas, go take a walk for half an hour,” the doctor said as he stepped closer to the bed.

The moment he moved within arm’s reach, unease rippled through me. Almost instinctively, I clutched at Stas’s hand. He froze, confused, then sat back down though he’d already half-risen to obey.

“What? What is it?” His eyes scanned me quickly, searching for pain. “Does something hurt?”

I realized how ridiculous I must look and tried to recover.
“No,” I said too fast. Then, spotting the crumpled burger bag in his hands, inspiration came to my rescue. “Actually… since you’re leaving, could you bring me more fries?”

Stas smiled the way he always did when I asked for some forbidden indulgence, fully aware of the hospital’s rigid diet. Of course, I had little reason to obey that diet — at least, according to Kostya’s endless insistence that I was “more than healthy.” Besides, the private room spared me the temptation of smelling other patients’ bland meals. That’s what I told myself each time Stas arrived with fast food, or when Dad smuggled in my favorite noodles with shrimp and oyster sauce.

Weekday mornings were the hardest — friends at school, Kostya at work, the ward suffocatingly quiet. I avoided the common areas and the other patients. I never knew when the “gift” might awaken, and the thought alone kept me isolated.

“Dad, are you sure Asya doesn’t have a second stomach hidden in there?” Stas quipped.

“As far as I’m aware, lycanthrope anatomy is limited to one,” Vladimir replied without looking up.

“Strange. She eats like two people now.”

The corners of Stas’s mouth twitched with suppressed laughter, ruining any chance at keeping a serious face. I swatted at his leg in mock outrage, but he dodged easily, winked, and slipped out with his usual cheer, closing the door softly behind him.

“Asya, please sit up and turn your back to me,” Vladimir instructed.

Obediently, I lifted my T-shirt and turned toward the wall. The cold metal of the stethoscope touched my skin, and the doctor’s equally cold fingers pressed methodically against my back.

“Breathing is normal,” he murmured at last, tapping my shoulder so I could lower the shirt. “No wheezing, no constriction. That’s very good. Your body is recovering well. Still, the changes are evident. The muscles around the spine are slightly inflamed — a familiar sign in those who suppress the beast inside for too long.”

“Isn’t there a way to never transform?” I asked quietly.

He placed the cuff around my arm, as he had three times a day for weeks. By now the ritual calmed me, almost like a lullaby.

“Your muscle mass is developing, your appetite has increased—Stanislav notices these things,” he said, scribbling notes. His hurried throat-clearing failed to disguise a chuckle. “Transformation is inevitable. The unknown is frightening, yes, but only the first time. Once you’ve crossed the threshold, the rest becomes easier. All it takes is a single risk.”

“But what if I don’t want to? What if I’m content with the life I’ve lived for seventeen years?”

Vladimir packed away the cuff, the apparatus, the notebook — all folded neatly into his case.

“That’s a question you should ask your father,” he said, tightening the cord. “Tell me instead: have you noticed sharper senses? Stronger smells, richer tastes? Hearing more acute?”

I shook my head. Perhaps changes existed, but how could I notice them while trapped in this sterile box of bleach and lemon disinfectant? The only new scents were those Stas and Dad brought from the outside world. As for sounds — there was nothing to compare. Maybe at home, after discharge, the contrast would finally reveal itself.

“For seventeen years, nothing,” I said. “No signs. Moon or no moon, I felt the same. Even now, I feel ordinary. Only you and Dad insist otherwise. What if you’re wrong?”

“Unlikely. The changes are subtle now, but they’re there. Nika’s venom awakened what you inherited from Konstantin. Your body already shows the shift: higher temperature, muscle growth despite rest. If lycanthropy had not stirred, you would have either turned into one of us… or died in agony. The wolf within you burned away the venom. It saved your life.”

“Is it so terrible, being like you or Stas?”

“Don’t compare me to the children,” Vladimir said. His voice, as always, carried a weight that belonged to another century. “Unlike me and my wife, they were born of vampires, not made. They grow, they change, and they do not thirst. They can pretend to be ordinary, eat human food without struggle. Their eyes do not blaze crimson when anger takes hold. That blessing is denied me. I walk a blade’s edge until the call of blood grows too strong, and redemption lies only in death’s embrace.”

His words unfurled in heavy, winding patterns, like an old prayer memorized long ago. At first, his archaic manner of speaking had left me bewildered; by now, I’d grown accustomed to it. Today, his tone seemed almost plain — or perhaps I had finally learned to translate his antiquated speech.

“Are you certain I won’t become like you?” I asked. “What if these changes are actually the opposite? What if tomorrow I wake as a vampire?”

“Impossible.” From his pocket, he produced a vial of pearly liquid and a slim syringe. “Vampiric transformation is quick, brutal. The signs would be unmistakable: a body frozen at the moment of change, perfected by venom, senses sharpened to hunt. Nature’s janitor, if you will. Or—rejection and death. You are not turning into one of us. You are becoming something else entirely, as your father did.”

He drew the medicine, and I turned away. To him, it might have looked like I was bracing against the needle. The truth was simpler: I did not want to meet others like me. I did not want to transform, to hunt vampires maddened by weak blood, to inherit Kserton’s hidden rules and duties. I was no hero. I could not carry the weight of strangers’ lives before I understood my own.

The injection stung, sharp as ever. Relief followed, knowing it meant the end of today’s ordeal. Soon sleep would come, heavy and warm, pulling me into another day.

“Well, that’s it.” Vladimir capped the syringe. “You’re discharged tomorrow morning, seven sharp. I won’t be here, but the nurses will help you. I’ll prepare the paperwork tonight so you won’t have trouble at school.”

“Hard to believe anyone doubts I was hospitalized,” I muttered. “Stas says everyone still talks about the ‘accident.’ I just hope the principal didn’t get in trouble — it all happened during the school disco.”

Vladimir only shrugged, his lips twitching into a faint smile.
“People always crave bread and circuses. What else can you expect in a town where nothing ever happens? Don’t worry about the principal. Some things are beyond control.”

“If only people knew half the truth…” I whispered, wondering if normal life was gone forever — if vampires and werewolves could ever live openly among mortals.

“Most fear what they cannot understand. Where fear lives, compassion cannot. That is why Konstantin and I keep the border intact, hidden. In time, you’ll draw your own conclusions.”

He patted my shoulder — a gesture I’d seen him use with Stas — and turned toward the door. At the threshold, he paused, pivoting back as though a final thought had struck him.

“Oh, yes. Tell your father I’ll be expecting you in four days. We need to complete the course.”

Chapter Text

“Have you packed everything?” Kostya’s eyes swept the room, sharp and assessing.

“I think so,” I replied, lingering by the bed I had made with almost obsessive precision, just to keep busy while waiting for him. The medication had done nothing to ease me into sleep, and all night my mind had circled restlessly around home—how badly I wanted to return, what I would need to do first. Kostya had brought nearly all my textbooks right away, determined that I wouldn’t slip behind in the gymnasium’s curriculum and risk losing my place to poor grades. Still, most assignments required internet access, and the hospital’s signal was so faint it might as well not have existed. Dasha had been forced to send me lists of homework by subject via plain SMS. SMS, in the age of messengers and social networks—who even used it anymore? The thought annoyed me endlessly, but annoyance didn’t change reality. I had to grit my teeth and endure.

I reached for my bag, only for Kostya to slap my hand lightly aside and step in front of me.

“Dad,” I protested, bristling, “I’m not fragile. It weighs nothing. I’ve lifted it a dozen times while packing.”

“Not fragile, no,” he conceded, already pulling the strap over his shoulder, “but the nurses mustn’t see you striding out with heavy bags after a month in a hospital bed. People here—like most people in town—expect to see a pale, weak girl only just recovered. Feeding their expectations is part of the game. Now, move.”

Before I could argue again, he swung the sports bag across his back and gathered two more bulging sacks—my textbooks and novels. I’d managed to read through nearly all of them during my so-called “illness.” At home I had only a handful, but as soon as Dasha learned about the dismal internet, she raided her own shelves and appeared with an armful that could have stocked a small library. Naturally, Stas had been the one to drive her, unwilling to let Romanova wrestle with bags on the bus during rush hour. Somehow, it seemed, Smirnov and Dasha had struck up a tentative understanding—though perhaps that was only my illusion, born from her inevitable attachment to Tanya. As far as I knew, Dasha had only two real friends. With one confined to the hospital and the other glued to Stanislav’s side whenever possible, she was often left the unwilling “third wheel.”

“Dr. Smirnov asked me to remind you,” I said as we set off down the long corridor, “I need to come back for a check-up in four days. The treatment course has to be completed.”

Kostya gave a curt nod, his brow furrowing, but kept silent. Adjusting the strap on his shoulder, he strode ahead, almost as though eager to leave behind the open wards we passed—rooms filled with the sounds of the sick and the living. From one doorway came muffled groans; from another, the bright encouragement of a gymnastics instructor coaxing patients through exercises. When I glanced into a third, two girls not much younger than me were perched cross-legged on a bed, playing cards and laughing softly.

For a moment I wondered how long they had been here, how much of their world had shrunk to these yellow walls. Maybe I should have left my private room more often. Maybe then the empty weekday mornings, when my friends were at school and I was left alone, would not have felt quite so heavy.

***

The moment the long-awaited sign for Bugrad flashed past the car window, a smile tugged at my lips. Just a little further—home. I closed my eyes, summoning the memory of my favorite lavender candle, the softness of the blanket I had ordered online during my confinement within four walls, all because of the Kserton “maniac.” Those days already felt like a blurred, forgotten life. I never would have imagined longing so desperately for my own room. Only a month ago, I had been ready to quarrel with Kostya for the right to go to the mall with friends, to catch a movie, to spend an evening with Nick.

That life was over.

Or was it?

I opened my eyes. The car still sped forward, but not toward home. Kostya’s foot was heavy on the accelerator, carrying us farther down the highway.

“I thought we were going straight home.”

“Plans changed.” His eyes never left the road, his expression unreadable. “Dr. Smirnov called me last night. Said you’ve decided against treatment.”

I bit my tongue, studying his face for a hint of what he felt. All I found was silence and the suffocating weight of his restraint. Inwardly, I cursed Vladimir with words I’d never dare speak aloud. So much for doctor–patient confidentiality.

“So it’s true, then.”

Kostya’s grip tightened on the wheel, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain.
“No matter what I say, you won’t listen. As usual.”

“You’re right about that,” I snapped, cutting him off before he could build momentum. The same argument, again—the same crack in the fragile ground of our family. Would he ever understand that he couldn’t keep deciding my life for me? After Halloween night, I thought he had learned, that he meant to build a bridge between us. But bridges need both sides, and I was alone on mine. Instead of meeting me, he had spent the past month laying plans to clip my wings just as they’d begun to spread.

“Let me finish,” he said finally, as I folded my arms and turned to the window. The scenery beyond was a mirror for my mood: endless black trunks of bare trees marching into the horizon, like a cursed orchard where summer would never return.

“I’m not going to talk you out of it.”

I smirked at the bait. Kostya never surrendered easily. This was only the opening move in another trap, and I braced myself for the inevitable.

“If you choose not to be a werewolf,” he continued, “you must first understand the price of that choice.”

I rolled my eyes. The way he said it, he might as well have been reciting a line from some medieval drama, all prophecies and doom. If his aim was to frighten me, he had failed.

“And what’s the price? Don’t tell me—lock yourself in a basement on full moons, chains and all?” I wiggled my fingers theatrically in the air. “Ooooh.”

The impression fell flat; I couldn’t even mock his solemnity properly. My laughter broke through instead, nervous and sharp, as though I already half-believed such a fate might be waiting for me.

“The moon phases only touch us indirectly,” Kostya said, his voice clipped. “Yes, senses sharpen as the full moon nears, even in human form. But moonlight won’t transform you on contact. Those myths were spun deliberately, to throw suspicion off the truth. The same with silver bullets. Whether it’s lead or silver, a bullet is a bullet—and it hurts the same.” His lips trembled with the memory of pain, the disgust etched deep.

“But aconite isn’t a myth,” I murmured, recalling the shiver that ran through me when I brushed against the flower in Denis’s greenhouse.

“No,” he said flatly, flicking on the blinker and turning off into the woods. “That one’s real enough. Call it a family allergy, if you like.”

“Would’ve been nice if you’d warned me,” I muttered, but he ignored the reproach, gaze locked on the road.

“How often do you see aconite sprouting in a field? It’s poisonous to humans too, though in small doses it has its uses. Maria and I never thought we needed a cover story.”

At the sound of my mother’s name, the ice in me softened. Maria—my bright, kind mother. A calm island of childhood I longed for even now. She had stayed away from Kserton on Dad’s insistence, for her own safety. That he had once again decided such things from on high burned inside me, but I swallowed the bitterness. How could I argue, when I knew so little about the thing within me—silent still, but there? My carefully built future felt like a house of cards collapsed with a slap of fate’s hand.

“In short,” Kostya’s voice cut back through my reverie, “I’m taking you to the Karimovs. You’ll see the consequences for yourself.”

“The Karimovs?” My chest tightened. “Nik’s parents?”

“Yes. Nikita won’t be there, of course. No one’s seen him since that night, and neither the pack nor the twins know where he’s gone. You do know Maxim and Viola are hereditary hunters?” For the first time since the drive began, Kostya’s eyes flicked to me. I nodded.

“Not just know,” I whispered. The memory was a live wire—Lyudmila’s accomplice, the twins’ ruthless efficiency. Gleb’s arm choking me from behind, the rag pressed to my face, acrid and unforgettable. My first date with Nick had ended in a kidnapping, a grotesque punishment delivered by his own mother’s will.

In the hospital, Vladimir had explained what I had already half-suspected: vampires could toy with human emotions. Among purebloods, it was considered crude, almost dishonorable. But Nik—under his mother’s shadow—had no such scruples. He had plucked my feelings like strings, bending every “no” into a “yes,” twisting my memories until I no longer trusted myself. By the second week in the hospital, I noticed details resurfacing warped, reshaped by the manipulation. I began to wonder if I was losing my mind, unable to tell where reality ended and Nik’s fictions began.

Dr. Smirnov, for all my mistrust of him, had caught the change in me. It led to a raw conversation about false love, about how I had been too eager to believe the dream he imposed.

“I’ve seen the twins in action,” I said finally, forcing my thoughts to focus.

“I hope you won’t again,” Kostya muttered.

“They have peculiar methods,” I admitted. “But effective.”

No words could have summed it up better.

***

The road wound deeper into the winter forest, a white labyrinth of snow and silence. Naked branches gave way to tall evergreens, their crowns buried beneath heavy drifts that seemed to sag under the weight of the sky itself. I pressed my forehead to the cold glass, straining to glimpse the tips of the firs, but they rose too high, vanishing into the gray heavens.

The car rolled to a stop before a striped barrier. Kostya sighed and began patting his pockets in search of his phone. Gone was his polished leather jacket; in its place, he wore a dark blue down coat, the hood rimmed with fur, a concession to the sharp bite of Kserton’s winter. At last he tugged the zipper on his chest pocket and fished out his smartphone. He swiped clumsily at the screen, his fingertips numbed despite the heater rattling in the dashboard vents. The cold had found its way inside anyway, enough that I didn’t even want to remove my coat. He blew on his hands, muttering, tried again, and only on the third attempt did the lock screen relent.

Methodically, Kostya tapped, then lifted the phone to his ear. Long, hollow rings echoed before fading into silence.

“I’ve arrived. Send someone to raise the barrier,” he said into the void. No reply followed, just dead air.

Kostya slipped the phone back into his pocket and tugged on his gloves, pulling the edges firmly beneath his sleeves.

“Whatever happens, stay close,” he said, the tone sharp, deliberate. “And don’t go into the house. Under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

His warning chilled me more than the winter air. Questions boiled in my throat—why not enter the Karimov house? Weren’t we here to speak with Nik’s parents? As far as I knew, they were ordinary humans. What could possibly be waiting outside, if not within? But before I could voice even one of my thousand doubts, he raised a gloved hand, silencing me.

“Nik’s parents aren’t exactly… welcoming right now. They know well enough their son got tangled up with Galina, and what came of it. But however much trouble he caused, Nikita is still their favorite son. And you—” his eyes flickered to me, hard, unreadable—“are the girl because of whom he vanished without a trace. It’s better not to stir that wound.”

“Then why come at all?” The words slipped out sharper than I intended. “My being here is reminder enough.”

“They’ll stay inside the house. That’s the agreement.”

“Dad, you’re being selfish. What am I supposed to see if I can’t even wait for Nik to come back?”

His head whipped toward me, the movement sudden, cutting, like a blade unsheathed. I shrank into the seat instinctively.

“Where did you get the idea he’ll come back?” His stare bored into me, sharp as a hunting dog scenting blood.

“He has to.” My voice faltered, but I pressed on, clinging to the words like a spell that might make them true. “His parents are all he has left. He will come back. He will.”

“Has Nikita come to see you?” Kostya’s voice was flint, harsh, already judging.

“No. Of course not!” I snapped, louder this time, desperate to erase every doubt from his mind. “And why would he?”

Beyond the barrier, a tall figure appeared, hood pulled low over his brow, scarf striped in green and blue masking the lower half of his face. He lifted one hand in a signal for Kostya to drive forward. From his pocket, the stranger drew a heavy ring of keys and fumbled through them until he found the right one.

“Well, how is it?” Kostya asked, pulling closer. The man turned his back deliberately, hiding his face from me. “You were together once—sweethearts, youth.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Dad, nobody talks like that anymore.”

“I do.” He chuckled under his breath.

The barrier rose, and Kostya eased the car forward. A few meters past, he slowed again, waiting until the stranger lowered the beam behind us and locked it in place.

“There was never love,” I said, the words tasting bitter as they left me. “Nik only toyed with my feelings, just to help his mother settle her scores.”

“Do you really believe that?” Kostya asked quietly.

And I thought of it.

I had told myself so in the hospital, replaying memory after memory like a broken film reel. Vladimir had explained the strange duality of my recollections, how they were warped—part truth, part illusion, woven tight as a snare. Awakening the family legacy, he’d called it. I found the explanation dubious, too clinical to make sense of the raw ache in me.

It was far easier to imagine I had finally stripped away the rose-colored haze and learned to see clearly. Loving Nik had poisoned me, the venom slow and sweet. Even now, recalling his face in moonlight made the scar on my skin throb with phantom fire. The wound had healed, but never truly closed.

I clung to the belief that with distance the bond frayed, loosening thread by thread, granting me glimpses of the truth. That he had deceived me. That I had been nothing but a puppet, strings pulled tight, my own will drowned out by his whispered tenderness. He had spoken of love, but it was no love—only manipulation, a shadow cast by his mother’s design.

And yet… I remembered how quickly my heart betrayed me at his touch, how easily I let his words settle inside me like seeds. I had obeyed even when every part of me screamed to run.

I wasn’t ready to bare to my father the storm of disappointment, anger, and quiet hatred I carried for one very specific person. So instead, I shrugged and reached for the safer explanation.

“After what Dr. Smirnov told me about vampire abilities, it’s not so hard to believe. If Nik truly loved me, he wouldn’t have run like a coward. And the fact that he did…” I hesitated, the bitterness slipping out before I could rein it in, “it’s almost a confession of everything he’s guilty of.”

Kostya’s eyes widened, scandalized.
“What kind of words are those?”

“Sorry,” I muttered, lowering my gaze. I had never cursed in front of him before. “It just slipped out.”

He clicked his tongue, displeased but choosing not to scold me. For a moment, I braced myself for a lecture, but before he could say another word, the back door of the car swung open. A rush of icy air slipped in, followed by a tall figure shaking snow from his coat.

“Denis!” Kostya snapped, frowning. “Who’s going to shake the snow off outside? You’ll soak the mats.”

“Sorry, Uncle Kostya.” The stranger lowered his hood, and I blinked in surprise—it was Drozdov. He quickly stuck his boots out the door and banged the heels against the threshold before leaning back into the seat with visible relief, as though the cold had worn him out. Noticing my stare, Denis grinned, teeth dazzlingly white against his tanned skin.

“Hi! You’re looking pretty good for someone who just left the hospital,” he teased with a playful wink.

Kostya grunted disapprovingly from the driver’s seat—he must have caught it in the rearview mirror.

“Thanks,” I replied shortly, though I froze for an instant, startled by how much Denis had changed. In just a month, he had turned into a different person—broad shoulders, taller frame, an edge of maturity that hadn’t been there before. If we had crossed paths on the street, I might not have even recognized him.

“You’re growing like a weed,” I said. “How old are you now?”

“Turned sixteen on the twenty-second,” he announced proudly.

I smiled. For the moment, the gap between us seemed to shrink. I would be seventeen only until December—just a year apart, hardly anything. At least, that’s how I had reasoned back in eighth grade when trying to justify to my mother that the boys in my class were catching up. She had only laughed in response, while Maria used to say girls matured earlier, though I never quite understood what that meant. Still, none of the boys I knew had changed as drastically in a month as Denis. Maybe I simply hadn’t seen him often enough, so all the small changes piled up into one startling transformation. It was almost frightening to imagine what he would look like next time. At this rate, in a year I’d expect to see an old man with a fishing rod hobbling out of the tackle shop—recognizable only by his smile.

My mind betrayed me with a vivid picture: Denis with silver at his temples, his dark hair touched by moonlight, faint wrinkles softening the corners of his eyes. Strangely, I thought age would suit him, and the warmth that thought stirred inside me left me unsettled.

“Asya.” My father’s voice cut through my wandering daydreams. “I’m waiting for you to buckle up.”

“It’s just a short drive,” Denis protested lazily.

“Denis,” Kostya said, tone firm as steel.

From the back seat came the sharp click of a seatbelt locking into place.

The car rolled forward, tires crunching deep into the snow-packed ruts left by earlier tracks. Soon we entered a wide clearing ringed with tall firs, their branches heavy with snow, their lower boughs still dark green against the pale drifts. Off to the right, a two-story house appeared. Its wooden façade—whether imitation or real, I couldn’t tell—stood with warm lights glowing from the ground floor. Through a large window I saw a kitchen: a long table of solid timber stood squarely opposite, and in my mind Galina’s voice echoed like a ghost. This had to be where she once watched Nik.

My eyes traced the row of chairs. Which one had Nikita sat in that fateful day when she decided to storm his life—and mine? Could things have unfolded differently if she hadn’t found him then?

The car turned deeper into the estate, the house vanishing behind the trees, but the ache it left in me lingered. I couldn’t stop myself from playing the cruelest game—imagining alternate threads of fate, weaving moments where disasters never struck, where the puzzle pieces fell into place perfectly, the picture whole and bright. It was a sweet illusion, but a tormenting one. Still, I clung to it; the air-castles of “what if” felt far gentler than the bleak reality waiting outside.

“Asya, look.” My father touched my shoulder lightly, enough to make me turn.

Ahead loomed another building, its walls pale beneath the tiled roof. Narrow rectangular windows stretched across the façade, glinting faintly with light from within. Snow and the dim yard lamps made the structure seem to vanish into the forest, its depth hard to gauge. Yet through the glass I caught the silhouettes of beams and supports, proof that something was stirring inside.

I strained my ears instinctively. A chance to test whether Dr. Smirnov’s treatment had worked. And yet—disappointment. Even from outside, I heard it: the rhythmic, heavy pounding of metal or wood, echoing in steady cycles, louder the closer we drove. Someone was hammering.

I almost asked if Kostya heard it too, but bit my tongue in time. Better to give him no reason to think the wolf inside me was pressing for control. Better to pretend I was still just his ordinary daughter.

“What’s that? A stable?” I asked.

“For now, just a construction site that never seems to end,” Denis replied before Kostya could, puffing warm breath into his hands and rubbing them together noisily.

I rolled my eyes.
“And what is it supposed to be, once it’s finished?”

“A kennel,” my father cut in, his tone sharp enough to make me uneasy.

The word startled me. A stable would have made sense, but a kennel? What on earth for?

The question stirred old memories—I had overheard classmates mention it in the cafeteria, and Nik himself had once muttered something about dirt from the construction site when giving me a ride home. I hadn’t pressed him then, dismissing it as trivial. Now, the gaps in my understanding felt like gaping holes, and questions piled up in my head.

“Is it some kind of charity?” I asked naïvely. “Like… a shelter for dogs or something?”

Kostya’s expression twisted, lips tightening as though even the thought repulsed him. He opened his mouth as if to answer, then closed it again, as though the right words refused to form.

“I wouldn’t call it charity,” Denis interrupted. His voice held the casualness of someone who enjoyed stirring the silence. “It’s a deal between two clans—everyone gets what they want.”

Kostya’s glare in the rearview mirror was sharp enough to cut glass.

“Are Nik’s parents really like us?” I asked.

“No,” Denis replied simply. “They’re just people.”

“People,” my father cut in, his voice edged with contempt, “who only wanted to protect their child. Even if that child is a vile little bloodsucker.”

“Don’t call him that,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

The words had escaped unbidden, betraying me. Shame prickled hot against my skin. How could I still defend Nik, after everything? After the lies, the manipulation, the way he’d almost destroyed us? And yet—buried beneath the anger, some stubborn spark of compassion refused to die. I loathed myself for it. Was it even real? Or just another echo of his influence, a lingering seed he had planted in me? The thought gnawed at me, forcing me to doubt every flicker of feeling, every thought that dared surface.

The car lurched to a stop, jolting me from my thoughts. Kostya turned, his eyes hard as frozen steel.

“If Nikita had succeeded that night,” he said coldly, “we wouldn’t be sitting here talking. Low blood is still low blood.”

A shiver ran through me—not only from his words, but from what they left unsaid. Would I have died? Or worse… survived, changed into something he would never accept? The enemy he was sworn to destroy. I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

Without another word, Kostya opened the door and stepped into the snow, his posture making it clear: the subject was closed.

“He’s hard on you,” Denis whispered.

“Dad hasn’t been himself lately.”

“Never happened before?”

I hesitated, thinking back over the past months. Kostya had always been strict, protective, but not like this. Now his nerves were strung taut, every word sharp, every look a warning—as if sheer force could make me surrender to the destiny he believed awaited me.

“I wasn’t one of you before,” I murmured.

“That’s not true. Your turning was only a matter of time, like with most of us.”

“Not everyone wakes the wolf,” I shot back.

Denis snorted. “Do you even know whose blood runs in you?”

“Well, yeah.” I tilted my head toward Kostya, who was already pacing by the entrance, phone pressed to his ear. “His.”

“That much is obvious. But what about your grandfather?”

“No. Why, does it matter?” I unclipped my seatbelt and leaned toward him, irritation creeping in. “Grandma never mentioned him. Dad neither. Guess he died before I was born.”

Denis’ expression shifted—something knowing flickered across his face, as though he held a secret and weighed whether I deserved to hear it.

“Knowing your roots matters,” he said at last, with deliberate mystery.

I narrowed my eyes. “Then stop playing riddles.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “His name was Svetozar. He was the last alpha of the Kserton pack.”

I blinked. Quite a name.

“The last? What do you mean? The pack clearly exists—you, my father, plenty of others around.”

“There are wolves,” Denis agreed. “But no pack. Everyone keeps to themselves now. No one dares claim the alpha’s mantle. Not here, not in Kserton.”

“What, are werewolves allergic to responsibility?”

“Don’t forget,” he said slyly, “you’re one of us too.”

His words hit like ice water. Accepting myself as part of that hidden world still felt impossible. As though the moment I admitted it—even in thought—the wolf inside me would awaken and erase the fragile illusion of my old life.

“I’ve never changed. Maybe I never will.”

Denis’ eyes widened, his face contorted in disbelief. “You’d refuse? Just like that? Without even trying?”

I lifted a shoulder. “What’s there to try? Running naked through snowdrifts? Not really my idea of fun.”

Outside, two broad-shouldered figures approached Kostya. Their voices misted the air, but Denis’ words drowned them out.

“Well, not exactly naked,” he said with a laugh. “Full-form fur isn’t so bad. The way the world shifts when you see through those eyes… it’s something else. You’re still you, but sharper. Stronger.”

“So what—you’re saying the wolf just takes over, and you’re stuck as a passenger?” My voice was sharper than I intended; the fear behind it bled through.

To my relief, Denis shook his head. He glanced down, a faint smile tugging at his lips as though recalling something vivid and personal.

“No. It doesn’t take over. It completes me. I don’t hear voices or see things, but… I feel it. Here.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “My spirit twines with it whenever I change. Like an ancient guardian—wise, protective. It warns me when danger’s near. Reacts before I can. My she-wolf is strong.”

“She-wolf?” I echoed, half laughing.

“Of course,” Denis said, as though it were obvious. “I’m a guy.”

I snorted at the logic. What a rule. If he’s male, then his wolf must be female. The whole notion of treating the wolf as a companion—a spirit to respect—was something Kostya had never once told me. To me, the idea sounded closer to a split personality than anything mystical.

Denis frowned at my reaction. “Wait… you seriously don’t know?”

“Know what?”

He looked at me expectantly, almost mischievously, as if waiting for me to laugh and admit I was teasing.

“God, Denis, I’m serious! Just explain.”

“Our beast side—it’s like a guardian spirit. A protector. Sometimes male, sometimes female, depending on what bloodline you come from. Usually the opposite gender. My father says it’s because we were born of magic. When witches first made us, they pulled the wild part of the human soul free and gave it shape. That part—instinct, memory, strength—it lives beside us, waiting. My father says his wolf is like a mother. Mine too. But for girls… it’s usually a father’s spirit instead.”

“Great,” I muttered. “One overprotective father is already plenty. I don’t need a ghostly second one babysitting me.”

Denis tilted his head. “How do you know your spirit agrees with you?”

“Because I don’t feel anything. No presence, no guardian. And if I had a sixth sense worth its salt, it would’ve shattered Nick’s illusions in a heartbeat.” Bitterness edged my voice before I could stop it. “Instead, I walked right into his trap.”

Denis leaned back, his smile fading. “Not everyone feels it the same way. Maybe in your family it’s different. Your father would know best.”

“Apparently not. He’s never said a word about this. Maybe he’s just waiting to see if I figure it out on my own.”

“Testing? You think he suspects you’re lying about transforming?”
“How could I lie about something like that? More likely, he’s just hoping the treatment won’t work. That I’ll come running to him the moment something stirs inside me that I can’t handle. I’ve no one else to turn to.”

“Wait.” Denis lifted a hand, stopping me mid-sentence. “What treatment? You really were treated for something at the hospital?”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly lounging there for nearly a month.” I gave a humorless laugh. “It was… brutal. Learning to see the world all over again, to sort through the storm of smells and tastes, deciding whether I even wanted this so-called life of a supernatural. In the end I made my choice, and Dr. Smirnov promised he could blunt the symptoms, at least a little. So I took the risk.”

The way Denis looked at me then made my stomach twist. His eyes were full of pity—like I was a child clutching at fairy tales long since burned to ash.
“You trusted him? Even after what he did to Nikita’s mother?”
“Oh, so you’ve heard those Halloween stories too?”
“Everyone’s heard. No one from our side would set foot in that hospital now. Not after that.”
“Even if his treatment actually works?”

He hesitated, torn between belief and revulsion. His lips parted, but no answer came.
“Even if he succeeds,” Denis said at last, voice low, “I wouldn’t stand in his line.”

His conviction made me feel even more alien. Denis spoke of lycanthropy with certainty, as though the knowledge had been born with him, while I was still fumbling in the dark. He only revealed what he chose to, and what he chose was never what I wanted to hear. With him—as with Kostya—it felt as though fate itself kept knocking at my door, demanding I surrender to the curse and call it destiny.

But I wasn’t ready to let go of the life I’d dreamed of. Ahead of me was graduation, then college. I refused to drown in this hidden world of blood and fur and secrets, if only because those closest to me would forever stand on the opposite side. The very thought that one day I might be forced to fight Diana or Stas chilled me to the bone.

The offer of power terrified me. What if I accepted—and lost myself? What if that “guardian spirit” Denis spoke of was merely biding its time, waiting for weakness, waiting for me to open the door? What if the helping hand reached for me only to seize control?

I no longer trusted myself. And that was the most frightening part.

“Listen,” I broke the silence, desperate not to drown further in my thoughts. “I never would’ve guessed you discovered your power only recently.”
Denis frowned. “What? I’ve known for as long as I can remember, Asya. I transformed before I was even five.”

I blinked, studying him again—head to toe, searching for the boy I remembered. When we’d met again in September, I’d barely recognized him. The awkward, shaggy-haired kid with troubled skin had vanished. In his place sat Drozdov—broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, already carrying the weight of a man. If he let a shadow of stubble grow, college girls would surely take notice—if they hadn’t already.

“Then why did you think I’d only just found out?” Denis pressed.
“You’ve changed so much,” I admitted, gesturing at him. “Different hair, different build… you’ve shot up two heads taller than me!”
He rolled his eyes.
“Growth spurt, Asya. Just a growth spurt. We don’t wake up overnight as gods. We age slower, sure—but not omnipotent, not immortal. Even vampires have their limits. They just adapt better, like parasites. But us? Once your power awakens, you’ll leap higher than rooftops and twist steel with your bare hands.”
My jaw dropped. “We can actually do that?”

Denis’ face was grave for half a heartbeat—before his composure cracked. He leaned back and burst out laughing, his laughter bright and careless, as though I’d just delivered a punchline. But it wasn’t a joke. He was laughing at me—at how little I knew of his everyday world.

I turned away, arms folded tight, retreating into the soft cocoon of my jacket’s down. Better to sink into the comfort of feathers than endure his mockery. He would never understand how hard it was to stitch together scraps of half-truths about a world that demanded everything from me, but gave nothing in return.

The gray wall of the building loomed ahead, empty and silent. Father was gone. The men he’d spoken with were gone too. Denis and I were alone. And outside the car stretched only forest and snow, broken by the Karimovs’ house and this single desolate building. Every instinct told me not to leave until Kostya called.

“Where did he go?” I muttered, but Denis heard.
“Probably with the men—waiting for the truck to unload. That’s why we’re here.”
“To unload what?”

Denis didn’t answer. My temper flared. Why couldn’t he just say something straight for once?
“Ahhh,” he suddenly breathed, like a man who’d solved a riddle. “Now it makes sense. It all fits together!”
“Denis.” My tone was sharp. “Either you tell me right now, or I’m climbing into the back seat to wring it out of you.”
“I’m not hiding anything! I just couldn’t figure out why Konstantin dragged you along today. You’re no use here.”
“Well, thanks a lot. Because obviously a girl can’t even hammer a nail or hand someone a board, right?”
“Don’t get worked up. That’s not what I meant. If you don’t believe me, I’ll get you a hammer for New Year’s—with an engraving. A token of recognition.”
“Very funny.” I bit back a sigh. He really could be an idiot.

“It’s just—you haven’t fully come into your strength yet. You wouldn’t be much help at the kennel. But now I get it. You need to see with your own eyes before—”

A sudden light flared behind Denis, dazzling in the dim interior. I raised my arm to shield my vision.
“There they are,” Drozdov said calmly.
“Who’s ‘they,’ Denis?”
“Those who refused the power.”

***

“Are you transporting people? In that?”

A thousand fragmented theories crashed through my mind like shards of broken glass. Could it be that those who tried to restrain the wolf within themselves were simply locked away by the pack, hidden from the prying eyes of outsiders? But why? Was their struggle so unbearable that their entire lives revolved around clinging to humanity? No. That made no sense. Yet, what if resisting a nature that had already chosen their fate drove them to madness?

We stepped out of my father’s car and faced a large van, a vehicle whose retirement to the junkyard had long been overdue. Even in the dim light, rust streaked along its edges like scars. The headlights’ glass had clouded with age, tinting their beam a sickly yellow, as though filtered through some digital effect. The engine droned steadily, laboring to keep itself alive.

“They’re no longer human. Nor are they werewolves,” Denis murmured, just before father emerged from the building.

Kostya moved to the driver’s cabin and exchanged a few curt words with the delivery man, who handed a ring of keys to father through the open window. Kostya took them and went to unload the van, signaling to two strangers who immediately followed, maneuvering heavy carts with enormous wheels along the rutted track beside our cars. I wanted to follow, to see these beasts Denis had mentioned—but he grabbed my elbow.

“It’s better not to get too close. At least for you.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Denis tapped the tip of his nose with a finger. “Your scent. It’s… too human. The dogs will sense it anyway, restless after the trip. Better not to provoke them.”

Kostya yanked the cargo door open; it groaned in protest. The men moved with quiet precision, their efforts smooth and practiced. They lifted a thick metal plate, fixing it securely at the base of the van’s cargo hold. Then came the cages—heavy, immense. It was too dark to see inside, but a warning growl told me everything I needed to know: these were no ordinary dogs.

As the first cage passed us, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the occupant. Monster barely described it. Paw size alone suggested an animal bred for the wild, but it was the eyes that froze me—almost human, as if they sought to pierce my soul, silently screaming for help when words had long since abandoned them. A brown one stared at me with gray, glassy eyes, and a soft howl escaped its throat. I instinctively stepped closer.

In an instant, the creature lunged, teeth bared—jaws far larger than those of any domestic dog. A guttural growl vibrated from its chest, and saliva dripped from its fangs.

“Quiet, I said!” Kostya barked. The animal pressed its ears back, whimpering, and sank low to the ground.

“She’s my daughter,” my father said softly. The beast’s gaze flickered toward me, unsettling in its intelligence.

Could it truly understand him? A ridiculous, impossible thought. And yet… it felt so real.

I reminded myself of how people anthropomorphize pets, imagining their behaviors through human traits. A convenient illusion, giving owners emotions and control over the unpredictable. But here, with these creatures, the line between instinct and comprehension blurred in a way that made my heart pound.

I backed toward the building wall, keeping my eyes on the procession of cages. Identical cages vanished behind the kennel’s open doors one by one, until the last was settled. Kostya closed the door with authority and ordered Denis and me to stay put.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Denis murmured cautiously once we were alone.

“Beautiful,” I replied automatically. “And terrifying at the same time. Each one… so clever. Almost human.”

Denis nodded, pulling his jacket collar over his cold-red nose and exhaling warm breath.

“Denis,” I finally broke the silence, “why do werewolves need dogs?”

He stayed silent, staring at some distant point. The answer would not be simple.

“Why do you think those were dogs?” he asked finally, turning his gaze on me.

“You said this is a kennel,” I reminded him, nodding toward the building.

“I did.”

“Well,” I continued, “if it’s called a kennel—and I just saw fifteen cages pass, each with either strays or poorly groomed malamutes—and if this house exists only by some understanding with the Karimovs, then… my question seems reasonable, doesn’t it?”

Denis leaned back, legs spread for support, his patience visibly fraying.

“You saw what you wanted to see, not what really was there,” he said.

“And what really was there?”

He gave me a tired, weary look, each question from me chipping away at his resolve.

“Something that will make you think.”

I scowled at the evasive answer. “Think about what?”

“About everything,” he said with a smirk, and the last crumbs of my patience dissolved along with the mist of his warm breath.

Then he added, quietly, almost reverently: “It’s strange… you didn’t notice how similar your eyes are.”

My jaw clenched painfully with anger, and I wanted to strike out, to channel it somewhere—anywhere. The only thought that came to mind was to return the gift to its giver: I swung my hand and slapped Denis on the shoulder.

“Why do I have to pry everything out of you today?” I snapped.

“Because I’m not the one who should be telling you everything!” Drozdov shot back, rubbing the sore spot.

The sting in my palm was almost pleasurable, yet it brought no relief. If anything, it fanned the flames. His silence made me want to strike again, harder this time.

The jacket pressed against me, suddenly suffocating. The scarf wound around my neck felt tight, scratchy. Only now did I notice the discomfort, the way the fabric seemed to constrict with every shallow breath. I fumbled at it, unwrapping the scarf, but it didn’t help. Frustrated, I yanked down the zipper, ripping open the jacket to my chest.

“Hey… are you okay?” Denis asked cautiously.

I could only nod, trying to force myself to focus on breathing. The world seemed off-kilter; I felt myself sinking toward the cold, saving snow beneath my feet, yet something was wrong.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Denis said, stepping closer, placing his hands heavily on my shoulders. The weight anchored me in place, yet only made the pressure inside grow worse.

“Whoa, what’s with the hands?” I gasped. “And you said the doctor’s treatment was helping.”

“You’re about to lose it,” he murmured, calm but firm.

“What?” I barely breathed the word.

From behind the wall came a chorus of howls, many voices blending into a single, piercing wail. The sound slammed into my chest like waves, rolling over me, and my legs quivered beneath me. I pressed myself against the wall, but gravity—or something darker—kept dragging me down.

“Konstantin!” Denis called out, but no answer came.

My eyes widened, fixed on him, desperate not to blink and lose him to the unknown. Anger surged hotter than fear. I wanted to tear into him with words, to punish him for knowing more than I did and yet refusing to speak.

“Konstantin!” he tried again, but the howl swallowed his voice. The beasts seemed to sense my unraveling, their cries clawing at the edges of my mind.

“Will it hurt?” I whispered, barely daring to ask. Denis looked at me then, his gaze softer, compassionate, yet he did nothing.

If I were in his place, I would have spoken. I would have filled the silence with words, any words, just to offer comfort. But he simply stood there, and in my trembling, he seemed like a toy shaken on a bumping road, helpless, immovable.

I wanted to scream, to unleash all my anger. Then Denis did something unexpected: he gripped my shoulders and pulled me close. My fury spiked.

“Let go,” I tried, but my body wouldn’t obey. The paralysis came not from his hands, but from something inside me I couldn’t name.

“Quiet, Asya,” he whispered, running a palm slowly through my hair, chasing the tremors. “Quiet.”

His touch enraged me. The rough grip caught each strand, and I felt ready to tear myself into a thousand pieces just to escape it—but he continued, steady, patient.

I wanted to speak sharp, cutting words. To make him leave. A foolish boy, masquerading as a keeper of secrets one moment, a hero the next.

“I know you’re angry. Very angry,” he murmured, “but you need to calm down.”

“You don’t know shit,” I spat. Yet his hand didn’t stop. The roughness softened, deliberate, almost tender.

“That’s not you talking,” Denis pressed his head to mine, offering calm, and I caught the scent of him: bergamot with sweet, tea-like mint.

Memories flooded me—warm afternoons in childhood, alone with Denis in the quiet kitchen while other kids slept. Uncle Dima nearby, brewing tea, the mint leaves from his wife’s backyard. We played chess, laughed quietly, and the world seemed safe.

I looked out at the dark forest beyond, yet all I saw were fragments of that peace. Memories, fragile and fleeting, unreliable storytellers. Yet I held onto them; they were my anchor.

Denis had always won at chess. I tried to distract him with chatter about the other kids, stories of my parents, sometimes invented. Childhood chatter, once so natural, had been beaten out of me in school, left only with caution and silence. But here, in Kserton, people cared. I felt warmth again.

The trembling inside me eased. Denis’s embrace stopped being oppressive; it became protective, familiar. A friend returned from the past, patient despite my resistance.

“Why couldn’t you just tell me everything?” I finally whispered, lifting a weight I hadn’t realized I carried.

“Do I have the right? Asya… I’m not part of your family,” he said softly. “I’m just… an outsider, watching from the sidelines. Your father has to explain why you’re here.”

“It would be easier… to talk to a peer than to him,” I admitted.

The dogs’ howls quieted.

Denis’s hand slid over my head again, down to my shoulder. He hugged me, swaying gently. Slowly, the tremors ebbed. I closed my eyes and let the calm settle over me, fragile and precious.

“Answer me at least something,” I whispered. “It’s important. Really.”

Denis drew in a slow breath and let it out with deliberate calm, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed he might yield. All I had to do was push a little further.
"Please," I whispered, hoping the single word would tip the scales.

Finally, he gave a reluctant nod. "Alright," he said, and I felt a spark of encouragement flicker inside me. "But I’ll answer only one question."

One question was better than none. The choice had to be precise. I hesitated, uncertain which burning question I needed answered most.
"Why do werewolves need a dog kennel?" I asked at last.

Denis was silent, and doubt gnawed at me, threatening to smother any hope of an answer—until he finally spoke:
"The kennel exists for those who can no longer live as humans."

I blinked in disbelief and instinctively pulled back. This time, Denis made no move to stop me.

"Most of them," he continued, his voice steady yet gentle, "like you, have decided never to let the beast inside run free. Unlike vampires, werewolves do not draw strength from the natural power of the earth, as witches originally intended. Our bond with ancestral spirits is what anchors us. Those who forge it remain connected forever. Over time, you learn to coexist, much as I have with my she-wolf. But not everyone can—or wants—to try. Many, like you, resist, and the price is always steep."

He paused, giving me a moment to process his words. But no words came; learning that my hopes were little more than fragile illusions hit me like a blow. My dreams of a normal life, college, freedom—all seemed cruelly out of reach while this beast stirred within me.

And yet, a thought pierced the fog: Kostya had somehow lived an ordinary life. He trained, worked, even started a family. My father had somehow balanced two utterly different worlds. But the evidence was glaring: Kostya was far from perfect. He had only one daughter, and his work forced him to maintain a fragile boundary between ordinary townsfolk and the hidden truths of Kserton.

I couldn’t know if father had truly been happy choosing the path of least resistance with the beast, but I suspected not. Whenever I thought of him, the kennel door creaked open, and Kostya’s critical gaze fell on Denis.

"What did you tell her?"

"What I had to," Denis replied softly, avoiding my father’s eyes, staring instead at the snow beneath our feet. "You know Asya. She can’t be handled like the others, and you hesitated long enough."

"If you wanted her gone quickly, you could’ve intervened," father said, his voice heavy with frustration.

"Sure," Denis said lightly, almost mockingly. "And Asya would’ve been thrilled to stay in the car instead of following us."

Father sighed, opening the door wider. "Come in."

Denis slipped past and vanished into the dim interior. I froze at the threshold, hesitant to step forward. Father’s slight smile and silent nod encouraged me, and I inched inside, moving from heel to toe.

The main light came from the far end of the room, above a fenced enclosure of thick boards that reached Denis’s waist. I suspected that this was where the new wards were released. Inside, warmth and the scent of damp hay enveloped me. The space was stark, almost empty, but I knew the truth I was about to face.

Each step brought me closer to the enclosure, closer to a reality I wasn’t ready for. Seeing animals in cages was one thing; realizing they had once been no different from me was another entirely.

Two dogs lay inside. At first glance, they looked like ordinary huskies. One curled near the wall, the other stretched lazily nearby. The brown-furred one lifted its head, fixing me with a gaze so intense it made my chest tighten. I knew, without doubt, it was the same dog that had attacked me earlier.

Denis extended his hand, waiting, but I hesitated. Fear rooted me in place.

"There’s nothing to fear. Go on. They won’t reach you," Kostya said, his voice calm, confident. "You could slip your head between the boards if you wanted."

Denis added, "There’s a metal mesh ahead." I looked closer and saw that the fence was reinforced with large-meshed wire, keeping the dogs confined. At last, I placed my hand in Denis’s, and he squeezed it, a quiet anchor of courage.

"They’re so huge," I whispered, barely meeting their eyes. "Are you sure they’ll never become human again?"

Kostya leaned over the fence. My heart thudded as I feared his gesture might provoke them, but he remained calm, every movement radiating control and assurance.

"See that one by the wall? The one that attacked you outside? Meet him—your grandfather, Svetozar."

"But grandmother said that—"

"That he died, yes," father interrupted gently. "In our families, that’s the story told to the uninitiated. It’s easier for everyone that way."

I frowned. "If I’m almost eighteen, and grandpa supposedly ‘died’ before I was born… then he’s been living like this all that time? About twenty years?"

Kostya nodded.

"About that, yes. Maybe a little longer. Your mother had just finished her first year when it happened. Our romance was only beginning, despite all the restrictions. We were as careful as we could be, stealing kisses in the shadows of trees and at friends’ parties. Only a few trusted friends knew, but even then, the news eventually reached the family—and that’s when the trouble began."

Denis squeezed my hand harder, as if he knew exactly how this story would end, urging me to find the strength to listen.

"Understand," Kostya continued, "those were dangerous times. Werewolves were seen as parasites, much like weak-blooded vampires. Creatures like us were thought to drain the earth’s energy, slowly drying up magic, and giving nothing in return. We couldn’t change it. We were never sorcerers. We couldn’t bend the environment to our will. Witches were a different matter entirely. Your grandfather somehow discovered what was happening with me and your mother—but he said nothing. He didn’t separate us, didn’t demand a serious conversation. Your father, by contrast, had a harsher character. Only your grandmother could temper him. He clashed with me constantly, but that’s another story."

I understood, with a dull ache, how my parents’ story ended. Expecting a fairy-tale ending from Kostya’s account would have been foolish, yet a faint hope lingered: perhaps long ago, for a moment, my parents had known happiness.

"Your grandfather risked everything—his life included—just so your mother and I could have a chance," Kostya said, forcing a pained smile. "Just so you would have a chance. He achieved the impossible: with the local coven’s aid, he performed a ritual to sever our entire lineage from the main source of magic, halting the witches’ hunt for our pack. He thought that without magic, the wolf’s essence would vanish—but he was wrong. Your grandfather was an alpha, the strongest. He used not only all his accumulated power but also tricked others into participating, disguising the ritual as a summer solstice sabbath. The changes didn’t happen instantly; magic slowly returned to the world, making us mortal, more fragile. We age slower than ordinary humans, and many diseases bypass us—but the peaks of power once available to werewolves vanished. Your grandfather believed no one among us would shift again, that we could live ordinary lives by his standards."

The brown dog sat up, watching father with unwavering attention.

"He stopped shifting," Kostya said. "He betrayed himself and convinced others to follow suit. And this," he gestured broadly at the enclosure, "is where it brought them. They turned from their nature, tried to suppress it—but the more you choke the beast inside, the fiercer it fights to break free. Almost all of these dogs have lived like this for twenty years. They serve as a warning: denying your fate is futile."

"You can’t subdue a beast that was born to tame you," Denis added quietly.

I stared at the animals, unsure whether to call them dogs, werewolves, or former humans. I wondered how much humanity they had left after twenty years. Was my grandfather still really my grandfather? Kostya’s approach to them seemed strange, almost like an owner with dogs rather than a family member with kin. I wanted to study Svetozar’s gaze when father mentioned I was his granddaughter—but fear froze me. There was no way to know now, no clue to measure how sane he remained.

Denis’s thumb brushed over my hand, gently distracting me from the weight of my thoughts.

"How are you?" he asked softly.

I shook my head. "I don’t know. Just… don’t know. It’s too much."

"But now you see why I oppose Dr. Smirnov’s idea," father said, tapping the fence. The dogs stirred restlessly. "If this treatment fails—if nothing works—you’ll end up here."

"Quiet!" he commanded sharply.

Kostya’s expression seemed forced, his seriousness a mask to hide any trace of triumph. And he had achieved his goal: I was terrified, truly terrified.

"That’s enough for today," I whispered, releasing Denis’s hand. I headed for the door, unwilling to spend another second in that place, feeling utterly powerless. "Dad… take me home."

He drove without questions. At home, he finally spoke, cautiously: "Want to talk about it?"

I didn’t. Talk about what? Werewolf-ism was his life, a puzzle for which he already held the keys. I was just trying to figure out how not to hurt anyone—how not to lose control.

The longer I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, the more inevitable the shifting felt. My phone buzzed. A message from Dasha about homework lit the screen. I typed a mechanical “thanks” and stared at it, wondering—what was the point of good grades now? University? My entire life seemed to crack beneath me. As long as the unpredictable monster within waited, lurking, there was no future.

Sadness deepened the darkness of the day. In the next room, Kostya listened to the evening news so quietly that even with my sharp hearing, the words blended into one gray, colorless hum. A solemn, unyielding echo, matching the heaviness in my chest.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I woke exhausted, my body heavy with the weight of yesterday’s revelations. I tried, in every way I could, to shove the memory aside, letting my thoughts settle like dust after a storm. I needed clarity, a calm mind to replay everything that had been said, to consult with Doctor Smirnov, to understand exactly what risks I was willing—or unwilling—to take.

It was a relief to trade the dull, sterile walls of the hospital ward for the familiar comfort of home. Kostya had kept the apartment clean in my absence, but I knew the truth: he barely slept here. From the clinic, he went straight to the hospital to check on me, and he never forgot to bring food.

The smell of hospital meals made my stomach turn. It was hard to pinpoint the cause—was it the bland, regulated recipes or my over-sensitive senses? My heightened perception sometimes betrayed me in absurd ways. I could identify the scent of laundry detergent clinging to Kostya’s turtleneck as he stepped out of the car in the parking lot, even while I was three floors up, in a room facing the inner courtyard. Luckily, these heightened perceptions were rare, but when they struck, they struck fully.

Not only did my father visit often, but classmates came as well—thanks to Stas. Doctor Smirnov, together with Kostya, had convinced me that after signs of lycanthropy appeared, I needed to interact with people in calm, controlled settings. The private hospital room was perfect for that. Sometimes I felt—and saw—differently, as if some invisible filter adjusted my senses. My vision would widen, making objects appear slightly three-dimensional, colors more vivid or strangely altered. The effect was disorienting. I would look at a raincoat I was certain had been a bright, sunny yellow—and it would look orange. I hated orange.

After school, my classmates would arrive, usually escorted by Stas, who kept his watchful eye on me more than the room itself. I didn’t mind—on the contrary. By the end of the week, Smirnov had begun to feel like part of the furniture. He rarely spoke, simply observing from the same chair he had claimed on his first visit.

Most often, it was Dasha and Tanya. Rostova was still dating Stas, I gathered, and things between them seemed smooth and effortless. Tanya never mentioned arguments, though perhaps half the reason was that Stas was almost always present. The girls shared school gossip I barely remembered, as my mind was too fogged by the strange cocktail of medications Smirnov prescribed to maintain my health. I was barely able to focus. Nothing sparked strong emotion; even tales of the Halloween party seemed distant, shadows of memories from another life.

As I suspected, the injections were to blame. Smirnov had offered them to help control the wolf inside me—long, unpronounceable names that now seemed insignificant compared to the challenge of living in this new reality. Likely sedatives, or something similar. He never reported the results or explained how they might ease my transformation while proving that the vampire’s poison had no effect. If Kostya discussed my condition with Vladimir, it happened outside the ward. After Galina’s story, I couldn’t trust Smirnov fully, and I avoided him. The last thing I wanted was to become another experiment.

Occasionally, they drew my blood to monitor my changes, to ensure the course wasn’t doing more harm than good.

Before discharge, Kostya arranged a leave of absence. At first, the news brought relief—but I wasn’t ready to be alone in four walls, unaware of what I might become. Slowly, in familiar surroundings, emotions returned. And with them came new irritants for my heightened senses. The scented candles, thoughtfully placed in nearly every corner since September, assaulted me immediately when Kostya opened the apartment door. I couldn’t hide my reaction. Hands pressed over nose and mouth, I muttered through the barrier, trying to explain the assault of smells, then led a rescue mission to gather the offending jars and deposit them in the outdoor bin. Only after opening windows throughout the apartment did I finally step over the threshold.

Kostya, surprisingly, didn’t press the issue. He remained calm, and for that, I was quietly grateful. I didn’t know how long I could maintain the illusion that my sensory episodes were rare. Perhaps if I convinced my father, I could convince myself.

The lavender bed linens looked richer than I remembered, a deep purple that felt comforting. Sitting on the bed, I examined the ceiling. My sharper vision revealed countless scratches and uneven patches that had once seemed invisible on the smooth white surface. I found myself counting them, noting every imperfection, absorbed in the meticulous observation until my senses gradually returned to their usual state, my mind struggling to reconcile the difference between old perception and new.

“My advice,” my father said, “is don’t get too carried away. You could stay like that for a week, maybe even two. I remember my first change—I used to lie there, staring at pine needles, counting how many would fit on a single branch.”

“And how many?” I asked, curious despite myself.

Dad hesitated, as if weighing his words. Then he lay down beside me, resting his hand under his head.

“Seven thousand two hundred ninety-three,” Kostya said casually, pointing to a tiny crack in the ceiling. “See that one over there? Looks like a triangle.”

“More like a rhombus,” I countered.

Dad frowned and tilted his head, shifting his perspective.

“You’re right,” he admitted.

We stayed there, lying side by side, quietly studying the ceiling. Quiet, that is, if you ignored the fridge humming, the radiator’s gentle trickle, and distant voices from the TV two floors up.

“Dad,” I said at last, realizing we were alone for the first time since it all began. “What’s the first transformation like?”

“Are you scared?”

“A little. I… I don’t know. Does it hurt?”

“Unpleasant more than painful,” he said. “Bearable. Not like the movies.”

“So, no bones snapping, no clothes shredding?”

Dad laughed, though it sounded forced rather than amused.

“It’s better to take off your clothes. Or wear something loose. Something with ties if you’re shy. It’s awkward trying to struggle out of tight jeans or a fitted dress with thin paws. Stay in your clothes, and you’ll look… ridiculous.”

“In what way?”

“Picture a huge black wolf sprinting through the forest in a bright pink T-shirt with rhinestones.”

“I never had anything like that!” I protested, defensively guarding my wardrobe.

“You just don’t remember what your mother dressed you in at first,” Kostya said, smiling faintly.

“Dad, don’t change the subject,” I snapped.

Dad exhaled, a long, quiet sigh.

“It’s not that bones break. They vibrate, a low buzzing, like at the dentist—unpleasant, yes, but without the drilling. Want to know anything else?”

“Yes,” I said, though another question was gnawing at me. I fumbled for words. “Will I… still feel like myself?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you transform… do you remember what’s happening? Do you know what you want? Can you control it, or are you just a passenger under the wolf’s will?”

Dad’s expression darkened slightly. “It’s not so simple. You’ll remember, think, feel. The wolf is part of you, not some alien taking over. Every action will flow from your instincts, from what you already want. But here’s the catch: whatever you desire most, the wolf will do without hesitation. No guilt, no second thoughts. And that can be dangerous to others. At least, that’s been true in our family. The Drozdovs have their spiritual quirks, even in ordinary times. I don’t share their views, and neither should you.”

“And vampires? Are we dangerous to them?”

“To them especially,” Dad replied. “We’re part of the same chain. Wolves maintain the balance. Weak, reckless links don’t last. Dr. Smirnov’s protégés are another matter entirely.”

“So there’s no place in the chain for someone like Nik? I thought you liked him before all this.”

“He wasn’t crazy,” Dad said softly, a trace of sympathy lingering. “Unlike his mother. I thought he had a chance to change, but I was wrong. That mistake came with a price.”

Mentioning Galina made my muscles tighten, a visceral reaction of disgust and rage. After my transformation, I felt a physical loathing for the woman who had barged into our lives and burned the foundation of our so-called happiness.

“If only I had known…” I began, but Kostya cut me off immediately.

“You couldn’t have known. I thought lycanthropy would skip you, but… the first full moon will make everything clear. For now,” Kostya stretched like a cat luxuriating in sunlight, “it’s better to gather your strength. The calmer and clearer your mind before the change, the easier it will be.”

“How much time do I have left?”

“Plenty,” Kostya said over his shoulder. “Hungry?”

I nodded. Dad left the room quickly, leaving the door ajar—a new house rule I’d have to get used to. Privacy, it seemed, was a thing of the past.

I stayed lying on the bed, listening to the subtle bustle of the kitchen. Parsing the sounds brought a strange comfort. The moment I stopped analyzing them, all imaginable and unimaginable noises merged into a discordant orchestra, a chaotic melody that filled my mind and pushed away the intrusive, nagging thoughts. Until now, I had only managed to drown out external noise before sleep when utterly exhausted—a rare state in the hospital room. Daily equipment-free workouts, Kostya had shown me, were the secret. Once my body had regained enough strength after the forest incident, he guided me through exercises to keep my senses sharp and my muscles ready.

Forcing myself upright, I shuffled to the computer desk and switched on the laptop. The monitor’s glare pressed uncomfortably on my eyes, and I quickly remembered the key combination to soften the light. Once the display stopped stabbing at my vision, I opened the browser and began scanning the news from the past week. According to Stas, his father and Kostya had explained my sudden disappearance from the school disco as an unfortunate accident in the forest. I needed to see how the local papers had reported it—preparation was crucial if I was to return to school. Friends who came by the hospital tended to skirt questions, but the rest of my classmates wouldn’t be so careful. At the very least, the public story had to align with the main facts.

The first site devoted about half a page to my “adventure.” Its crude tone made me smirk. Supposedly, police officer Konstantin Cherny had called his daughter, instructing her to pick up the house keys near the school entrance so the parked patrol car wouldn’t alarm the teens. But the “careless” daughter, newly arrived in Ksertom and ignorant of local customs, had rushed back to the dance and chosen to cut through the forest. There, she—me—encountered one of the local wild animals, and the encounter did not end without consequences. Thanks to the vigilance of a classmate, Stanislav Smirnov—a young man from the city’s founding family—she was rescued in time. Stas appeared in the article as a true hero, guarding the frivolous newcomer. The article claimed he scared off the “attacking beast” before anything irreversible occurred, leaving me with only a serious bruise and a couple of scratches.

When I supposedly became a “Moscow resident” was a mystery, but the article’s tone dripped with judgment. I was painted as a member of a narrow-minded, city-bred class, unfit for life beyond urban comforts. Strange, reading such distortions. Isn’t journalism supposed to care about facts and verification? Had the writer paused his personal dislike long enough to gather actual information, he would have realized I grew up not in Moscow, but in Rostov. But of course, the journalist had his own motives, barely aligned with reality. I couldn’t blame him. A proper inquiry would have unearthed uncomfortable truths anyway, many of which I already saw glaringly in the article’s inconsistencies.

For instance, my father had not worked on Halloween. I only recently discovered that Kostya rarely took afternoon shifts and always arranged his days off around the full moon and the following day. On the thirty-first, Dad lied once again about an urgent call to work and headed for the forest, ostensibly hunting. At the full moon, the werewolf was at its peak strength, and Kostya never missed a chance to track the cunning prey in our area. In reality, Dad had been nearby, and as soon as Kostya caught the scent of blood, he raced toward the forest edge where Nik tried to manipulate me under his mother’s command—ignoring one crucial detail: heredity.

Only now, in hindsight, did I understand the true nature of our relationship. Every time Karimov touched me or looked into my eyes, I thought I was feeling desire—but it was a hollow imitation, a pitiful manipulation by a blue-eyed vampire. The craving I had mistaken for emotion was nothing more than his calculated control.

That day, Galina never tasted the sweet fruit of revenge—her life had been the price. I didn’t know the details, and Father seemed glad to keep them from me, as if the memory of her last moments were too bitter to share. After he appeared in the clearing, she had lost consciousness before seeing what truly happened. Nik had managed to escape—or so Doctor Smirnov, Kostya, and Stas reassured me, each in turn.

The strangest thing was the pang of regret I felt reading about Galina, tinged with a faint sorrow for the path her life had taken and what she had become. No one could have helped a lonely, mad woman like her. And yet, I bore a part of the responsibility for her death: had I not been in the clearing, Father would not have rushed to save me from Nik, and Galina would never have had the chance to save her son from the werewolf. Fate had thrust two natural enemies together, and only one emerged victorious. I often wondered if she could have been helped, could have changed—but I knew the truth: the way back had vanished with the remnants of the vampire’s soul long before our paths crossed.

Things were different with Nik. I hated Nikita for the farce that had upended my life, turning it inside out. For the lies, the coercion, for forcing me to confuse false impulses with genuine desire. His mother hadn’t manipulated me; he had chosen this. He could have refused, could have stayed out of the dark play of revenge—but Karimov had made his choice. Only now do I know how to distinguish a foreign illusion from my inner voice, yet the memories remain, stubbornly vivid. The once-colorful snapshots of my past had turned to gray ashes.

Werewolf blood coursed through me from birth, rejecting the vampire poison as a toxin, expelling it with every ounce of my body’s strength. That alone had spared me a life of weakness, an endless thirst, a wandering hollow existence. I saw the struggle in Nik every day, the madness in Galina, the slow consumption of her soul by her own obsession. There was no love in any of it—only a farce, an insatiable hunger for revenge.

It was strange, how easily one person could twist another’s actions to shift blame. In those first days in the hospital, I watched not only Doctor Smirnov but also Father with suspicion. Galina’s story had seeded that wariness. The idea of standing on the side of the wrong—of being bound by blood to a role I never chose—was unbearable. Kostya was my father. That fact could never change; only my perception of him could.

Father could not avoid a frank conversation about the past. He spoke openly, unwilling to claim responsibility for the doctor’s choices, yet candid about his own motives, answering my questions patiently. From him, I learned that Galina’s story could be seen from many angles, each reflecting only part of the truth. Yet even as I pieced together the fragments, the full picture never formed. Something was always missing, leaving my guilt to bloom endlessly within me.

If Galina’s tale smelled of decay and the stubborn loneliness of a life gone wrong, Kostya’s vision gleamed with hope, a faith in brighter days. I remember the third day, when Father arrived at the ward carrying a heavy plastic bag of Asian food. There were wok noodles with shrimp and vegetables in oyster sauce, delicate steamed bao buns, even a small pack of sushi rolls. We ate off the hospital blanket, a small, ordinary comfort. I caught Kostya off guard with a question about Galina, just as he finally managed to lift the noodles with his chopsticks.

“Asya, she was bad. Very bad,” he said thoughtfully, picking at the noodles, avoiding my eyes. “The doctor… he’s a strange man. He thinks he acts for the best, though he can’t foresee every outcome. The birth was difficult. Galina was dying.”

He paused occasionally, either searching for the right words or giving me space to speak. But my mind was empty, my stomach just as hollow despite the almost-empty pack of sushi.

“You don’t know Vladimir well,” Kostya continued. “Children… they’re a sore spot for him. Look at how many he’s protected, under his wing, none of them even remotely related by blood. He understood what they’d face, thought he could help. And from the outside, it seems the kids turned out… alright. They live their lives, more or less like normal people, fitting into society somehow. Stas even has a girlfriend among humans. Though maybe I’m wrong.”

“You’re not,” I said.

“He’s dating Rostova.”

Kostya took another thoughtful bite of noodles. After swallowing, he squinted at me. “Wait—that name. One of your friends? Blonde or brunette?”

“With a nasty temper,” I said coldly.

Kostya raised his eyebrows, a spark of curiosity in his gaze.
“Do you like him yourself?” His lips twitched with the ghost of a smile.

“Who, Stas? Nooo,” I hurriedly denied. “We’re just friends. Tanya… she doesn’t handle that sort of thing well.”

“So, a blonde,” Father interjected, setting down the food container and reaching into the bag for a napkin. “Here’s what I’m getting at. When Galina called Vladimir, asking for my help, it was… for advice. Not friendship—respect, yes, but nothing more. And at that time, I was the only one who could handle all the paperwork. By the time I arrived, the doctor had already turned Galina—mindlessly, instinctively. We spoke openly, honestly. Vladimir wanted to take Nikita in, but the Smirnov family was already too public. A baby appearing out of nowhere… it would have been too risky. And no one could be certain who the father was. In the vampire world, that detail mattered.”

“All because of the thirst?” I asked, incredulous.

“Exactly that, damn it. If Nik’s father had been firstborn—or even pure-blood—the outcome might have been different. But no one could know whether he’d turn weak-blooded and mad… or something else entirely. A simple blood test wouldn’t help. And the child… the child was already here—alive, rosy-cheeked. Vladimir and I talked for hours that day. Ultimately, the unknown decided for us. There were already seven vampires in the Smirnov house—seven lives at risk if the new blood became uncontrollable. They decided it was safer to entrust him to those who lived more secluded, yet understood Ksertone affairs.”

“And you chose the Karimovs?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ve never met them. Neither father nor mother.”

“Well, you’ll like them. Good people. Not flashy, but good. They live on private land and run a store.”

“Yes, I know.” A fragment from a carefree past flickered before my eyes—Nik and I crouched by a spice stand, searching for something without curry. The memory twisted in my chest, sharp and unwelcome, and I shook my head, pushing it away. Kostya’s gaze lingered, concerned.

“Something hurts?”

“No.” My heart throbbed in silent protest, but aloud I said, “Everything’s fine.”

Father studied me uncertainly. Seeing no outward sign, Kostya wiped the sauce from his face and continued.

“You see, I used to be good friends with Nik’s adoptive father. We went fishing, studied together at the institute… good times. But also…” His grimace hinted at shadows in that history. “You probably don’t know, but Nikolai—he’s one of us. Figuratively speaking. He can’t turn, like many others. He ages normally, lives among humans. In short, he’s from a werewolf family, what we call the ‘knowing.’ Not all inherit the spirit or its traits. Every clan’s curse is different.”

I listened, caught between awe and disbelief.

“So, being a werewolf isn’t a gift?”

Kostya nodded, a wry smirk tugging at his mouth. “More a curse, really. Although your grandparents would disagree. Grandma thought it was a mission, a calling.”

“But not you?”

“Not me,” Father said, gesturing to the sushi pack and then to me. “Eat. You need your strength.”

I obeyed, picking up a small tuna roll wrapped in nori, dipping the edge in soy sauce, tasting the subtle tang.

“You see, both we and the vampires were creations of witches during their so-called civil war. Clan against clan, daughter against mother. Every spell met with a counter-spell, the longer the conflict raged, the more meaningless it became. No descendants remembered the origins. I still don’t know what sparked it all, but I can tell you the story your grandmother used to love. Near the end of the fifth year, when all means were exhausted and witch settlements lay in ruins, the High Pelagia stood among the ashes over Vasilisa’s eldest daughter. She drew an enemy-enchanted dagger, letting her own blood flow, calling forth forbidden magic. Darkness answered, as if an old friend had returned.

An unknown force breathed life into Pelagia’s daughter’s cold body, but only briefly. The girl writhed in agony, a wheeze tearing from her chest. Her features sharpened, her wounds closing one by one, until the living and the dead blurred into one horrifying instant.”

The High Priestess sank to her knees, disbelief rooting her to the ground. She cradled her child to her chest, trembling, hardly daring to breathe. No one had ever succeeded in returning a spirit from the other side to a living body—but Pelagia had done it. Tears spilled down the High Priestess’s cheeks, hot and unstoppable. She buried her face in her daughter’s hair, inhaling the scent greedily, clutching her tighter and rocking her as if she could lull away all the horrors of the world.

But the longer she held her child, the more her own strength drained. Amid a storm of overwhelming emotions, she failed to notice the small teeth piercing her collarbone, the delicate yet insistent pull as her daughter fed.

Thus, legend tells, the first vampire was born—a perfect weapon, imbued with strength and speed beyond the control of any witch. In the dead of night, Pelagia’s descendant hunted, cutting down rival clans, leaving some transformed into creatures like herself.

The army of Vasilisa swelled. In less than ten days, the enemy lay defeated, and only Pelagia’s followers remained. A fragile peace settled, a brief calm in the aftermath of endless destruction. Yet no one considered the cost of this new life.

With the war ended, the vampires’ source of sustenance vanished. They had fed during battle, taking lives to quench their thirst, but now, in peace, the problem remained. The witches believed they could control the cravings of their sisters, intending to cast a spell that would erase the need for such violence. A terrible nightmare, they thought, could simply be forgotten.

But magic is never that simple. Only a witch of extraordinary destiny could truly create life, mastering the four elements and binding herself to the spirit world. With High Pelagia’s death, the coven lost the power to create. Her heir, destined to one day sit on the bone throne, severed her link to the spirits upon becoming a vampire. Nature, affronted by this tampering, refused aid, choosing instead to punish the witches with cold indifference.

Unable to summon another miracle, the coven waited for the next High Priestess to be born. How long the new species would endure remained a mystery. They watched in silence, hoping that time alone might resolve the problem.

But time offered no mercy. The settlement’s human population was barely enough to satisfy a third of the vampires. The longer the creatures remained, the stronger their thirst became. Bound by conscience and morality, most tried to maintain their chosen path. But not all possessed the iron will of Vasilisa.

People began disappearing from nearby villages—peasant children left unattended in the fields. One missing was troubling; three missing spread terror. Rumors rippled through the countryside: a malevolent spirit had taken residence in the forest.

The village elder, desperate, approached the witches, offering a reward to banish the evil. The witches welcomed the funds. Much needed to be rebuilt, restored. They assumed the threat to be a rogue forest spirit, nothing beyond their control.

Yet investigation revealed the true horror: one vampire had defied Vasilisa’s edict, venturing into the village. Tracking the traitor proved nearly impossible. Vampires returned from hunts, sometimes satisfied with animal blood, but the breaker of the ban remained hidden. The coven split vampires into small groups, monitored them, yet their strength and senses grew daily. The scent of incense, meant to mask witch movements, became trivial; footsteps that once went unnoticed now gave them away. The grip around the vampires’ freedom tightened. They sensed it and resented it, questioning their place within the coven. Seeds of discord sprouted rapidly.

Victims multiplied. The witches had to maintain appearances, spinning tales of a cunning, elusive spirit beyond ordinary power. The villagers, simple and superstitious, interpreted the events through the lens of fear. Some exaggerated horrors to demonstrate bravery, others saw the devil’s hand in mundane actions—how the witches heated water, even.

But when stories emerged of a pale-skinned woman tearing flesh from a witch with sharp nails and drinking blood with evident pleasure, cheeks flushed with life, the villagers were truly alarmed. The elder, cautious, chose to witness events personally before acting.

Fate, however, betrayed them. He arrived at the forest at the wrong moment and saw the junior acolytes feeding the vampires preemptively, offering blood to prevent harm to the villagers. The well-intentioned act sparked chaos. The feeding became a frenzy. Vampires turned on their own, slaughtering sisters and brothers alike, bathing the ground in blood, revealing their true nature.

Vasilisa fought alongside the witches, but weakened by hunger, she could not contain the frenzy of her own offspring. The clash became a massacre. Whenever the witches gained ground, the regenerating vampires reversed it, relentless and unstoppable.

Only a handful—no more than ten—remained when the village men arrived, armed with pitchforks and raw determination. Hissing, the vampires circled the surviving sorceresses, a tight, predatory ring, savoring the thrill of the hunt. They seemed to have reserved the strongest witches—the cream of the coven—as a final indulgence, preparing to claim the sweetest prize.

Bold but foolish, the men charged blindly into the fray, shouting without discernment. They grappled with the vampires, who laughed, cruel and playful, dragging out the terror for their own amusement. The bloodthirsty creatures, drunk on their perceived superiority, did not notice the witches, united and resolute, joining hands. Vasilisa’s voice rang out, chanting a curse that shimmered with raw power. Deprived of her own magic, the firstborn became a conduit, letting the foreign force surge through her. The other sorceresses echoed her incantation. Slowly, a pale blue light began to glow from beneath their skin, growing with each syllable.

The witches raised their faces to the sky and screamed in unison. The earth shuddered beneath them. Male voices, drawn by the spell, joined the chorus—a symphony of anguish and unyielding power. The full moon broke through the clouds, its silver gaze cold and impartial, illuminating the chaos below.

Where its light touched the village men, transformation began. Their bodies twisted and reshaped, shedding humanity. Thick fur burst forth from their skin, arms and legs thinning and bending, forcing them onto all fours. Huge fangs stretched from their mouths, jaws elongating like a wolf’s.

When the metamorphosis concluded, the witches unclasped their hands. Their weakened bodies crumbled into shimmering silver dust, carried away by a sudden gust of wind, disappearing as if they had never existed.

Thus, legend tells, the first vampires and werewolves were born.

“You mean… witches really exist?” I stopped chewing long ago, captivated by Kostya’s story.

“If there were no witches,” he said, voice low, “there would be no us. No vampires either. And it’s precisely because of vampires that witches are so few. Now, in Kserton, there are barely three left. Sorceresses avoid the mistakes of the bloodline. The coven that gave birth to the magic of transformation, that broke nature’s balance, is gone. No one knows the exact spell they cast. No one can undo it. When you were born, Maria and I searched for someone who could save you from my fate. But… what’s done cannot be undone.”

His shoulders slumped. Guilt was etched into every line of his face.

I returned to that conversation in my mind over and over during his last days in the hospital, wondering how many firstborn still lived among humans, hiding in plain sight. How many led double lives, pretending to be ordinary mortals—entrepreneurs, lawyers, anyone—while secretly harboring otherness beneath the surface. How does one recognize a mythical creature? And if you are one of them… does it even matter?

“Still counting the flaws on the ceiling?” my father’s voice cut through my reverie from the kitchen, and I realized it was time to leave the room.

I walked into the living room and sank onto the couch, opposite the turned-off TV. Kostya bustled in the kitchen, making sandwiches. The aroma was sharp—salami, mozzarella, and Provencal herbs.

“Want me to make you a couple?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” I muttered, wrinkling my nose. “The salami smells… different. Too strong. A little… off.”

“Yeah,” he said lightly, “your friendship with meat is about to end. Soon, everything will smell like slightly spoiled carrion—especially smoked.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Kostya came and sat beside me. Three sandwiches sat on a plate, right under my nose. Inhaling the acrid scent, I grimaced. Pulling the sleeve of my sweater over my hand, I tried to cover both nostrils and mouth, as if hiding from the aroma could make it vanish.

Dad, as if nothing had happened, reached for the remote and turned on the TV. I shot Kostya a reproachful glance, but he didn’t even look up. Instead, he grabbed the nearest sandwich and bit into it with obvious pleasure.

“Dad,” I said, wincing, “move over. And take the sandwiches with you.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, I woke before the alarm. The room was still shrouded in darkness, with not even the faintest hint of dawn creeping through the blinds. Days were growing shorter, night stretching its fingers longer, claiming more of the world. I grabbed my phone and unlocked it—half past six. Sleep no longer seemed like an option.

Reluctantly, I rose and made my way to the bathroom, letting the hot shower wash away the last clinging traces of sleep. Today, I had to return to routine, to the mundane rhythm of school, but my mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with the approaching turning. I let my hands linger under the water, watching rivulets trace translucent paths down my skin. Some droplets scattered, defiant, refusing to follow the improvised channels, unwilling to merge and lose their individuality. Temporary, meaningless resistance. Eventually, even they would be swept into the drain, indistinguishable from the rest.

I dried my hair quickly, then returned to my room, selecting a fresh outfit: an emerald turtleneck and tight black jeans. It took a few moments to locate the printout of the new schedule Dasha had brought to the hospital. First period: biology. Second: literature. Today’s lesson would dissect Yevgeny Zamyatin’s We, a short novel often credited as the first dystopia. A pioneer, flawed but daring.

I hastily packed my school bag, slipping the marked novel inside. Over summer, I had adorned its pages with colorful sticky notes—pink for compelling quotes, orange for crucial plot points, blue for answers to the curriculum questions I could find. The rest would have to be improvised; the teacher’s whims were unknowable.

A loud bang echoed from the bathroom. Kostya must have risen and begun his shower. Even with my heightened senses, my father’s movements remained an enigma. Perhaps that was the subtle link we shared, our natures intertwined.

It wasn’t that Kostya lacked scent. My father carried the sharp blend of treated calfskin from his ever-present leather jacket, hints of peppermint and tobacco from his cologne, a faint trace of cleaning fluid from his service pistol, and menthol toothpaste. Sometimes fleeting scents clung to him, revealing his recent activities. Yet, somehow, he moved through the house with near-perfect silence.

Lost in thought, I shifted my backpack to the hallway and dropped it onto the pouf beside his jacket before heading to the kitchen. I opened the fridge, scanning the shelves for something edible—anything less pungent than yesterday’s salami. Cheese, eggs, curd with dried apricots… none inspired confidence. Only a shiny red apple at the bottom shelf seemed tempting. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I had to eat something before the school day began.

“Good morning,” Kostya said, appearing behind me, peering over my shoulder. “Want some scrambled eggs?”

I grimaced at Dad, signaling that meal planning would soon be a challenge. Kostya’s mouth twitched downward; he looked away, perhaps recognizing the difficulty of witnessing a child in transformation, powerless to intervene.

“All right,” Dad said softly with a sigh. “I’ll eat at work then. Better not to aggravate the little wolf with smells unnecessarily.”

“Dad, it’s fine. Eat at home, like you usually do.”

Kostya looked at me, puzzled.

“But what about you?”

“I’ll manage,” I said. “You can’t avoid the smells at school anyway. I need to get used to it. Didn’t you go through the same?”

Dad shook his head as if recalling long-forgotten details. I stepped aside, letting him reach the fridge. He pulled out a block of cheese, butter wrapped in foil, and a couple of eggs from the special compartment. Setting them near the stove, he grabbed a frying pan from its hook, alongside tongs and spatulas.

“Probably did,” he said, cracking eggs against the pan’s edge, letting their contents drop with a sizzle. “Too many years have passed to remember. But… I understand now. Or at least, I guess I understand how hard this is for you.”

“In less than five years, you’ll forget it all like a bad dream,” he added.

“I wouldn’t want to forget,” I murmured, unsure why the thought surfaced.

“Why?”

Some truths aren’t spoken; they hover in the chest, intuitive, unshaped by words. I couldn’t explain it to Kostya, yet he seemed to sense the sentiment, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile.

“I get it,” he said, flipping the eggs. The yolks glowed like the July sun. “Go pack your bag.”

“Already done,” I said, exhaling, and followed him to the couch.

“What time did you wake to get all this done?”

“Half past five.”

Kostya frowned, shaking his head in disapproval, like some small stone lodged in his teeth.

“Maybe…” he hesitated. “…you should stay home a little longer?”

I shook my head. “It’s worth trying, at least.”

“There’s still time before the full moon…” Dad said softly, avoiding a longer explanation.

“Yes, but not much. You know that. I know that. We both know. You said I need to get back to people, to learn control, to adjust to noise, to smell.”

“True. But exhaustion… what can you learn if you’re spent?”

“I’m not exhausted,” I protested, though a yawn betrayed me. “I slept well. Just woke early.”

“No nightmares? No sudden noises outside?”

“No. Just woke before the alarm.”

Kostya gave me a doubtful look but stayed silent, finishing his breakfast, then rising to take the dishes to the sink.

“Dad, go get ready. I’ll wash up.”

“All right.”

 ***

Stepping out of the car near the school, I instinctively scanned the crowd for Nik—but he was nowhere in sight. Predictable.

What had I expected after the events in the forest? That Karimov would simply slip back into classes as if nothing had happened? He had vanished without a trace, and no one knew whether he was plotting revenge for his mother’s death or trying to run from the past, to erase it and start anew. I had never sensed any deep bond between Galina and Nik; he hadn’t even let her call him her son. Yet, I couldn’t shake the thought that Nikita must have felt the weight of losing that unhinged woman, still his biological mother. Kostya was certain he hadn’t returned to the Karimov house, and that only reinforced my unease.

A part of me still carried warm memories of Nikita, the strange comfort that had come simply from his touch. Yet another part—the newer, sharper Asya, the one the wolf within was slowly shaping—warned me against illusions. That part knew every lie, every flattering word, every subtle manipulation. One part of me thirsted for love; the other thirsted for blood. How these halves of me might coexist—or even compromise—remained a mystery I had no answer for.

The screech of brakes cut through the morning, harsh and grating, jolting me from my thoughts. Too loud, too abrupt—my instinct demanded a sharp rebuke. I turned and saw the offending drivers: the familiar cars of the Smirnov family and the Yakovlev twins. Almost at the same moment, Viola and Stas pulled into the first row near the school, usually reserved for teachers. Oddly, it was empty, and for a fleeting second I wondered if I had misread the calendar.

All five of them spilled out of their cars with the casual fuss of a morning routine. Stas opened the trunk, distributing bags and textbooks to his relatives. Diana spotted me first, waving with a glance that measured me cautiously before she whispered something to her brother. Stas responded softly, his words lost to me, though I strained to catch them.

Arthur retrieved his backpack, then Viola’s, and hand in hand, the couple walked straight toward me, smiles bright and open.

“Good morning,” Arthur greeted, fingers pressed lightly to his forehead. “Glad to see you’re doing all right.”

“As much as possible,” I said. “How was the disco?”

“Awesome!” Diana squeezed between her siblings, her energy spilling over. She hugged me briefly, and I caught myself silently hoping for release. Strange, how her presence could still feel so comforting. She had always been my favorite—perhaps more than anyone else in the Smirnov family.

“Viola and I won first place for our costumes,” Arthur continued proudly. “Greek mythology is going to be trendy again, they say.”

“So we were ahead of our time.”

“Exactly!” Both Viola and Arthur chimed in, laughing at the coincidence, their joy palpable. Around Arthur, Viola shed her armor, revealing a carefree girl with eyes that burned with the soft flame of first love. Watching them was a delicate mix of pleasure and ache—the shards of my own recent heartbreak reminded me of what had been lost.

“First transformation soon?” Diana asked, voice ringing with curiosity, and Arthur quickly shushed her.

“Diana!”

“What?” Her wide, expressive eyes were genuinely confused. “Isn’t it okay to ask?”

All three turned their gaze toward me. I understood their concern. Soon the city would host another wolf, and no one could say who—or what—might be the first target. I could offer no assurances, only hope that things might remain safe.

“Friday,” I said.

Arthur and Viola froze, statues carved of astonishment, while Diana’s eyes softened with sympathy. The news was heavy.

“Maybe,” I ventured cautiously, “you could leave for the weekend? Just to be safe.”

“That’s always an option,” Arthur said thoughtfully. “But you know, we’ve never had trouble with your father. Max and Viola even go with him hunting sometimes—when some ‘big game’ sneaks into the local forests.” He leaned in conspiratorially, and Viola nodded with approval.

“From time to time, we do make a good team,” Arthur continued. “Maybe you and your wolf will get along too...”

“If you’re not mad at any of us,” Stanislav interjected, joining the circle. Vampire hearing was sharper than a wolf’s, evidently.

“Mad?” I echoed. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“For example,” Diana began, “that you wandered into the forest alone and didn’t sense anything wrong.”

“Or that you didn’t expose Nik and Galina sooner,” Stas added, dreamy in tone, as if the events reflected on him personally. He was the one who had often visited my hospital room, bringing company, trying to lighten my stay after everything that happened.

“And also that we had fun at the school disco without you,” Arthur added, “even though you worked so hard decorating the hall!”

The group laughed, tension dissolving in the crisp winter air.

“All those ‘if onlys’ won’t change anything,” I said. “What happened happened. Now I just have to live with it.”

“Exactly,” Stas said seriously. “You. Not us.”

“And partly you too. Now I’m the most dangerous neighbor in Ksertoni.”

I tried to make it sound playful, but only Arthur caught the humor.

“We’ll see about that,” he winked, pulling Viola close in a gentle embrace. “Let’s wrap it up. It’s starting.”

“Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand her,” Viola muttered, following her boyfriend toward the stairs.

“Asya!” Tatiana’s voice rang out, and she practically leapt onto me, nearly choking me in her enthusiasm. Good thing my body was already changing—otherwise, her hug might have been painfully tight.

“You’re back!” she said, and I patted her gently, waiting for the storm of her affection to ebb.

“Hey, hey,” I murmured.

Finally, Tatiana spotted another victim in Stanislav and released me.

The first bell rang, and without a word, we all hurried into the school together.

Chapter Text

When I stepped into the classroom, Dasha was still nowhere in sight. Settling into my usual seat, I pulled out a copy of Zamyatin’s We, my pencil case, and my notebook from my backpack. Despite my long absence, the others behaved surprisingly calmly. I had become old news to them as quickly as a forgotten piece of candy, which was a relief. No one stared, no one whispered behind their hands, no one pried into the events of Halloween night. When I had first arrived in Kserton, the curious stares and the irritating habit of other students eavesdropping on private conversations had felt suffocating. Perhaps now fewer people were interested in such trivialities. If only they knew the true nature of who sat beside them and the dangers lurking quietly in this town, they would have begged for homeschooling long ago.

Realistically, though, if anyone was truly watching, it would not be students. More likely, worried agents from special services, motivated by national security rather than idle curiosity, would be monitoring this place. They wouldn’t just be observing the supernatural in discreet Kserton—they would want to harness it, study it, and bend it to their own purposes. The thought sent an almost physical shiver up my neck, making me feel as though I’d slept all night in a torturously awkward position.

Before the teacher could begin, Dasha appeared in the doorway. Seeing me, she stretched her lips into a warm, welcoming smile and hurried to her desk.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked.

“Nope. The teacher hasn’t started yet.”

“Great,” she whispered, sliding into her seat. “I was going to visit you at the hospital today, but I see that’s not necessary anymore.”

“Dr. Smirnov finally let me go home… though I’ll have to go back again today,” I started automatically, then caught myself mid-sentence.

Unlike most people around me, Dasha had no idea about the mystical and dangerous residents of Kserton. I didn’t want to shatter her world with truths she wasn’t ready for, force her into sleepless nights as she adjusted to a reality she had never imagined. I knew from experience how relentless and exhausting that adjustment could be. The cruelest part of the new secret was that once learned, there was no going back. The hidden would become revealed, and Dasha, like me, would have to scrutinize every stranger’s face, guessing which clan they belonged to. Was she in danger? And if so, what could she even do?

“…physiotherapy appointments,” I finally remembered, filling in the blank in my own sentence.

“Still something hurts, huh?”

“Not exactly. It’s more like recovery—I moved far too little in the hospital.”

Dasha nodded with understanding. Before she could ask more, Georgy Vasilyevich stood at his desk, dragging his words lazily as he launched into Zamyatin’s biography:

“Yevgeny Ivanovich Zamyatin was born in the Tambov province on February 1, 1884, according to the new calendar. His father, a priest, taught the Word of God, while his mother was a pianist. Yevgeny showed an early zeal for literature: by age four, he was already reading serious works, including Gogol. Sadly, Zamyatin’s reflections from that time have not survived,” Radzinsky paused, smiling gently, though few in the class seemed to catch the nuance. “In 1896, the family moved to Voronezh, where Yevgeny Ivanovich graduated from gymnasium with a gold medal—a significant honor at the time.”

“Is that considered prestigious now?” a voice called from the window-side row.

The teacher shrugged ambiguously. “Depends on how you look at it. For now, though, our minds are still in the 19th century. Discussions on 21st-century charms can wait.” He rubbed the back of his neck slowly. “Where was I? Ah yes. At school, Yevgeny leaned toward the humanities, while math proved difficult. In 1902, he enrolled at the Polytechnic Institute of Saint Petersburg, joined the Bolshevik faction, and participated in revolutionary activities, for which he was later arrested and exiled to Lebedyan. To complete his studies, he returned to Petersburg illegally. In 1908, Zamyatin graduated as a marine engineer and became a shipbuilding instructor at the institute. That same year, he published his first story, Alone, while also working on The Girl. His first novella, presented three years later during exile in Lakhta, tackled provincial issues so skillfully that contemporary critics noticed...”

“That doesn’t sound like the biography of a dystopia writer at all,” Dasha whispered.

“Of course it does! Revolutionaries are rarely happy with the status quo.”

“Sure, but all those exiles and bans sound crazy. How could someone be forbidden from living in a city like Novosibirsk? How is that even possible?”

I shrugged. “Probably it was possible in the 19th century. Petrograd was the capital then.”

Dasha hesitated, hand raised, then lowered it again. “Ah, never mind. I’ll read about it online. This is all just… strange.”

“Well, many writers were exiled for dissent. Why are you so surprised?”

“I don’t know… Zamyatin’s case just seems absurd. Maybe Radzinsky’s telling makes it seem stranger than it is.”

“And boring,” I added. “Hopefully, when we actually read We, it’ll get more interesting.”

I was right. The classroom seemed to breathe again as soon as the discussion turned to the novel’s characters, those who had faced the tension between individuality and the collective. Listening to my classmates’ arguments, my thoughts wandered to the present day. How would these same people, with whom I shared a roof and daily routines, react if they glimpsed the hidden side of Kserton? A world concealed from ordinary eyes, yet harboring dangers that defied imagination. Even I hadn’t yet grasped the full extent of my own abilities—or those of the Smirnovs. Born vampires, weak-bloods, werewolves, the fractured Kserton coven… all the threads of this secret tapestry that had taken root in my mind condensed into a hazy awareness: the fragility of human life and the brilliance of a power capable of ending it in a single swift motion. No obvious transformations had yet manifested, nothing I needed to hide from the oblivious. My body grew stronger, my senses subtly sharper, yet to any ordinary observer, these changes were barely perceptible. But I sensed there was more to come.

“I didn’t like the novel,” a boy in the front row announced, loud enough for the whole class to hear. “Its ending feels vague. Half-finished, even. They don’t conclude the thought, only hinting at the horrors of life under Zamyatin’s society.”

“In the past,” the teacher replied patiently, “it was considered good form to leave space for the reader’s reflection and interpretation.”

“But it seems lazy to me,” the boy persisted. “As if the author didn’t know the idea he wanted to express—or lacked the skill to make it clear.”

The literature teacher gave a crooked smile. “Ah, Golubev. I was ready to reward your participation with a five today, but of course, that spoiled it all.”

“Whatever,” the boy muttered, leaning back like a petulant child.

The conversation absorbed me entirely, and I lost track of time. Soon, the bell rang, dragging me back to reality. As I left the classroom, my gaze instinctively scanned the hallway for Nick—but I stopped myself. Even if he were there, waiting to walk me to the next class, nothing could undo what had already happened.

My fleeting good mood evaporated.

For the next two lessons, the teachers’ words barely reached me. School continued around me, relentless and intimate, yet I felt like I was observing it through a transparent dome—close enough to touch but untouchable, unable to merge with its flow. How I longed to move in harmony with the others, to enjoy the carefree final month of senior year. But even that had been stolen from me, irretrievable, and no amount of money could buy it back.

At lunch, I skipped the cafeteria. I didn’t want to hover among the students like a shadow, dimming the fragile light that still lingered in the sterile white walls. Dasha, quiet all day, seemed to absorb my mood, and I left without a word, heading toward the edge of the forest beyond the parking lot.

Galina’s trailer sat abandoned, a silent reminder of the disco evening. My legs carried me forward automatically, until I reached the familiar clearing surrounded by tall firs and scattered bushes. The snow lay undisturbed, a flawless white sheet concealing the gnarled roots beneath. Standing in the center, I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp air.

The frost burned my lungs and the delicate membranes in my nose, sharpening my thoughts and offering a fragile, fleeting peace to a soul that no longer knew rest.

Maybe I should have gone home, stayed away from everyone, given myself more time to process this upside-down world where I could barely recognize my place. Who was I now, and who were the Smirnovs? Diana and Stas had known from birth the nature of their powers, while I, like a blind kitten, had only recently discovered that I was different from the stork that raised me—and couldn’t fly. Living among humans now, as a werewolf, seemed almost impossible: attending school, studying, eventually finding a job, building a personal life—all likely requiring a double existence, just as my father had done.

What if I fell in love with a fragile human one day, as Kostya had once loved Maria?

More than anything, I longed to go to Rostov and talk to my mother. To understand how Maria had found the courage not only to accept my father as he truly was but to dare to build a family with him. Their “happily ever after” had not endured, yet they had taken the risk—and I was living proof of that courage.

How could I reconcile the extremes of my life—the ordinary high school girl who loved literature, and the werewolf who, by necessity, could transform into a predatory beast, hunting bloodthirsty vampires?

I could not imagine harming anyone. Even contemplating it made my stomach churn. If I ever allowed myself to harbor hatred, even for a moment, there might be no turning back. Life’s value had always been sacred to me, an inalienable right. Yet the wolf inside demanded indifference, a cold precision to fulfill what fate had decreed—both guardian and reaper, all in one.

How simple it would have been if hope still lived in my heart. To believe there was a loophole, a way to navigate this world safely, might have kept me afloat. Instead, I crumbled, and tears flowed unbidden. Kostya had been right—I had gone back to school too soon.

I lingered in the snowy clearing, letting the tears run, grateful that no one could see. At home, in front of friends, in a world full of concerned gazes, I would have had to hide them, pretend strength. Here, I could release everything.

Unlike everyone else, I did not know whether it was worth seeking out the spirit within me. Perhaps the connection I felt was not consequence, but residue—venom left by a vampire bite. Had anyone truly studied it? I doubted it, for neither my father nor Dr. Smirnov could provide certainty.

I thought on this, letting the frost and the snow anchor me. Slowly, the icy grip on my heart loosened, and the tension that had seized my muscles—and with it, my pain—relaxed.

Where tears had streamed, only two thin lines remained, stinging my skin. I rubbed at them with my sleeve, only to make the irritation worse. Realizing only washing my face could help, I finally turned back toward school.

Chapter Text

As soon as I stepped out of the restroom, I saw the Smirnovs walking together at a leisurely pace toward the stairs after the cafeteria. Looking more closely, I realized there were more kids than usual, and soon understood why: Stas was walking with Tatyana, casually putting his arm around his classmate’s shoulders, and behind them trudged Dasha, looking gloomy. Poor Dasha.

I hurried to help her, quickly joining the little procession.

"Why do you look so gloomy?" I asked, deliberately lowering my voice.

"And you?" Dasha answered, returning the question.

"What about me?"

"Your eyes are red, like from crying."

Although Dasha spoke quietly, vampire hearing was sharp enough to catch that phrase despite what I hoped. At least, Stas and Diana immediately turned around. Things weren’t looking good.

"I went outside to get some fresh air, and something got in my eye. Barely got it out!" To hide my clumsy lie, I tried to say the last part with surprise.

"Fresh air? In this freezing cold?"

"Yeah. In the hospital, you know, they ventilate every three hours, no matter if it’s plus fifteen outside or minus twenty. But at school, they heat so much the thermometer probably shows no less than twenty-seven!"

Dasha nodded understandingly, and the signs of worry on her face immediately vanished. If my classmate believed my explanation, the same couldn’t be said about Diana and Stas. However, the guys didn’t press me further in front of everyone.

"Alright," I tried to steer the conversation back to where I wanted. "What happened to you?"

"They announced the theme of the New Year’s Ball over the loudspeaker."

Another dance? How many events do they hold at this school! On one hand, the news made me happy, if only for a moment, because it gave me a chance to make up for the missed Halloween for obvious reasons. On the other hand, I worried it would be hard to catch up on school after days spent in the hospital. I’d have to study late into the night, hunched over books, if I wanted to keep up with everything — but first, it would be good to get used to the new range of feelings I wasn’t sure I could control at all.

"What’s so bad about the ball? We’ll all have fun together one last time before exams."

"It’s going to be a White Ball," Dasha said, her voice sinking as she spoke the words. I had no idea what that meant; it sounded like just a name.

"What, everyone has to come dressed in white?"

Dasha smiled sadly.

"If only."

The veil of mystery was lifted by Rostova, who spoke up:

"A White Ball is when the girls ask the guys to dance, not the other way around."

So that was the problem. While everyone around already had a kind of ready-made partner, Dasha would have to go searching. For a moment I sincerely felt sorry for my friend, but then I snapped back: and who would I go with myself?

"Look," Artur called out to the others, "Asya’s feeling down too!"

"Keep laughing, Artur. Viola has probably already invited you."

"Of course," she replied proudly and kissed her boyfriend on the cheek. All I could do was feel the misery of my situation, since I had to sort everything out in just one month. I had to set priorities and focus on the most important. First came school, if I still planned to get into Kserton State; second, my father’s cheerful legacy; and only then thoughts about the dances. But that was if I used my head. I really wanted to put the ball higher on the pedestal and break free for a little while from the vortex that, like a living thing, was pulling me deeper every day, knocking me down with new troubles again and again.

I took Dasha by the elbow, pushing away worries. The touch of someone I trusted calmed me a bit. Constantly boiling in thoughts about the first change and worrying about keeping at least small scraps of normal life was draining my already exhausted body, tired of all the changes. The closer the full moon came, the stronger and longer-lasting the effects of sharpened hearing or smell became. The desire to take something into my own hands and feel, if only briefly, control over my fate was like a lifesaving gulp of air for a drowning person, and it pushed me to say:

"What if we go to the ball together? I don’t have anyone to ask either."

My gaze involuntarily slid toward Stas, who, as if sensing it, pulled Tatyana even closer, and a strange feeling spread through my chest, making my heart pound hard against my ribs. At that moment, all the days I spent in the hospital flashed before my eyes.

Stas was always there and came more often than the others. He was kind and gentle with me, filling in for Kostya. He brought other kids to the ward, sometimes after hours, using his status as the chief doctor’s son. Without Stas, I would have gone crazy from boredom and inner torment, locked in a single room alone with myself. The gratitude I felt toward Stanislav was so great I wanted to repay him somehow, but what could I offer someone who already had everything?

Dasha smiled weakly, and it seemed to me that a quick solution to her problem didn’t make her happy but rather made things worse. I looked at her questioningly, trying to guess why. After hesitating a bit, she decided to explain, though I saw how hard it was for her to admit.

"Actually, I have someone in mind," Dasha said, nervously rubbing her forehead. "I just don’t know how to invite him. And whether I even should. What if he says ‘no’?"

"He might refuse just because he already said ‘yes’ to someone else while you were gathering your courage," Viola spoke up, and Dasha’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She surely didn’t expect anyone but me to hear that part of the conversation since she was trying to whisper. It was easier for Dasha to trust me, as our friendship grew stronger every day, while she seemed hardly willing to get closer to the Smirnovs: as soon as Stas joined Tatyana, Dasha’s voice immediately faded, and I couldn’t understand why.

If only she gave the guys a chance to get to know her better, things could have been different within the group. Even though I’d known the family only a short time, how the Smirnovs tried to help me proved that natural essence wasn’t the main thing. The kids were still good and sensitive people in their own way, ready to selflessly help if they could.

I noticed that other classmates were simultaneously curious about the Smirnovs and the Yakovlevs but tried to keep their distance. They seemed to sense the power emanating from them, and with it, danger. Only a few flew toward the fire like moths, unaware they might burn. Not long ago, I was one of those moths.

"She’s right," Dasha replied even quieter. "But I have no idea how to start."

"You approach, say hello, and ask: ‘Will you go to the White Ball with me?’ Then wait for the answer. After that, it depends," Viola said monotonously, and I felt like nudging her in the ribs.

Violetta always spoke in a similar way, but she had no understanding or sympathy for other people. Viola was straightforward and blunt, which I admired, but at the same time it created a certain barrier between her and others. I wished she would be gentler with Dasha because I saw how hard it was for my friend. It was neither the moment nor the time to bluntly tell someone who wasn’t ready what to do. I hurried to fix the situation, wanting to encourage Dasha and not to strengthen the wall between them.

"Do you want me to go up to him with you? Let’s find him in the school and be back in a flash? We’ll probably manage before the bell rings."

Darya shook her head.

"He’s not from our school."

Arthur and Stas whistled, then both shouted loud comments. Their words mixed into an indistinct cocktail, but from their wide smiles it was easy to guess they were very curious about who Dasha’s chosen one was.

"Boys!" I called sharply, genuinely angry. "Don’t be jerks!"

"Ooooh," Stas replied, "we can get offended, you know."

"If you don’t want to be hurt, don’t hurt others yourselves."

Arthur patted me on the shoulder, and for the first time I noticed how heavy his hand was.

"You were really missed at school, Mother Teresa."

A sharp pop sounded in my head, something switched, as if someone pulled a lever, and the walls of the dam parted, releasing a flood of emotions I didn’t even know I had.

"What did you call me?"

At first, I didn’t recognize my own voice. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere else, but everyone was looking right at me. A wave of trembling ran up and down my body. My hands clenched into fists so tightly that my knuckles ached. The heat from the core of my being surged outward, already reaching toward Arthur.

I came to my senses only when a scream tore from Tatiana’s lips. The dark veil before my eyes lifted, and I didn’t understand what was happening. The scene shifted abruptly. Arthur was lying on the floor beneath me, blood running from his nose. He stared at me wide-eyed, but inside there was neither fear nor pain. Only some silent understanding and pity. He sprawled on the floor, not even trying to resist.

"What the…?"

I looked around. People were standing in a circle around us. The Smirnovs looked down at us from their height with detachment, as if this was an expected trouble. Their faces revealed almost nothing, or maybe I just couldn’t catch any changes behind their impenetrable masks, which they handled as if they were a second skin. Only Viola slightly furrowed her brows and folded her arms, but no one was rushing to intervene.

"We need to call Konstantin," Diana reached into her purse for her phone, but Stas grabbed her hand.

"No," steel notes rang in his voice, emphasizing his confidence in the decision. "Take her to our father."

"But dad will freak out if I skip class."

"Tell him I decided so."

"Then call him yourself first and..."

"Diana, quieter. Before the other students notice."

"And what about these two?" Viola pointed to Dasha and Tatiana standing behind her.

Both girls looked pale. Frightened, they clung to each other like two little rabbits cornered with nowhere left to run from the approaching wolf.

A lump formed in my throat, making it hard not only to speak but to breathe.

They were afraid. Not just of anything, but of me.

"Things are bad," Arthur croaked and cleared his throat.

"Can you handle two?" Stas nodded toward the girls.

Arthur smirked slightly.

"I should. Unless there’s another little wolf hidden in a snuffbox."

Stas lifted me under the arms in one motion and set me on my feet like I was a rag doll. I barely kept my balance and immediately swayed backward, about to fall to the floor, but Stanislav caught me. Instinctively, I grabbed his shoulder and only then noticed that his fingers were smeared with blood — either Arthur’s or my own. Torn wounds showed beneath the wet scarlet, as if I had punched so hard that my skin cracked.

"How did I... what..."

Stanislav handed me over to his sister like some object. I wanted to open my mouth and resist, demand an explanation. The very idea that I had just rushed at Arthur like that—because of one careless phrase said in jest—seemed unthinkable. Even harder to believe was that I had the strength to knock such a big guy to the floor. This had to be some misunderstanding. Just as suitable words came to mind, I opened and closed my mouth helplessly like a fish. All the heat faded the moment my eyes met Dasha’s. She looked at me as if she were seeing me for the first time. As if I were a dangerous animal foaming at the mouth, standing with widely spread paws, ready to pounce any second, and there was no one to protect Dasha — she could only count on herself. It seemed that way from the outside because she had let go of Tatiana’s hand, whom Arthur was already handling. My palms got sweaty from the anxiety. I wanted to approach and explain, to say I would never hurt her and that there was an explanation for what happened, but as soon as I stepped toward her, Dasha took two steps back. Powerless, I wanted to burst into tears, and I would have if Diana hadn’t pushed me toward the stairs.

"Let’s go. You won’t do anything now."

"Wait," I resisted, but Diana firmly led me down the stairs. "I have to talk to her."

"You don’t owe anyone anything. Arthur will handle her now, and Dasha won’t remember this little incident."

"A little incident?" I laughed nervously and showed Diana my hands. "My hands are covered in blood!"

"Quiet," she hissed through her teeth and, ripping off her scarf, quickly wrapped it around the wounds, hiding the consequences from curious eyes. "The bell’s about to ring, and the first floor is full of people now. No one must see or hear anything. We’ll talk in the car."

She stretched her lips into a fake friendly smile and, still supporting me by the shoulder, quickly headed to the exit. I barely kept up, seeing almost nothing through the tears already rushing to break free.

"What’s wrong with her?" my hearing treacherously caught bits of classmates’ phrases, jumping from one voice to another.

"Some Black Girl’s acting weird today."

"You think she got shell-shocked after the beast attack?"

"Look! She’s like a scared cat! Look at her eyes!"

"Probably on some tranquillisers."

"I wish someone would prescribe me those," two guys laughed cruelly.

I felt disgusted hearing that. Until today, I felt safe with the same circle of classmates. The illusory feeling that other students had lost interest in me vanished like smoke. Now I knew what they said about me. Or rather, how they sweetly gossiped.

I was crazy to them, unable to pull myself together after the forest attack. If only they knew half the truth. If only they knew what it was like to face a terrible nightmare in real life and be unable to wake up.

One comment followed another, no one suspected that all this reached my ears. The words hurt. I almost physically felt them on my body, like sharp lashes. Something animal, unknown to me before, was growing inside like a fire of rage, heating every cell until the heat would burst out and strike back just to stop the pain. To stop the mad dance of black hypocrisy and mockery. There was only one thing left...

Diana flung open the door to the street and pushed me outside.

"Asya, breathe. Deeper. Three-two-one. Good. Listen to my voice. One more breath. Three-two..."

The cold air filled my lungs but brought no real relief. I still heard the merging voices of students. My mind deliberately clung to the hurtful words, dragging me into a viscous whirlpool. Diana gave me a critical look and frowned.

Immediately we moved on. Step, second, third, and soon my feet touched the asphalt of the parking lot. By some miracle, Diana pulled the ignition key from the outer pocket of her bag and turned off the alarm. The car headlights blinked, I heard the mechanical click of unlocked doors, and only then did I come to my senses.

"Jackets," I managed to say, but Diana just waved her hand as if to say this problem was the last thing we should worry about now.

"Get in the car."

I obediently opened the door and sat in the front seat. Diana took the driver’s seat and tossed my backpack at my feet, which I had completely forgotten. Where did this absent-mindedness come from? Something was happening, and it was beyond my understanding. Beyond everything I knew about myself before. And I didn’t like it.

"Where are we going?"

Diana looked puzzled.

"Where else? To my father. Stas said so," she gently touched my shoulder and moved closer, looking into my eyes as if there was a running line of information that would damn well make life easier for everyone right now. "Things are bad."

"What? What is it?"

"See for yourself."

Diana lowered the sun visor opposite my seat and with a light movement slid the mirror cover aside.

With caution, I looked at the reflection, inwardly fearing to understand what it meant—and what I saw didn’t please me. My eyes, once gray-blue, had turned an unnatural sandy-yellow shade, like a character from some trendy cartoon. Looking closer, I realized that not only the color of the iris had changed, but also the shape of the pupil. Now it resembled a drop, narrowed at the top and widening toward the bottom. A pounding started in my temples. I had never seen anything like it before. Not even when I was with Dad and Denis at the kennels. The gaze of those who could never return to human form was recognizable, human—but the reflection in the mirror was puzzling and frightening in its unfamiliarity: was this normal for werewolves or not?

From Diana’s brief comment, I quickly understood the answer was probably “no.” My head buzzed so loudly that the noise coming from the school turned into white noise. One sound was replaced by another—sharp, growling.

“Asya, quieter. Calm down. Breathe.”

Diana’s melodious and so calm voice pulled me out of the grip of the reflection, sharply plunging me back into the real world. The car was driving down the highway, and I was ready to swear we would walk faster, but when I glanced at the dashboard, I was horrified: Diana was driving at an unbelievable speed. I wasn’t even sure it was legal! What I had earlier taken for a growl was actually the engine’s roar. How had I not noticed before?

“A little more. Hang in there, please.”

I wanted to ask Diana what she meant, but my mouth didn’t obey. Not a single muscle twitched, as if the sounds of the surrounding world had imprisoned me and wouldn’t let me move. Submissive to the mysterious power of something ethereal, something I didn’t fully understand, I started feeling myself in the space more intensely. It suddenly felt cramped in this car.

Vertebra by vertebra pressed into the back of the seat.

I felt cramped inside this body.

The unpleasant stirring inside scared me—as if a huge snake was twisting somewhere in my stomach, stubbornly trying to free up more space for itself by pushing out the excess.

As soon as I listened to my feelings, a wave of dragging pain ran through my body, forcing me to jerk my head up, and then I saw nothing but the light beige upholstery of the car interior. No matter how hard I tried, my body refused to obey, handing control over to my dark companion, who rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Damn it!” was the last thing I heard before a black veil clouded my eyes.

Chapter Text

There was no more time, no more feelings, no more words. There was only one thing — darkness. Blackness surrounded me on all sides, but despite that, it didn’t frighten me. It didn’t hold me back. It only wrapped me in a light haze. Something told me that if I made a careless move, it would not like that. Like an all-consuming organism, it would start absorbing everything without a trace. But if I played by its rules, then…

Then what? The intuitive understanding didn’t push me away; on the contrary, it grew inside me with a viscous calm. It enveloped me like a cradle with a soft featherbed and carried me far away from here. Only I had forgotten where “here” was, and I couldn’t remember.

Or maybe I didn’t want to remember.

As if overhearing my thoughts, the darkness loosened its embrace. I became a guest who was allowed to be in this space and was inexplicably trusted. The sensation of my own body returned to me, and only then did I feel how cold and damp it was in this place. If my legs hadn’t been floating in weightlessness, I could have guessed I was in a dark basement or a drainage ditch, but there was no stench, no creaking floorboards, no trickling water.

Who am I?

The answer to this silent question came as a brief flash of light in the distance. At first, it seemed like a trick of consciousness: not finding anything to fix my gaze on in the utter darkness, my brain had begun inventing bizarre patterns. But no. Soon another flash appeared, and this time I would have sworn it was a little closer. I wanted to move toward the fleeting glimmer, but I had no idea how. The darkness held me in serene weightlessness, and it was impossible to find any support to push off from. Then I tried to spread my arms to the sides, and for a moment, it seemed like something was holding them back: I could barely move them, but I didn’t give up. I relaxed my wrist for a moment, trying to catch the point where the tension started. Carefully, I twisted my wrist, and although I still saw nothing, it felt as if I sensed something around my skin. Some kind of fabric or something similar in texture. Preparing myself, I tensed my arms strongly and pulled with all my might. My skin immediately burned unpleasantly, but it didn’t last long, and I was able to move more freely in space.

As soon as I tried to spread my arms to the sides again, my palms felt a solid barrier. It was enough to push off from. My body moved forward by inertia. I leaned my torso in the direction of movement, trying to find balance. The pale flicker in the darkness stopped flickering. The light was calling me, and I obediently followed its call. I pushed off again and again, but with each effort, I only got slightly closer.

I don’t know how long this went on. At some point, when vague outlines began to appear in the faint light, the surrounding space filled with sounds. They resembled the quiet crackling I heard every time I pressed the button on the TV remote for a channel with no broadcast.

I pushed off two more times and felt tired for the first time. The human seemed to be returning to me, reclaiming piece by piece of my consciousness from the darkness, and I would be lying to myself if I said I liked it. Non-being attracted me with a peace I had been deprived of lately in real life, but that damn light wouldn’t let me stay. It pulled me irresistibly, like gravity pulling an apple to the ground. If I wanted to resist the almost obsessive urge to see what was on the other side, it probably wouldn’t have worked. Deep inside, I felt something important was happening. Something that couldn’t be missed or ignored.

The point grew larger and larger, gradually stretching taller and turning into something oval-shaped. Soon it looked like a large glowing figure from the inside, which became less bright as I got closer, as if purposely so I could keep watching. The premonition that I had to see something important never left me. There was nothing but light, no matter how hard I tried to look closer. Attempts to make out anything seemed useless, but there were also sounds.

What started as white noise became clearer and clearer. Soon I could distinguish echoes of a familiar voice begging:

“Please, let me go. Please! I haven’t done anything bad to you or your family.”

The three phrases repeated over and over. It could have sounded like a recording if the voice hadn’t grown more plaintive with each repetition. It definitely belonged to a man, but I couldn’t understand why I felt such a sorrowful ache squeezing my heart beneath my ribs. Approaching the light almost fully, I touched it. The veil immediately lifted, and out of surprise, I pulled my hand back, not understanding what had happened. I saw a blurred reflection of my palm on the surface, as if it were mirrored, but at the same time strange. Wrong.

The object resembled a flat oval mirror, human-sized. But it didn’t reflect what was happening in the darkness; rather, it worked like a window into another place. The place from which the voice came.

Listening to myself, I tried to run through the voices of close people in my head, but nothing worked. I distinctly remembered only my father’s timbre, but the one begging clearly wasn’t him. Then why was I so uneasy inside?

I pushed off with my palms one last time, hoping to get through, but I hit the light’s smooth surface like a barrier. How could this be? It was nothing like what I expected.

“Please, no!”

The voice grew even louder. It almost turned into a scream, and it seemed the person on the other side was no longer begging but going mad with despair.

“Please, stop! It hurts! It hurts!”

“Hey! Can you hear me?” I blurted out, and I started pounding on the “glass.”

There was no response. The white noise was joined by the growling roar of a saw.

“No! No, stop!”

“I’m here! Open up! Stop! You have no right!” My voice broke, and my fists ached from the pain, but I didn’t stop. There was someone behind the mirror desperately needing help, and if I could do anything, it was at least to draw the attacker’s attention to myself.

But I failed. The screams continued. One terrifying sound was joined by others, and the nightmare had no end. I was gasping for breath, barely managing to fill my lungs to scream louder. Hot tears washed over my cheeks in helplessness, but I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was this person behind the barrier. A person I hadn’t even seen but somehow knew and reached out to with every fiber of my soul.

A silhouette flashed before my eyes. It was as bright as the surrounding space, as if several spotlights had been directed at him. The bulky hood of his cloak covered two-thirds of his face, leaving only his lips visible. As if in autofocus, the image sharpened while I watched the stranger. His mouth twitched in contempt, baring even teeth. My gaze immediately caught a pronounced fang, one I had already noticed on familiar vampires. The stranger must have seen me just as clearly as I saw him. There was no point in screaming anymore. I was waiting for the next move, not knowing what this creature had in mind.

And I wish I hadn’t known.

With a commanding movement, the stranger grabbed the armrest of the high-backed chair, behind which only the crown of someone’s head appeared, and my breath caught as soon as I made out the hair color. On the short sandy-golden waves were bloody streaks.

No, it can’t be.

The stranger was about to fully enjoy my reaction before turning the chair around and revealing who was sitting in it. The snarl changed into a satisfied smile that twisted something inside me. He was feeding on my fear, and once he started his meal, he couldn’t stop. Like a magician during a show, the stranger theatrically swept his hand across the space, as if introducing a new actor, and finally turned the chair. My lips trembled when the suspicion was confirmed.

“Nik.”

The sound of a saw filled my ears, and a wave of pain crashed into my consciousness. I grabbed my head with my hands, trying to cover my ears and escape the maddening trill of metal. I didn’t manage to see anything clearly anymore, shut my eyes, and Darkness seemed to take over once again. It pulled me back with force, away from the disgusting scene. Everything was happening too fast. The mirror kept drifting farther and farther away until it became a small shimmering dot again.

“What are you doing? No!” I screamed, addressing the ephemeral observer who had interfered. “Bring me back! Bring me back!”

“Asya, calm down,” someone shook me by the shoulders. “Listen to my voice. Breathe. Come on: one, two...”

But I didn’t listen. It felt like the Darkness was speaking to me, and after what I had seen, I had to fight no matter what. The treachery with which it lured me into its web no longer had power over me. Serene oblivion was a tempting bargaining chip, but how could I accept it, leaving another to the mercy of who knows what?

My cheek burned from a blow, and my head jerked sharply. The bright light hurt my eyes, but just a moment ago, everything was fine? Instinctively I tried to cover my face, but something prevented me from raising my hand.

“Asya?” a coaxing voice called me again. The speaker gently touched my shoulder. “There, that’s better. Quiet now, dear. Quiet.”

Someone’s fingers stroked my head while the person murmured like a mantra, “Quiet, quiet.” A sharp smell of bleach and an unnatural sour chemical fragrance hit my nose, reminding me of time spent in a hospital ward. Squinting cautiously, I tried to make out something, anything, but my eyes refused to adjust.

“Dad, turn off the light. She can’t even open her eyes.”

There was a click, and the lamp above me immediately went out. I managed to open my eyes, but I couldn’t see anything clearly — everything was blurry. After blinking a few times, the picture started to clear. Now I could distinctly see the surgical round lamp hovering above me. Slightly turning my head, I caught Diana sitting right next to the bed. Meeting my gaze, my classmate gave me a sad smile.

“Well,” I began, but a thousand thorns seemed to pierce my throat, forcing me to speak softer. “What happened? Am I in the hospital?”

“You don’t remember anything, right? You felt bad at school,” Diana said with the movement of a loving mother as she brushed a strand of hair from my face. “Arthur said some nonsense in his usual style, and you got so angry. We were really scared: you jumped on Arthur right in the hallway! Nobody had time to react, and it all happened in front of Dasha and Tanya. Arthur will, of course, erase their memory, but if more people had been around, you wouldn’t have gotten away with it. Stas told us to take you to your father, but even on the way home… I don’t even know how to describe it. Asya, it was like you started transforming. The whole car was filled with a crackling noise, as if bone was breaking in two. You were trembling all over, my God…”

Diana winced and then shook her head, as if trying to forget what she had seen, but the image was firmly imprinted in her mind.

“Daughter,” Dr. Smirnov placed his hand on Di’s shoulder, “these details won’t help Asya now. Go out and freshen up.”

“Dad, but…”

“I have something to discuss with Asya,” he said firmly, responding to Diana’s protest.

She obediently got up and left the room, casting me an apologetic glance as she went. Only now did I notice that in the middle of the room, which looked more like a museum hall, stood a hospital couch, on which I lay, along with medical equipment. To my left was a stand with devices that periodically emitted quiet beeps. From my right hand extended a transparent tube leading to a glass flask on a holder. Drops of clear liquid slowly fell into the dispenser.

“What are you giving me?” I managed to ask as my eyes scanned the room and I noticed a mirror. It was the same oval shape as in the dream.

“This is saline,” Dr. Smirnov sat down on the chair freed by Diana, and I felt uneasy being alone with him. “When Diana brought you in, I gave you a sedative. It acted quickly, and soon we transferred you here. Sorry, I didn’t even have time to change after it happened, and then I was afraid to leave you alone.”

He shrugged, pointing to himself, and only then did I notice Vladimir was in regular clothes: jeans, a blue V-neck sweater slightly darker than the jeans. No hint of the usual hospital uniform with which I associated the elder Smirnov.

“Usually Stanislav or Maxim help me,” Vladimir’s eyes widened momentarily as if suddenly remembering something. “But it seems today I managed on my own.”

His lips stretched into a polite smile. He patiently waited, looking straight at me, but there was no warmth or care in his gaze like I saw from Diana or Stas. Dr. Smirnov looked friendly, but a chill radiated from him. It was hard to tell whether Vladimir was truly wearing a mask or if my mind, shaken by the vision, was planting a seed of suspicion. Such a strange and dark nightmare — no horror movie could match the feeling. I wished I could forget it like a bad dream, never remember again, but the mirror in the room troubled me. It pulled me in, inviting me to touch it, to check if the familiar Darkness was already on the other side. To confirm that everything that had happened was just a product of my mind. Then I saw in the reflection a working chair covered in expensive leather. The moment I noticed it, something inside snapped. There are no such coincidences. The mind could not have painted an image it did not know with such precision. No. Something was wrong here. I had never been in this room before, so how could I know what Dr. Smirnov’s chair looked like?

My thoughts were interrupted by a muffled hum and a strange sound that resembled a human scream underwater. Muted, barely audible. At least, that’s how victim screams were voiced in movies. I stared at Vladimir, waiting for an explanation, but he only gently stroked my palm, and I had to force myself not to pull away. Whether distrust was caused by my mind playing tricks or not, I couldn’t reveal myself easily until I understood what was really happening.

Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

“Does this sedative you gave me cause visions?”

“Hallucinations, vivid dreams, anxiety, depression, dizziness, vomiting, arrhythmia, bowel disorders, diarrhea — quite a lengthy list, like all drugs of this kind.”

I was stunned by what I heard. What did it mean? Why could medicines meant to help cause new symptoms instead of solving old ones? Righteous anger and a flood of questions rushed through my mind, but out loud I asked only the main one:

“Then why did you give it to me?!”

“I’m afraid if we had delayed, you would have already transformed into a wolf. Your brother is very tied to his emotional state with the approach of the full moon. As far as I know, werewolves learn to better control their feelings and monitor urges as they age. You should talk to your father about this. Konstantin has personal experience with this, unlike me.”

It took a moment to grasp what I’d just heard.

“Wait. You mean I can transform at any time?”

Vladimir raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“What did you expect? Thought that like in movies, when the moon brightens in the sky, all lycanthropes immediately start tearing their clothes and turning into beasts?”

“I think Dad already explained that it doesn’t work like that,” I said quietly, feeling heat rush to my cheeks from embarrassment. And those stereotypes were so sticky! Finding parallels in real life — with movies!

“Alas, Asya. If I know anything about your brother, it’s about the unpredictability of these entities. Just take how differently lycans connect to their ancestral spirit!”

His tone sounded like a poorly concealed mockery. It must be easy, when you’re well over a couple hundred years old, to sneer at ignorance of fundamental truths hidden from most.

“I never asked, but how many werewolves have you met?”

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, as if the answer was hiding there:

“Counting you — seven. I studied only four of them.”

“You’re studying me too?”

“Of course. How else? You agreed to hospital procedures yourself to try to control the beast,” he leaned closer and said confidentially, “I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is. The thing is, vampires have certain behavior patterns regarding transformation or, like Diana and Stas, birth — species traits are common. Unless somewhere in their lineage there’s witch blood, like with Arthur and the twins. You probably noticed: they’re not quite ordinary vampires.”

“I didn’t really have a chance to figure out who’s a normal vampire and who isn’t.”

Vladimir waved his hand.

“They themselves don’t really understand how their gift works. They’ve learned to use the minimum and are content. Only Maxim tries to expand the limits, to truly understand the boundaries of his abilities,” a shadow of approval flickered on the doctor’s face but was quickly replaced by disappointment. “Viola and Arthur don’t care about that. They fulfill their duty for the family’s sake and are satisfied. Love, you see...”

A quiet creak came from behind the door, and Vladimir’s jaw clenched.

“If you want to hear what we’re talking about so badly — come in, and don’t try to deceive me. You know, Diana, what happens to those who misbehave.”

Diana returned with a guilty look and obediently stood by the wall, hiding her hands behind her back. She didn’t look at me or the doctor, and I thought how hard it must be for the Smirnovs with such a strict father. Compared to him, Kostya seemed like a good-natured retriever.

“Where was I? Ah, yes. If the kids had shown even a little interest, like Maxim, and allowed themselves to be studied — what a breakthrough humanity would have!”

“Which is why you,” I had to clear my throat before saying as neutrally as possible, “studied Nik’s mother?”

“Of course. And if she hadn’t run away, I would have been able to help her sooner or later. But what’s done is done. Time can’t be turned back. She made her choice.”

“But then it turns out you could have helped Nikita all this time but didn’t.”

“Nikita was born, not turned by a lesser vampire. That’s the big difference between our species, Asya. He inherited the gift not from his mother but probably from his father. But who that vampire was remains a big question even for someone close to the ancient circle. You can’t change the nature of a bloodsucker given by nature. At least not yet. Nik, as you may have noticed, wasn’t eager to fall into my hands after the Halloween night encounter. And I don’t blame the boy. His mother did everything to make Nikita’s life hell on Earth: from supplying him with her blood to terrible stories.”

“It sounds like you’re not the villain here, although Galina turned because of you. Your blood doomed her to become what you call lesser vampires.”

Dr. Smirnov turned a dial on the IV, stopping the flow.

“I’m a researcher who made decisions to help the majority at the cost of one life, and unfortunately, I haven’t succeeded much. Can wanting to solve a problem that tormented many be considered evil? What do you think?”

“I think you had no right to make that choice for her.”

Vladimir shrugged slightly and turned with interest to his daughter, as if checking her reaction.

“Diana would agree with you. Right, daughter?”

Only silence answered.

“I’m not looking for excuses or redemption. When I find a cure for vampires too, no one will care how many suffered for the sake of the goal.”

I clung to that saving clarification, wondering whether it was Vladimir’s manner of speech or a secret hidden between the words that I so desperately needed.

“For vampires too? You mean you have already found a cure for someone else?”

His Adam’s apple moved involuntarily, though the doctor tried not to change his expression. I saw how hard it was for him not to twitch a muscle. My lips involuntarily curved into a smile, anticipating the answer.

“Yes, Asya,” the doctor clapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “I’m starting to understand how to stop lycanthropy.”

I looked at him questioningly, hardly believing my luck. The fleeting hope died when bitterness filled my mouth: something was wrong.

“Then why are you delaying? Adjust the treatment you’re already giving me.”

“Asya,” he sighed deeply, “it’s not that simple.”

“If it’s not simple, then why the hell did you even say it? Why give false hope?”

“You talk about lycanthropy as a disease.”

I snorted indignantly and gestured at the objects around me in the room.

“If it’s not a disease, then why are we talking about treatment here, in a dubious hospital ward?”

The anger was rising again, and Dr. Smirnov noticed it too. He quickly stood up and went to the metal cart with wide shelves, which were filled with all sorts of medical devices and instruments whose names I didn’t know. I leaned forward, wanting to see what Vladimir was doing, but he blocked my view with his back and quickly commanded his daughter:
“Diana, hand me the vial from the second shelf,” the doctor nodded toward something behind the bed. “The leftmost one.”

The door creaked open.

“With the seal or without?”

“Is one of them opened?” Vladimir looked surprised, but only for a moment. Catching my gaze, Smirnov hurried.

 “Sealed.”

Diana obediently brought her father a small vial with a liquid that at first seemed clear to me, but as soon as the light touched it, a familiar pearly shimmer flashed. I heard how gently the needle pierced the rubber stopper and how faintly the liquid hummed as it was drawn into the syringe. How strange. Over the past few days, my hearing had caught many sounds, but such tiny ones—this was the first time. It was amazing how certain sounds stood out only in fragments. It seemed only those connected with the syringe had grown louder. Voices, footsteps, floor creaks remained the same volume, and I didn’t understand when I had gotten used to it. Something important had switched inside me since I woke up. But how?
“Don’t let him inject you with that crap,” whispered a voice, neither from inside nor outside. Startled, I jumped, but neither Diana nor Vladimir seemed to hear the stranger’s voice. I watched the doctor’s back cautiously, wondering what Smirnov was filling the syringe with, when suddenly I noticed a strange play of light behind him. The shadow didn’t match the outline of a human body and was darker than it should be—an unnatural, almost black color, even though the room was well lit.

Chapter Text

Vladimir headed toward me. He moved from his place, but the shadow did not follow him. What the hell? This wasn’t just a play of light. On the wall appeared a full silhouette, human-sized, but its head looked like a wolf’s because of the elongated pointed ears—triangles. Besides the stranger’s shape, no details could be made out: wherever my gaze landed, the surface seemed to ripple and move. But I didn’t give up. Sliding my eyes down to his arm, I could see only one thing: a neon snake coiled around the forearm in two loops. The cold reptile’s head silently stared at me, and my stomach clenched so fiercely it felt as if her kin were swarming inside. I felt dizzy. Nausea rose to my throat, and the spasm inside was so strong I wanted to pull my legs up, which I did. Vladimir immediately reacted to the movement and was at the head of the bed with the syringe ready.

“I don’t feel well,” I said, feeling sweat break out on my forehead.

“It will get easier soon, just hang on a bit,” Vladimir said, bringing the syringe closer to my arm—and the creature spoke again.

“Don’t let him inject that crap.”

“Wait,” I managed with difficulty to push myself away from the doctor. “What are you giving me?”

“A sedative, as usual,” he moved closer. Diana and I exchanged looks.

My friend tiptoed to the table, picked up the ampoule, and began turning it in her hands. Diana looked puzzled, which made me even more uneasy.

“Dad, why does the liquid in the vial look like vampire poison?”

Vladimir didn’t answer. He sharply grabbed my forearm, holding it still. The doctor’s fingers squeezed the skin so painfully that I gasped.

“Why don’t you explain anything?”

“Because I see I don’t have time for that.”

“Dad!”

Diana stepped forward, but before she could do anything, the door suddenly flew off its hinges. In one swift motion, someone reached Vladimir and grabbed him around the torso. The attacker moved so fast I couldn’t see his face. Only the edge of a black leather jacket flashed before my eyes before its owner fell with Smirnov to the floor.

Diana recoiled against the wall, almost blending with a motionless dark figure that, like a silent observer, watched everything intently, as if the decisions made now were stakes for what was to come.

“What are you doing to my daughter?” Kosta’s voice thundered through the room.

“Mister Black, where’s all this distrust from? Have I ever done anything to harm you or your family? I thought we had a pact.”

I wanted to get up and help my father. To get away from this deceptively friendly house. But as soon as I moved, my head spun.

This was something new. Just now, nothing like it had happened. A buzzing filled my ears, and in the distance I heard the familiar white noise again. A heaviness settled over my eyes, but I held on as best I could, trying to understand why such a change. My gaze fell on the raised arm with Smirnov’s syringe sticking out. He hadn’t finished injecting, but judging by my reaction, some of it had entered my bloodstream. My fingers grew heavy as lead, but I managed to grab the syringe and pull it out. I did it too sharply, and blood immediately splattered on my skin.

“Dad,” Diana called. “Dad!”

But the men kept arguing, one louder than the other.

“Something’s happening, Dad!” Diana covered her face with her hands, partially shielding it. My friend shrank as if about to cry.

The dark entity’s eyes glowed amber.

“It has begun,” the shadow’s lips curled into a snarl, revealing a row of pearly white teeth.

“Who are you?” I barely moved my lips, hoping that if the stranger was watching, he would be listening.

“I am Darkness. That is how you called me.”

“What is happening to her?” my father’s voice echoed.

My eyes tried to close despite my efforts to hold them open. A chill ran through my body. It became so cold that I began to tremble.

“Do something, Vladimir!” my father shouted. His voice was drowned out by the siren of a monitor nearby.

“No,” my throat dried up, but I felt, no, I knew I needed to ask. “What is your real name?”

The dark companion’s eyes flared brighter, and the snake hissed, ready to strike. The reptile aimed at the stranger.

“If I answer, there will be no turning back.”

“Is she dying?”

“Diana, bring Maxim!”

“And yet…” I whispered, and the stranger answered before my eyelids finally shut, and a monotonous beep sounded from the heart monitor.

“Kaandor.”

His name flooded through me with a wild surge of energy that gave me strength, but only for a moment. The saving relief lasted just an instant, giving a tiny respite before I plunged back into another wave of pain. The stirring inside no longer felt like a nervous spasm, no. I jumped from the many small jolts in my stomach, as if something alive was inside, desperately trying to break free.

“Asya?” my father looked at me in horror. “Asya, where does it hurt? Where?”

I gasped for air, unable to say a word. My fingers slid to my clothes and tugged at the edge, trying to open my jacket, but my hands wouldn’t obey.

Vladimir reacted faster than Kosta. With a sharp motion, the doctor pulled up the fabric, exposing my stomach, and then I saw what I feared. Something really was inside me. One after another, lumps of skin rose and fell in waves. For a moment I thought I was done for: Smirnov would eagerly grab a scalpel and cut me from throat to groin, enjoying the chance to pull out and study what throbbed inside me. Another mysterious creature, kindly delivered into his hands.

I imagined him apologizing to Kosta, saying he couldn’t save me during surgery, and now it was too late, condolences. My father would grieve with Maria, blaming each other in turn, while the doctor with ease hid the fresh subject deep in some basement, like he once did with Galina. And the suffering wouldn’t end as long as there was a knowledge-hungry vampire who wouldn’t hesitate to use another’s life as a bargaining chip for the illusory good of the masses.

To my horror, Vladimir really reached for the scalpel, but before he could do anything, Maxim and Diana appeared behind him. My friend was instantly on the other side of the hospital bed and firmly squeezed my hands.

“I’m here, I’m right here. Everything will be okay,” her voice trembled because Diana didn’t believe her own words; horror was clear on her face as she looked at the creature writhing under my skin. But Di kept repeating the words like a mantra, as if trying to calm not only me but also to give herself hope.

“Max, hurry!” the doctor commanded. “Konstantin, hold her down on this side! Your daughter doesn’t like me much.”

Without protest, my father bent over my body and pressed his broad palms on my shoulders, pinning me to the hospital bed. Max stood at my feet and slowly unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, then rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, freeing his forearms. He raised his half-bent arms before him, palms turned upward to the ceiling, and began chanting line after line in a language unknown to me. The longer Maxim spoke, the more his eyes rolled back, and his voice grew louder.

“Veerna atlaan, Sgihirat sham mimoe. Duhat las viori, Pierni nen limoi.”

The light in the room flickered, and out of nowhere a wind arose. It blew Maxim’s wavy hair in all directions, sometimes tangling before his eyes, but Smirnov seemed oblivious to everything as the strange chant continued. And how the hell was this supposed to help me? The earlier thoughts of Vladimir’s scalpel seemed, in that moment, almost hopeful: I was ready to beg the doctor to intervene and pull this damn thing out of me that now fought to escape with renewed vigor.

But my hopes were dashed: Vladimir took a seat near the dark entity, away from the action, watching not so much me as Maxim expectantly.

My stomach began to swell even higher, inflating like a balloon. I felt my skin stretch. A strange pinkish mist slid across the surface. I didn’t know if I was really seeing it or if the pain clouded my mind. Doubts about the reality of what was happening vanished when the veil grew denser and clearer. Like feathery clouds, it covered the skin’s smoothness in a shroud.

“Turvidu aelume shatu, niviria kiilmaa,” Max swayed in time with his song, gradually bringing his palms together, and from the side it looked as if it required effort. He seemed to be compressing the air around him into an invisible sphere, shrinking its boundaries smaller and smaller. His fingers tensed. Maxim did this confidently and without hesitation, as if he practiced it every day or every other day. I shifted my gaze from Maxim to my stomach and back until I noticed my belly gradually shrinking, as if responding to the singing.

“Stuurna bilak taa! Brivida sakir bata!” Maxim lifted his head and shouted the last lines. The room filled with a pale cold light, as if the moon itself had crept inside. Max straightened his arms and raised them above his head, reaching even higher, and I was amazed that with his height he didn’t touch the ceiling—strange thoughts passed through my mind before I realized my body no longer trembled, and inside I no longer felt the foreign presence. The pink mist, like a living creature, stretched toward Maxim’s palms, gradually fitting into the illusory sphere between his fingers. When the last part of the mist was inside, Smirnov swung and with a roar hurled the sphere to the floor at his feet.

Начало формы

Конец формы

A pop sounded, and immediately the wind in the room calmed, and the light became warm and muted again. Max was breathing heavily and continuously looking at the spot where he had aimed the orb. I listened to the sensations in my body and didn’t notice anything alarming. It seemed I felt fine, except for one small "but": the world seemed to have slowed down.

Sounds and smells had faded away. Even Max’s face, on which I could see every feature in the tiniest detail, looked as if through a smoothing filter in an app where classmates loved to take selfies. I turned to my father and realized he looked just as blurry. But I could no longer ponder the nature of the phenomenon: on the faces of everyone in the room was a frozen expression of bewilderment. Everyone was looking at Max’s feet and dared not say a word. In waiting, both my father and Doctor Smirnov stared at the same spot. I noticed how, almost preemptively, Kostya spread his arms wider and stepped closer, preparing to shield me and protect me from danger. Kostya’s reaction was both comforting and chilling to the tips of my fingers.

From my place, I couldn’t see what the pinkish mist had turned into, but it was important for me to know what creature had been hiding inside me all this time. It seemed that if I saw what the others were looking at, I would understand what was happening better. I lifted myself slightly, but my father remained frozen in place, blocking me from rising from the bed and stepping closer to the source of everyone’s attention.

It was important for me to find out what the creature looked like, whether Kostya wanted it or not. He couldn’t always decide what was best for me. Neither for my sake nor for anyone else’s. Not again. I would not allow myself to be locked away behind seven locks again, waiting for a better situation when all the dangers, in my father’s opinion, had passed.

“Dad, what is it?” I asked calmly, trying to gently approach the topic, since I already knew it was pointless to openly confront my father when he had already made up his mind.

“I’m not quite sure,” my father said slowly, glancing toward Vladimir, seeking his support. But the doctor only continued to look intently downward.

Suddenly he got busy and headed to the cabinet. Objects clattered and rattled as Vladimir searched inside.

“It seems the curse is still stirring,” Max croaked, pulling Diana close and then with visible relief gently pressing his lips to the top of his beloved’s head.

“Perhaps it will fit in this one,” Vladimir said, pulling out a tall glass vessel with a lid and handing it to my father. “Konstantin, could you help? The guys have had enough shocks for today. Better if we pack the curse up before it bites anyone.”

Kostya moved reluctantly, understanding that as soon as he left me, I wouldn’t miss a chance to see what the mist had turned into. My father looked at me warily, as if I were a wild beast who could pull a stunt at any moment. What nonsense!

“Dad,” I wanted my voice to sound calm but immediately caught notes of irritation I could do nothing about, “I’m going to find out what’s there anyway. It came out of my body, and you don’t have the right to decide what I do with that knowledge: accept it or reject it. Don’t undo everything we’ve achieved in our relationship because of another worry about my life.”

“It’ll be better for you…” Kostya began in the expert tone I hated to the core of my soul.

“It won’t. Period. You have no right to decide for me.”

“How do you mean no right? You’re not even eighteen yet. When you’re an adult, do whatever you want. Even get a tattoo on your forehead. But for now—I’m your father! Who else will be responsible for you if not me?”

“No one. Neither you nor Mom. Neither Doctor Smirnov nor anyone else standing behind this situation.”

Kostya clenched his jaw, then his fists. His face gradually flushed pink. He was angry, but I didn’t care. I tried to talk to him nicely, but if Kostya, after a long lull, decided again he had the right to limit my freedom, better this way than becoming a prisoner of four walls when we get back to the apartment.

“Konstantin?” noticing my father’s reaction, Doctor Smirnov tensed. “I would be extremely grateful if you wouldn’t speak that way under my roof.”

“You think after all these years I’ll explode from a couple of gentle words from my teenage daughter? Don’t count on it. There will be no show.”

I put my feet down from the bed and again listened to my sensations before standing up. There was no dizziness or stomach pain, and I sighed in relief.

“I’m not hoping. You know, restoring a mansion is expensive but doable. Artworks—some things can’t be recreated from ashes like a phoenix, and I cherish my collection.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

My father demonstratively relaxed, showing everyone how well he controlled himself. Kostya proudly straightened his shoulders and walked around the bed. When my father approached Vladimir, the doctor handed him the container and asked him to hold it with both hands. I finally got up from the bed and moved far enough away to see what the mist had turned into, but not risk too much.

A white snake with violet eyes and no pupils lay on the dark parquet. Its body rose and fell as if lungs were inflating inside—which I knew snakes didn’t do. Carefully, I began to squat to look at the snake closer, but Kostya grabbed my forearm.

“What are you doing?” he asked sternly. I tried to pull my arm back, but my father’s fingers held tight.

“I want to see it closer.”

“We and Vladimir will lock the curse in the vessel now. Look as much as you want then.”

I didn’t argue. The suggestion sounded reasonable, although I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to stand my ground here too, to start visibly defending my boundaries again, showing Kostya the line that Dad must not cross if he wants to keep our relationship.

I didn’t like how easily he dismissed my freedom, hiding behind his personal ideas of my well-being and safety. I wondered what influenced Kostya more, work or upbringing? Probably both left an equal mark on his fate, because not everyone would enjoy serving in the police. I knew little about Dad’s job, beyond the basics, and never thought there was much truth in TV series. Werewolves movies definitely had none. But piecing together scattered bits of knowledge and impressions, it seemed I wouldn’t be able to work in the police like Dad.

“Why do you even call the snake a curse?”
“Because it is a curse,” Max spoke up. “Some witch cursed you.”
“Cursed? Me? I don’t even know a single one...”

Great, witches exist too. Just perfect.

I wondered what a witch might even look like and tried running through people I knew to find someone I could point at and say, “Yep, definitely a witch!” — but no one came to mind. Except maybe Denis’s mother, who was an herbalist, though I barely remembered her. In my childhood memories, Uncle Dima was always a bright spot, and lately, I started recalling little things like playing chess during quiet time with Denis.

“If it was pulled out of me, does that mean it’s all over? The spell is lifted?”
Max shook his head.
“I only managed to pull it out of you and bind it to the material world. Someone did a good job. I don’t think even the three of us — me, Viola, and Artur — could dispel it, but we should try later, after I catch my breath. Definitely not today. The witch who cast it was too strong.”

Max wobbled, but Diana caught him just in time. She looked at Max with concern, and I realized it was the first time I’d seen them together. It was surprising how well they fit despite being so different: tiny, delicate Diana with aristocratic features, and a blonde two heads taller, with a mischievous smile creeping at the corners of his lips, partly hidden by wavy strands falling to his chin. Compared to Diana, Max looked pale and sickly, with dark circles under his eyes.

“Darling, won’t you help? I have no strength left.”
Diana smiled softly and rolled up her narrow sleeve, then kindly offered her hand, almost reaching Max’s face. His long fingers gently wrapped around her wrist. Sharp fangs peeked out from his open mouth. With great care, Max bit Diana’s skin, and she didn’t make a sound. She looked at him with understanding and special tenderness — no fear. For them, it was ordinary, while I watched this scene entranced and felt uncomfortable, as if I were an intruder in this room. The one spying on someone else’s ritual, but even having this thought, I couldn’t look away.

Diana handed Max her hand with such casual ease that for a moment I imagined doing the same for Nick and shuddered. Could I ever accept the part of his essence that burdened his life? Even understanding that Karimov hadn’t chosen the fate of a vampire for himself, it was hard to feel compassion for him after everything that happened. At least mentally, I kept trying to convince myself that all the warm and bright feelings I had for Nick were just echoes of a hallucination. They refused to dissolve into oblivion and, like parasites, clung to the remaining memories, unwilling to leave my mind. But even though those echoes still had power over me, I noticed their choking grip weakening.

The more new memories formed, along with reasons to reflect, the less space was left in my thoughts for Karimov. And that was good.

Though honestly, I didn’t like the price of freedom of thought all that much. I would gladly have given up the news of the curse, the strange visions with the dark silhouette, and the second round of conflict with Dad at a moment when I thought Kostya and I had finally found some common ground.

Kostya and Vladimir carefully placed the curse into the glass container and let me take a closer look at the creature. It really did resemble a snake in shape but there was something abnormal, almost unnatural about its appearance. Maybe it just seemed so because I wasn’t particularly interested in reptiles in real life. Maybe I’d seen some beautiful colorful creatures with matte scales online a few times, but this creature in the jar didn’t look like any of them — its eyes and velvety pattern set it apart. The snake didn’t resist or writhe. Coiled in several loops, it rose above them like on cushions and, frozen, looked at me expectantly.

Vladimir covered the container with a tight glass lid with a rubber seal.
“Wait, but what about air? It won’t be able to breathe!” I protested, but Vladimir gestured to calm down.

“It’s a curse, Asya. It’s not a living being.”

I hesitated and looked again into the pale violet eyes, feeling that what I saw before me was a trick. An illusion.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

I wanted to touch the cool glass to see how the snake would react, but it didn’t move. Seeing what I was doing, Kostya hurried to stand next to me and watched anxiously, but said nothing.

“So it’s harmless now?”

“Not quite,” Max ran his thumb from one corner of his lips to the other, carefully wiping away the last drops of blood, and I shuddered. “The curse is very much active and will gladly reunite with its host at the first chance. But while it’s materialized, it won’t have power over you. We’ll find out who cast it, and then something might become clear.”

“Oh yes, you will find out.”

Kaandor’s mockery made me pay attention to him again. By the way, I wasn’t entirely sure if it was he or she, or whether gender even mattered for the creature. Because of the name spoken, the mystical “Darkness” didn’t come to mind anymore, but the association with a man stuck firmly, though I really had no reason to think so. Oh, these gender expectations. I glanced once more at the dark being and realized something had changed — maybe in its pose or shape. The obvious differences were hard to notice, but I felt some tiny detail was slipping away from my attention, as if deliberately hiding.

How could I forget Kaandor at all? Strangely, thoughts about the dark observer only came when he tossed out new remarks, drawing attention to himself. Kaandor met my gaze and swaggered across the room, approaching the vessel.

“Such a little pest, but how many problems it caused,” Kaandor snapped his fingers on the glass surface.

“Do you know what it is?” I asked aloud, unsure how else to communicate with this dark substance, though Max directed the question to himself.

“I told you — a curse. What’s unclear about that?”

“Max, I wasn’t asking you, I was asking him,” I pointed to where the dark silhouette stood. Everyone behaved as if Kaandor’s presence was taken for granted, forgetting that the mysterious world of mythical creatures had only recently opened its doors to me and no one was in a hurry to explain anything.

Maxim and Diana’s faces changed. They looked at me and Kaandor with puzzled eyes, but their gaze slipped over the space as if they had nothing to hold onto.

“Asya, who were you asking?” Dr. Smirnov’s hand touched my shoulder, but Dad immediately brushed it away.

“Don’t you dare touch her again.”

“Kostya,” Vladimir said in an overly official tone, “if I’m not going to treat your daughter, then who?”

“Any other doctor who won’t inject her with vampire venom.”

“I’ll explain everything soon. Without concealment or detours. I can only assure you now that my intentions were never to harm Asya. I did everything only for her good.”

The last phrase grated on my ears, and I involuntarily took a deep breath and let out the air with a hiss. Oh, these fathers obsessed with doing whatever they want to others, “for their good.” No wonder the ancient vampire managed to gain the support of the Khertonian werewolf cop.

“I’ll decide that myself.”

“Of course, Kostya. Of course.”

“The Earth is calling concerned fathers!” I called out to Vladimir and Dad. “Start the explanations with who Kaandor is. He himself isn’t very talkative and didn’t bother to answer the last question.”

The dark silhouette shook as if laughing, though it didn’t make a sound. It bent over, hugging itself by the waist with long arms, and continued to chuckle.

Only then did I notice Kaandor’s forearm, and if there was a light bulb in my head that blinked every time an important observation appeared, it would now be shining brighter than any flame.

“The snake! It was on his arm!”

Chapter Text

A heavy silence fell. Father slowly ran his hand over the back of his head—he looked puzzled, while in the depths of Vladimir’s eyes already danced the eager sparks of someone anticipating a new curious circumstance on the horizon.

"Why is it," I pointed again at Kaandor, "that it’s laughing, and you’re all looking at me so strangely?"

"Haven’t you figured it out yet?"

"Figured out what?" I threw up my hands, anger rising at the fact that I still didn’t understand anything.

"They can’t see me," and Kaandor shook again. The bastard!

"Couldn’t you have said that earlier?!" I snapped, and Dr. Smirnov loudly cleared his throat, as if to draw attention to himself.

"I think," Vladimir began, "we should start the explanations right now."

Stanislav returned from classes with his brothers and sisters just as Dr. Smirnov suggested everyone take a short break and meet in the dining room in half an hour, where Vladimir swore he would explain in more detail everything concerning my condition. Kostya didn’t like the idea of staying here until the evening, but I managed to persuade my father to be patient a little longer. I wouldn’t call convincing him a pleasant activity, but I had to give him credit: considering our last clash, he at least listened to my arguments and didn’t once utter the sacred "I’m your father, and I know better." I wondered how many more clashes awaited us ahead, since even after the lesson Kostya should have learned in the fall, he only pretended to understand something. Or maybe I was being too harsh, expecting changes immediately, as if at the snap of a finger? Who could tell.

Father surprised me even more when he didn’t protest at Diana’s suggestion to go to her room and change clothes. My friend was ready to lend me a couple of outfits, explaining that it would hurt her to see guests at the dinner table in wet and crumpled clothes. I thought Kostya wouldn’t leave me unsupervised until he heard the elder Smirnov’s explanation and decided for himself whether to trust the doctor or not. But here too my father surprised me: he replied vaguely that we’d meet at the appointed time at the table, and that was that.

As soon as everyone began dispersing around the huge house, I hurried after Diana, following her almost step for step, afraid of getting lost. Who knew what secrets this house held and how many of them were meant for outsiders’ eyes? I had a vague suspicion that someone who could so easily keep a woman in a state hospital for years and remain unpunished couldn’t possibly own a simple, even if historically valuable, house without secret doors and other devilry.

I walked behind Diana, watching her hair sway with each step. It had grown a couple of centimeters in the past month, yet still looked elegant.

Diana half-turned and stretched her lips into a smile, as if apologizing for winding through the corridors. She was deliberately polite and always kind to me, and for a moment I caught myself on the unpleasant thought that Di was copying my father’s manner, pretending to be good and nice. The suspicion was unpleasant, and I tried to push it away. The very idea that Diana might have known about Dr. Smirnov’s experiments on Nick’s mother left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I clung to the saving detail that at least Diana had realized what the doctor was injecting into my blood under the guise of medicine. She had been genuinely surprised and puzzled, which meant she at least didn’t approve of her father’s actions, and that gave me hope. I didn’t want to lose a friend I had only just found.

"We’re almost there," Di encouraged me, as if noticing the pensive look on my face. I must have been frowning and biting my lip again.

"Tell me, is your father always so strict with you?"

Her smile faded the moment I asked.

"That’s not what you want to know," Kaandor’s voice sounded in my head. Startled, I turned, but couldn’t find the dark creature with my eyes. How strange. Where had he disappeared to this time?

"Vladimir isn’t strict. More like… he just doesn’t always wake up on the right side of the bed. Dad’s a good man. You’ll see once you get to know him better."
"For you, maybe, he’s good. You know, I still can’t get over what Vladimir did to Galina. It just seems wrong somehow."

"Do you know the saying: ‘Hell is full of good intentions, and heaven is full of good deeds’?"

"Is that like ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions’?"

"Yeah, probably. Sounds like a simplified version of the same thing. Anyway, that phrase perfectly describes my father. He wants what’s best, and at the same time does evil that he somehow justifies with his decisions. Imagined benefits erase the harm. At least, that’s how Dad explained it to me and Stas after Halloween night."

"And you…" I stopped, realizing it wasn’t right to ask Diana about her opinion and Stas’s at the same time, as they might differ. "Did you know that he experiments on people?"
"Oh God, no. Of course not!"

A weight fell from my chest and tumbled into a bottomless void. I wanted to believe her. How could I not, seeing the sincerity on Diana’s face, hearing the genuine notes of outrage? The inner paranoiac, always waiting for the chance to overtake my calm, rational side, was already rubbing its hands with a sweet smile, anticipating how my trust would end. I wasn’t ready to give in, to become a shadow-lurking creature always expecting betrayal, so I swore to myself that even if I was wrong in trusting— I was ready to pay the price. Later, in the future. Closing yourself off meant never truly knowing or growing close to anyone. All that was left was to open your arms and wait to see whether a sharp knife would stab you in the back, or whether you’d be rewarded for the risk with something pure and real—something that would warm you on the coldest day and split grief in half.

"Even Mom, it turns out, didn’t know. You probably don’t realize it, but during the school disco, Stas was the first to smell blood. We didn’t even have time to react before he bolted. You should have seen Tatiana’s face," Diana chuckled. "Viola and Arthur gloated for ages. Imagine, Rostova had just put her hands on Stas’s shoulders during a slow dance, and whoosh—no partner! I wonder which embarrassed her more: the fact it happened in front of the whole school, or that she genuinely cares about Stas?"

I stayed silent, not understanding why Diana was telling me this, but a curious realization was already knocking on the door. Not that it was pleasant. Tatiana might not have been a close friend until recently, but our relationship had changed a lot over the past month. She often visited me in the hospital with Dasha and Stas, and though I wasn’t entirely sure her caring gesture wasn’t just a cover for wanting to spend more time with her beloved away from her parents, I liked to think there was at least a spark of genuine concern for me. We were very different, but I had never wished Tanya harm—nor anyone else, for that matter. And yet from Diana’s story, I felt… glee?

"And why does everyone dislike Tanya so much?" I muttered under my breath, but vampire hearing inevitably caught the phrase. Diana shook her head, as if weighing her feelings.

"Too loud, too flighty, and on top of that, mercenary. Stas brought her home recently and took her to the hall to look at paintings, and Rostova started asking about their price. I was right there and saw that she didn’t even look at the canvases before chirping, ‘Oh, which one’s the most expensive?’"

Going over my conversations with Tatiana in my head, I couldn’t recall a single instance of her being a gold-digger, and so I was surprised, not remembering any time Rostova had talked about money. In the cafeteria, there had been passing mentions of her father’s wealth and the spa center that still wasn’t finished, but nothing boasting.

"Maybe she just sees art as a potential asset? Her father used to be an oilman and is now a businessman. Tanya’s never really talked to me about money, and she’s never flaunted trendy purchases either. I’m sure her clothes are more expensive than most of ours, yet not a word. I doubt someone truly obsessed with money would miss the chance to show off their wealth to people who could never afford it."

"Oh, Asya," Diana looked at me like I was a naïve fool. "Someone obsessed with money will do everything to increase their assets and will never go around broadcasting that their sweater costs two hundred thousand rubles. That, you see, would be unsafe at the very least."

"HOW MUCH?" I couldn’t believe my ears. "Tell me you’re joking."

"Not at all. One quick glance is all I need to spot a tasteless rag with a skull from the latest collection of a famous designer. You wouldn’t believe how many garish, bizarre things top brands release just to turn their owner into a parrot passersby can’t help but stare at, nearly breaking their necks. It looks bright and ambiguous, but only a select few will realize it’s insanely expensive—not like with fake handbags from fashion houses, where the logo is so huge you can’t unsee it."

After another turn, Diana stopped in front of a double door and knocked.
"Come in," came Violetta’s voice, and Diana swung the doors open.

We found ourselves in a bright, spacious room with ornate plaster molding along the ceiling’s perimeter that, at a glance, reminded me of grapevines. Almost the entire wall opposite the entrance was taken up by a huge window, in front of which stood two neat vanity tables with mirrors. Viola was sitting at one of them. With a thick brush, my classmate lightly touched up her face, refreshing her makeup. Our eyes met in the mirror, and Violetta studied me with a slight squint. Apparently, that wasn’t enough for her—she set down the powder case and brush, turned to face me, and gave me a skeptical once-over from head to toe.

"You don’t look so great," Viola remarked, and I stepped up to the free mirror to finally assess the damage.

In my opinion, it wasn’t that bad. My unruly waves had fluffed up a bit, as if after sleep, and there were unfamiliar dark circles under my eyes. I seemed paler than usual, though perhaps it was only because the bright pre-sunset rays were falling directly on my face. My clothes looked slightly crumpled and careless, but who hasn’t had that happen?

"I’ll find something from my things for Asya to wear. We won’t bother you, will we?"
"No, you won’t," Violetta rose from the table and headed toward the wardrobe on her side of the room, pulling on the handles. "You can even look through mine. Black is closer in build to me than to you."

Diana rolled her eyes and deliberately walked past Violetta’s wardrobe without even glancing inside.

"I know your style—nothing but high-neck turtlenecks and tight T-shirts made of thin fabric. Not a single elegant piece in a whole wardrobe!"
"Those T-shirts dry quickly."

"And wool fabrics also stay fresh longer, neutralizing odors," I backed Viola up, and Diana tilted her head to the ceiling in exasperation, as if wondering what she’d done to deserve such fashion-clueless friends.

"Why me?" she asked the air, starting to sort through hangers.

"You say I don’t have anything elegant, but what about this blouse?" Violetta pulled out a luxurious white shirt with long sleeves and ruffles at the wrists.

Diana eyed the hanger doubtfully and stepped closer. With reluctant caution, she reached for the fabric, but the moment her fingers touched it, she nodded in approval.
"Actually, not bad," she said, glancing from the blouse to me several times, as if trying to imagine how it would fit. "But definitely not with those jeans. What’s your height?"

I’m not sure how long the two sisters kept torturing me with outfit changes, but when my legs grew tired and I sank onto the pouf by the vanity, the carpet in the center of the room was already littered with a heap of jeans, trousers, and skirts in every possible shade. Outfits that pleased Violetta didn’t meet Diana’s approval, and vice versa. In the end, I just sat there, obediently waiting for them to decide between themselves what I should wear—because honestly, I had bigger problems. For example, I saw Kaandor’s dark figure again. As before, he stood off to the side, watching, only this time he seemed hardly interested in the scene unfolding. At least, that’s what I thought, because the uninvited guest didn’t say a word, and I just stared at the two amber points I took for his eyes, pondering his nature.

What if Kaandor was my spirit-shifter? Thinking back to Denis’s story about his own experience, I saw no similarities. After all, I could see Kaandor with my own eyes and barely felt him as an ally inside me. With Denis and his she-wolf, it was completely different, which only made me more uneasy. Besides, Father hadn’t reacted with much enthusiasm when I said I saw another creature in the room. If it were possible to see your spirit, Kostya would have immediately understood the situation instead of looking at me in puzzlement. The only logical explanation I could find for the appearance of my dark companion was that he was part of the curse.

As if I didn’t already have enough with vampires and werewolves—now my life’s party had gatecrashed witches’ curses and some strange black creature only I could see.

There was a knock at the door, but even with my sharp vampire hearing that could catch the quietest words, it seemed to me that Violetta and Diana were still arguing about the tulip skirt. When the knock came again, I went to the door myself, realizing my friends were far more concerned with deciding on my future outfit.

Leaning against the wall outside the doors stood Stas. Finding me in the doorway instead of one of his sisters, he looked oddly flustered.

"Hi," he said quietly and froze. How unlike him. Where was the guy who had spoken to me so arrogantly the last time I was in his father’s house, the one who casually handed out orders to others at school?

"We’ve already met."

"Oh, right. Of course. How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Very. I want to go home, to my own bed—but I have a feeling that particular happiness isn’t going to fall into my lap anytime soon."

Stas gave me a puzzled look.

"Why’s that?"

"Because Dad and I are having dinner with you tonight."

"Don’t worry, it’ll be an hour, maybe an hour and a half at most. Vladimir doesn’t throw old-fashioned dinner parties with multiple courses and all those unnecessary refinements. Polished luxury isn’t his thing."

I smirked.

"Stas, do you really believe that? Look around. Everything here, and the very fact that your family lives in a house that’s basically a museum, screams the opposite."

"That’s different. You don’t understand."

"Then try explaining."

I was developing a quick allergy to Stas’s mood swings. Sometimes Smirnov struck me as arrogant and indifferent, while at other times he behaved like a caring friend. One moment he would easily talk to me about art and visit me in the hospital day after day, bringing classmates along. Then came the days when Stas could ignore my existence entirely, turning cold and guarded, as if I were some pushy beggar trying to quietly lift his wallet. And since Stas had recently shown the paintings to Tanya as well, the thought crept in—and instantly disgusted me—that when you take a girl to show her something meaningful, it can be a sign of sincerity, of wanting to know her better. But when you repeat the same attraction again and again, the gesture starts to feel like a well-rehearsed routine meant to impress.

"Do you remember the painting in the hall with three men at the sawmill? You looked at it for quite a while."

It wasn’t hard to remember the day I first found myself in the Smirnovs’ house, even though Arthur had done everything possible to erase my memories. I still don’t understand why the spell didn’t affect me at first, and only later took hold for a short while—long enough for me to calm down and easily believe the idea of a prank on the new student. Maybe things would have been easier for everyone if I had remembered neither the kidnapping nor the vampire battle I had witnessed.

I tried to strain my memory and recall the painting, but in vain: only fragments of Stas’s explanations drifted through my mind. It hadn’t been that long, yet I could only vaguely recall the poses of the characters. What I remembered best was how Stanislav had pointed out a totem hidden among the thick spruce thickets. I guess memory always clings more tightly to the details that first escaped notice.

"In broad strokes, but not in detail. I remember we studied and discussed it for a long time. I remember the man on the stump who seemed more aloof than the others. Oh, and the totem!"

"Details aren’t so important, though I’m glad you remembered the totem," Stas’s faint smile told me he had relaxed a little. "This painting is in the house for a reason. It was one of the first painted in Kserton when the town was more of a modest village sheltering scattered wanderers. All the men in the painting were among the first settlers, and the totem was erected in honor of your kind, for protecting them from dark forces."

Stas was distracted when a crash sounded behind my back.

"You’ll probably start fighting over which jeans to wear to dinner," Smirnov remarked sarcastically to his sisters.

"We’re not doing it for ourselves, we’re doing it for Asya," Diana began in a lecturing tone. "And she’s not even looking?"

I noted to myself that the friends had moved on from skirts to jeans in their argument, and that made me feel a little relieved. In jeans I would feel much more used to and comfortable, but I knew it would be easier to just agree to whatever Diana and Violetta picked so things would finally quiet down. I didn’t have the strength to deal even with simple matters, and there were still more than enough reasons to think about more complex and important questions.

"I don’t care, honestly. I’ll wear whatever you say—it’s only for an hour anyway."

"Only for an hour? Who told you that nonsense?"

"Him," I pointed at Stas, and the guy immediately looked at me reproachfully.

"It’s not nice to lie to guests, brother," Violetta remarked, kneeling down and starting to rummage through the clothes in the middle of the room again.

"Just pick something already and let’s go. I’m standing in the doorway because I’m waiting for you! Father’s already calling everyone to the table."

"Of course. As if you couldn’t find the way without us," the sisters exchanged glances and laughed brightly. The war between the oddly elegant flared trousers and the fashionably ripped-at-the-knees jeans was buried in the name of uniting against a common enemy—their older brother.

Stas remained unperturbed and, as if nothing had happened, turned his gaze back to me and continued:

"This mansion, like the painting, is no ordinary thing, but a reminder for our parents of a past, different life—one closely entwined with the hidden side of Kserton. The man on the stump was my mother’s father. Not my biological mother, of course, but the one who raised me, so I respect my parents’ decision to settle here again. Olga was born and raised here before she met Vladimir. Leaving her family and choosing a different path for my father’s sake wasn’t easy for her. Returning to Kserton is one of the few things we can do out of gratitude to our mother."

"But you could have settled in any other house, leaving the local landmark to tourists and townsfolk."

"Not every house bears Olga’s father’s handiwork. The mansion is one of the few buildings in Kserton that have survived since my mother was a child. Regional budgets don’t exactly shine when it comes to programs for protecting historically important buildings, so it’s our top priority to preserve what’s valuable to the family."

"You have surprisingly strong family ties despite not being related by blood. Except for Max and Viola, as far as I understand."

Stanislav nodded.

"It’s all about respect, Asya. What does it matter whose blood you share? Closeness is, first and foremost, a choice between two people."

"And we’ve all chosen each other!" Diana hugged me from behind so suddenly that I flinched. "Hurry up and put on these pants so we can go."

Di all but shoved a pair of soft dark gray pants into my hands.

"Looks like someone loves the dark academia style."

"And we don’t hide it," the sisters replied in unison. "Come on, Asya, hurry!"

***

The guys patiently waited outside the door while I changed. Kaandor seemed to have lost interest in what was happening and disappeared. That strange creature, which I didn’t know how to perceive, might actually have been a product of my imagination. The voice inside told me that if I wanted answers to my mounting questions, only two people could help me: Vladimir and my father. But not knowing what part of the truth the two fathers were willing to reveal at the table made me uneasy: if Kostya could omit details to protect me, then for Vladimir, people were just pawns in a big game of humanitarianism.

Stas walked ahead of me, attentively listening to Diana’s chatter as she hurriedly filled the household members in on recent events on the way to the dining hall. When the topic turned to my visions, Viola and Stas exchanged meaningful glances: the apples hadn’t fallen far from the tree. They probably knew more or at least suspected the nature of Kaandor, since there wasn’t a trace of surprise on their faces—only worry.

“Tell me,” Stas addressed me, “was that the first time you saw this creature?”

“In person, yes, but maybe I sensed Kaandor before and just didn’t realize it.”

Trying to apply Denis’s theory about merging with a guardian spirit to myself, I began to reflect on my life in Kserton since arriving and compare it to how I felt before. I had noticed something was wrong while talking to Nikita, but it remained just a premonition, never forming a complete thought. Following these warning signals, I started to get irritated by things I used to take calmly. What happened at school with Arthur today defied logical explanation: I flared up like a match over something so trivial it should’ve been laughable. But I didn’t want to laugh—if an ordinary person had been in Arthur’s place, things could have ended far worse.

“Kaandor?” Violetta asked cautiously, and all I could do was shrug.

“That’s what the creature calls itself.”

“What does it look like?” Stas started asking.

“I don’t know. At first, I thought it was just a shadow of your dad, but when he stepped away from the wall, it became clear—Kaandor had nothing to do with it. It was taller somehow, and its silhouette appeared completely black in any light. As if everything it touched faded into a mass of darkness.”

I stopped, sensing an important word I hadn’t paid attention to before. Darkness. It was like a knot had unraveled inside me. I recalled my strange, fear-filled dreams that always ended in impenetrable darkness on repeat. Every nightmare, every bad omen was as vivid in my mind as the edge of a black-and-red plaid shirt on that fateful day when Gleb and Galina kidnapped me from the pizzeria. That unpleasant memory, like a starting point, changed everything I knew about myself and this world, about my father and Kserton. And inevitably every thread, every episode led me to the Darkness, whose name was Kaandor.

“I—” I began, almost breathless from tension, feeling trapped again in a dark van, “I often dream about the day I first encountered Galina. I thought the kidnapping haunted me, mixing with the overwhelming fact about you, about vampires. But today, today I saw a very different dream.”

My chest tightened as if squeezed by bear paws. I felt a vein pulsing at my temple, and the image before my eyes began to slowly blur.

“Don’t resist,” came Kaandor’s deceptively gentle voice. Whatever the creature wanted from me, there was no way it was going to get it. I thought that since this dark companion was blocking the way, I must be heading in the right direction. The idea that Kaandor could be my friend was impossible to accept. So far, all it did was wrap me in soft nets and carry me away into sweet oblivion. Far from here. Far from people.

“But isn’t that what you wanted?” the creature purred, invading my thoughts.

“Asya, are you okay?” Stas grabbed my elbow just in time. Without him, I would have collapsed.

Stanislav looked at me worriedly, but I wobbled again. His other hand rested on my hip. Stas gently pulled me closer, helping me stay upright.

“Diana, hurry up and follow Father.”

“No need, I’m fine.”

But no one cared about my protest. Diana quickly disappeared around the corner, and I realized time was running out.

“In there, in the room, I saw a completely different dream. Darkness wrapped all around me. There was nothing but darkness until a tiny point of light appeared in the distance. As I got closer, the outlines grew until I found myself before a large oval mirror the height of a person, and behind it—a nearly colorless room. Soon a stranger in a black cloak rolled a chair up to the mirror, like it was a window, and when he turned it around—there was Nick, covered in blood.”

The corners of Stas’s lips dropped. He looked at me like a sick child tormented by feverish nightmares. Barely touching me with his fingertips, Stanislav stroked my cheek, and a pleasant warmth spread through my body from his touch. I would never have guessed Stas’s skin was so soft. Giving in to the brief impulse, I relaxed completely in his arms but again felt my legs weakening. Searching for support, I clung even closer to Smirnov, carefully gripping his shoulder.

“What did Father give her to inject if she can’t come to?” Violetta’s stern voice sounded, clearly more disturbed by what was happening than I was. “When we were in the room picking clothes, she was fine.”

“No idea. Whatever it was, it shouldn’t have happened. Father isn’t an idiot to let a patient go when he knows they need rest after medication,” Stas hugged me tighter again. “Asya, sedatives often bring vivid dreams. It’ll pass soon, you’ll see.”

“It wasn’t a dream. That mirror… when I woke up, I saw the exact same one in the room, you understand? But the room was completely different, not like in the dream. It felt like there was something behind that mirror. It drew me in like the point of light in the dream. I didn’t know about that mirror before, hadn’t seen pictures of it—it was a vision.”

“You might have noticed it at the room’s entrance when your father carried you in, and then your mind played a cruel trick on you.”

“But I wasn’t conscious. Diana said something strange happened as we approached the house. I felt like I was about to turn into a wolf. At least she heard bones crunching. He couldn’t have carried me if I was still conscious.”

“What room were you in?”

“I don’t know. It was small, like the rest of the house. The walls and carpets matched. There was a medical bed in the center and some beeping machine next to it. There was a huge mirror and only artificial warm light. Yes, no windows, but there was a low metal shelf with syringes and stuff. At least that’s where Vladimir came back from, holding a syringe. I think there was also a cabinet with ampules and jars of medicine.”

“Father’s medical room,” Stas guessed.

“I see. I’m going soon,” Violetta turned on her heel and walked away decisively.

“Where are you going? Father will be back soon.”

“To check something. I never liked that mirror. It radiates magic,” Viola shrugged and slipped through one of the doors.

“Well, great,” Stas muttered through clenched teeth.

“What’s all the noise here?” Max appeared out of nowhere, and judging by how Stas jumped, the blond witch’s arrival surprised not only me.

“Stop sneaking up! There’s enough chaos in the house already.”

“Can’t help it. It’s a hunter’s trait.”

Stas mocked him, mimicking syllable by syllable with his lips.

“I know your innate tricks: ‘It wasn’t there, it wasn’t there, and suddenly it blossomed!’”

“I’m working on my gifts, unlike some people. That’s all,” Max nodded toward me. “So what’s going on here?”

“Asya’s not well.”

“Why?”

“If I knew!”

“You seem nervous today.”

“How can I not be nervous when the whole day feels like a bad movie script? First, Asya lunged at Arthur in front of Tanya and Dasha, then Father decided to host a dinner for two families while Mother has been missing for at least a month and no one’s rushing to search for her, pretending everything in the Smirnov family is normal. Then you yourself—you’re distancing yourself from us, driving Diana crazy with coldness, and when Olga left in an unknown direction without explanation, the middle son suddenly turned into Father’s shadow and got into witchcraft, like he’s preparing for the end of the world. What changed? Hey, Max? What do you know that I don’t?”

Stas blurted out all his complaints to his brother in one breath. His whole body was trembling, his fingers digging painfully into my skin, but I endured, trying not to move unnecessarily. The news that Vladimir’s wife had left home without explanation a month ago was unsettling, and I couldn’t help but connect it to recent events in the city. What if Olga didn’t know the truth about what her husband was involved in, and when Vladimir’s true nature was finally revealed, she couldn’t accept it? Olga’s departure suspiciously coincided with the clash with Galina.

"Did you say everything?"

"Yes."

"When the time comes and father thinks it’s necessary, he’ll tell it himself."

What an interesting quarrel these boys have started. This might turn out much more entertaining, a clear click echoed in my mind, and I felt strength fill my body. At least my legs stood firmer on the ground, as if weighted down, and the half-drowsiness receded. Afraid to feel worse again, I kept holding onto Stas, inhaling the spicy scent of his cologne, which reminded me of mulled wine notes I once tasted from my mother’s cup at a New Year’s fair.

"Better hold your girlfriend tighter. Mother is an adult woman and can deal with father herself," Maxim stretched his lips into a sly smile and winked.

"Asya is a family friend, not my girlfriend."

"It shows. Well, kids, you have so many interesting discoveries ahead of you. Right, Kaandor?"

Maxim turned around, and out of nowhere in the hallway appeared, what seemed to me like a sand whirlwind. The grains joined together, forming the familiar outline of the dark companion’s silhouette.

"You see him too?" I gasped.
"Of course. Violetta can see him if she tries, but Arthur probably won’t — too weak."

"What is he?"

"Your spirit-lycan. At least, Kaandor definitely was one once. I noticed him on the first day at school when you just moved in. Back then he looked quite different: almost normal for a spirit, but the curse changed him too much. As I said, I managed only to materialize the parasite and separate the curse from Kaandor. It’s sealed now but not destroyed. Whether the spirit will return to its original nature when the curse or the witch who cast it is dealt with, I can’t say for sure. And do we really need to change such a handsome guy?" Maxim waved his hand toward Kaandor, who snarled. For the first time I noticed the creature’s pure white teeth and shivered.

"I’d like to meet the witch capable of changing a lycan’s spirit like that."

"You will very soon," Dr. Smirnov appeared in the hallway, followed closely by Diana, who lowered her head. "Looks like everything is fine now."

Vladimir looked at us and Stas with a tender gaze, and his embrace instantly loosened.

"Violetta isn’t with you?"

"No," Stas replied tensely, "she’ll join us later."

"Well then," Vladimir placed a hand on each son’s shoulder, "let’s go to the dining room before the food gets cold."

Chapter Text

When I followed Dr. Smirnov into the dining room, Father was already sitting at the table with Arthur. The way their heads were inclined toward each other made it seem like they were talking, but so quietly that even straining my ears I couldn’t catch a single word. From the center of the massive oval wooden table, plates of fresh vegetable slices and bunches of greens, cubes of fragrant cheese, and thinly cut strips of roast pork and smoked meats were spread out in a checkerboard pattern.

“Dear guests,” Vladimir began, “on the table you will find vegetables and appetizers for every taste. We don’t keep servants in the house, so please help yourselves to the main course and side dishes. Today’s menu features spicy chicken thighs with a golden crust and halibut fillet in crispy breadcrumbs. For sides, in the tall pot we have boiled potatoes with butter, green onions, and parsley, and in the steamer by the wall — rice with sun-dried tomatoes and green peas. Please, feel at home!”

After his short introduction, Vladimir gave me another broad smile, then grabbed a silver thermos and a tall flute-like glass from the main dishes table and sat at the head of the table.

“Feel at home” — that sounded comical to me. What kind of home offers you several main dishes to choose from? Even on holidays like New Year’s, when Grandma and Mom were expecting guests, the hostesses had to toil all day in the kitchen, chopping ingredients for favorite salads and appetizers. To serve two main courses on top of that — there’d be neither the strength nor the space for preparations. Vladimir clearly had no idea about such hardships. And Dr. Smirnov didn’t seem like the kind of man who could organize dinner for two families in just half an hour either. Still, considering how large the Smirnov family was, perhaps two extra guests didn’t make much of a difference.

Standing at the serving table, I inhaled the aroma of herbs and quickly decided my favorite would be a golden-brown chicken thigh. Out of curiosity, I took a knife from the wicker holder of gleaming silverware and tapped the edge against the crust. The thin, crispy skin cracked, sending a wave of appetite through me. I fished out the piece I wanted with tongs and began pondering the side dish. The longer I debated, the harder it was to decide what would suit the chicken best.

“Better take the potatoes. The cook my father orders from always overcooks the rice to this weird sticky consistency,” Stas whispered confidentially, approaching the table and scooping up a piece of fish with the tongs.

“Maybe I like rice that way.”

Stas smirked and reached across me for the serving spatula. He scooped a generous portion of small baby potatoes glistening with butter under the light. Thin wisps of steam curled above them. They looked so appetizing my mouth watered, and I instantly regretted my comment three hundred times over. But no matter how hard I tried to hide it, the traitorous rumble from deep in my stomach was beyond my control.

Stas’s hand froze mid-air with a new portion of potatoes, then changed direction toward my plate.

“That sticky rice didn’t get such a strong reaction. Take some before the others grab it all. In a big family, you don’t waste time — you grab what you can.”

“I could’ve served myself.”

“Why do you always react so sharply? Whatever I do, you always push back, even though no one’s trying to hurt you.”

“Maybe you’re not trying to. But you don’t respect my boundaries either. When I say I can take care of myself, Stas, you always rush to help, even when I didn’t ask for it.”

“So I shouldn’t have sent Diana with you to Father, or told Arthur to mess with the girls’ memories?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean? Sounds like double standards to me: when I help at school, you don’t even say thank you — but you don’t complain either. But the moment I put a couple of potatoes on your plate, it’s suddenly a tragedy.”

“Stas, why are you doing this? You’re comparing completely different things. At school, I was out of it and disoriented. What decisions could I make when I didn’t even remember how I lunged at Arthur, let alone started hitting him? Lately, I barely understand what’s happening to me, as if someone else — dark and alien — is controlling my body. If anyone’s making a drama out of nothing, it’s you, instead of simply stepping back.”

“I’m making a drama?” Stas roared, and I could feel everyone straining to catch what was going on at the serving table. “You just scolded me for an act of care like I’m some fifth grader!”

“Because that’s not care! You selfishly do everything the way you think is right from your favorite high perch as the coolest guy in school. Classmates are speechless when they see you, and even the richest boys copy your haircut and style. You’ve gotten so used to having every move admired that it’s ingrained in you. You don’t even care what other people want — you just assume you know what’s best. But best for who, Stas? For them? For me?”

Stas’s fingers dug into the edges of the plate he was holding. He was glaring at me so intensely I could almost feel it burn, and by the way his lips pressed into a thin line, I guessed he was holding back for fear of saying something he’d regret — but more than anything, I wanted him to just say it. To finally be honest and explain why the hell he was always hovering around me.

“And besides, you have a girlfriend. Take care of Tatyana, not me. At the very least, it looks strange from the outside, you know.”

“What are you implying?”

“Ask your girlfriend,” I snapped, remembering every jab from Tatyana. “If you weren’t constantly hanging around me, she and I could’ve been friends long ago.”

“She told you that?” Stas ground out through his teeth.

“Not recently, but still. She doesn’t have to say anything — it’s written all over her face every time you all came into the hospital room together instead of going on a cozy café date or to the movies. And why are you even following me around in the first place?”

The plate cracked in half with a crunch. Each of Stas’s hands was left holding one piece. The fish, along with the side dish, tumbled to the floor. Smooth potatoes, as if in slow motion, bounced down like hailstones. The moment they touched the surface, they split apart, revealing a fluffy center — and even in that state, they still looked appetizing.

“I’ve had enough,” he said, turning his gaze away from me. Pivoting on his heels, he started toward the door, when his father called after him.

“I’m not hungry anymore. May I go?”

“Unfortunately not, son. I need all of you to stay here and hear what I have to say. What’s happening with Asya concerns all of us. Please, come back to the table. Keep us company.”

Stanislav hesitated for a moment, shooting me another sharp glance. Diana stared wide-eyed at what was happening, her silent horror suggesting that disobeying their father in this house was not only unacceptable but dangerous — like stumbling upon a swarm of furious bees. Stas swallowed hard and slowly returned to the table, taking a seat across from his father. Vladimir smiled with satisfaction and, without looking at me, urged me to quickly take my place and get on with dinner.

Even though I was angry at Stas, for some reason I felt a faint echo of guilt — I shouldn’t have started this conversation in front of his family. Still, I couldn’t imagine when else I’d get the chance to speak openly with Stanislav; every free moment he had, Tanya was right there at his side. The delicate psyche of a girl in love would hardly survive such a quarrel.

I felt like a victor in the arena who had just defended the borders of their territory from a lion, and at the same time, I was haunted by the bitter taste of defeat and the loss of something important. Something I had almost held in my hands, but failed to keep.

Chapter Text

My appetite had vanished, but deciding it would be rude to leave the plate on the serving table without trying anything, I headed for an empty chair next to Kostya. My father didn’t take off his jacket: tense, he sat at the table still in his outerwear, as if ready to finish the conversation quickly and leave this house.

When I sat down and cast a quick glance at the table, I realized everyone had been waiting for me. Only two seats remained empty — one of which, I suspected, was meant for Violetta, and the other for someone else.

My gaze lingered on the vacant chair next to Dr. Smirnov, where he had arranged the cutlery with a certain tenderness. Making sure the knife and fork lay on the snow-white napkin at a perfectly precise angle, Vladimir pinched the slender stem of a wine glass between two fingers and, tilting the vessel slightly away from himself, began slowly filling it with a thick crimson liquid from a thermos. When he set the glass in the place where, I guessed, the lady of the house should have sat, the doctor picked up the glass opposite and filled it halfway.

I had never seen wine so viscous and so rich in color. Could the texture change after heating? Even though no steam rose from its flawless surface, I was somehow certain the liquid before me was warm — otherwise, why keep it in a thermos?

I watched Vladimir, waiting for him to finally say what he had promised, but Smirnov seemed to be deliberately stalling, drawing all attention to himself, and I felt my irritation building. Everything about this man repelled me, and no angelic appearance could soften that effect — not when I knew of at least one unpleasant thing Vladimir had done in the past, for which there could be no forgiveness.

Still, whatever I thought of him, Dr. Smirnov seemed the only person who could piece together the truth about the nature of the being inside me — or at least pretended to know it. Max had his own understanding of how the curse affected my wolf spirit, but he had never shared any guesses about how or why the curse had come to rest on me specifically. That was why I remained here — in a house filled with luxury and polish, but lifeless beneath its careful beauty. Its story should have stayed in the pages of history and faded into oblivion, like a layer in the formation of the future we now lived in. The natural cycle, in which the old is replaced by the new, had been broken in this place, where time seemed to have no power — something the eternally young residents proved year after year.

I caught myself thinking this and shuddered, unsure how right I might be. My thoughts began to generate clichés, inevitably tying to them everything I knew about vampires from books and films. Yet I couldn’t say for certain how much of that knowledge was true. My mind easily shuffled facts I already knew together with folklore, blending truth and lies. Only by asking the right questions could I hope to draw a line between one and the other — and perhaps understand what the Smirnov family truly was.

"Dr. Smirnov," I said. Hearing my voice, Vladimir tore himself away from savoring the drink’s aroma with a hint of disappointment. "How old are you?"

"To be honest, I lost count after celebrating my three-hundredth birthday and deciding it was tiresome to keep track of how quickly the years pass — especially when the gates of eternity stand open before you. There’s no longer any need to hurry, nor any fear of death. All that remains is infinity, in which you somehow must search for novelty. The world is like a worn-out record: one set of events will replace another, yet when you see them as a whole, there’s too much in common. The ending of the song is predictable, and everything we touch is just a copy of copies."

A heavy silence fell in the room. The rhythmic clink of forks and knives ceased. Everyone, like me, stared at Vladimir in silence, both spellbound and horrified by his words, which perfectly revealed the kind of man he was: one consumed by boredom, lunging like a starving beast at any trace of the unknown — desperate, like an adrenaline addict, to feel something even faintly resembling emotion.

"That sounded damn grim," Stanislav summed up, folding his hands on the table. "Even for you."

Vladimir wet his throat, leaving a bright red smear on his lower lip.

"You’re still young. One day you’ll think of the world the same way, and if you’re lucky, son, I’ll still be here beside you."

"Of course, Father," he replied rather evenly.

Stas gave a faint smile and glanced at his sister, who immediately buried herself in her plate. She seemed to shrink in on herself, which didn’t escape my notice. Her hunched posture was unnatural for Diana. At school, the fragile girl with the defiant hairstyle radiated a wild yet magnetic energy — but in her father’s presence, her true self hid beneath a thick layer of fear. Did Diana fear her own father? And if so, what happened in this house when no one was watching, if even Vladimir’s own daughter seemed to wither within these walls under the oppressive atmosphere?

Vladimir swirled the glass in his hand, and the liquid spun from inertia, staining the flawless smoothness of the crystal. He cast a quick glance at the watch on his wrist, then at the empty seat.

"Well, time to begin."

"I still have a couple of questions," I cut the doctor off mid-sentence. Vladimir failed to keep his composure; his lips twitched. "When did you stop aging?"

"My metabolic age stopped on the day of my turning," he replied briefly, considering the explanation sufficient, but I pressed on.

"And what about your children?"

"What about them?" Vladimir smirked, as if not understanding where these pointless questions were leading, when there were far more interesting matters on the agenda.

"If I’m not mistaken, Diana and Stas were born vampires."

"And Arthur as well. The twins were born witchers before they were turned. But let’s say they’d been prepared for it their whole lives — like hereditary hunters of those among our kind who can’t control their thirst. Why do you want to know this, Asya? I thought you wanted to sort out your own nature, not sit through a lecture on the finer points of vampirism."

"Who else should I ask, if not you, when I want to at least start to understand the world I live in?"

The words hit their target, feeding the patriarch’s ego, and for a moment I felt a surge of pride and a sweet satisfaction at how easily I had played Vladimir by tugging at the right strings. But the pleasure vanished as quickly as it came when I realized I was acting exactly like the doctor himself. I was not like this man who was used to manipulating others — so why did it feel so good?

"I can only assume that when the body reaches its peak, the highest possible form, the metabolic age stops. In Stas’s and Diana’s case, that hasn’t happened yet. Arthur, on the other hand, froze at the peak of eighteen years, as far as we can tell. Repeated tests in three years, and then in five, will either confirm or disprove this theory. If Arthur grows even stronger than he is now, he’ll be able to defeat any vampire in combat — even an original or ancient one, by my calculations — though such an outcome seems unlikely. Still, it would be a good thing if that’s how it turns out, because then the family will be even stronger, and that means fewer threats from outside."

Vladimir suddenly cut himself off, as if he had said too much, and quickly took a sip from his glass, smoothing over the pause for the others. "In any case, such grand speculations are hardly of interest at this table. Problems of the future are solved in the future."

With every sentence, Dr. Smirnov stirred greater dislike in me. Now the mask of the kind uncle who had taken five special homeless children under his wing had slipped. Everyone living under the roof of the old mansion was, in a sense, an asset — a promising investment that could pay off in the future. A hidden trump card, ready to throw itself into battle thanks to the carefully nurtured noble idea of protecting the family.

I smirked, noting to myself how the doctor’s children acted around him: nothing he tried was working. If they respected him at all, it was out of fear, not love. You can’t live long with that feeling inside, which meant that as soon as they got the chance, they’d jump ship without looking back. Family wasn’t something people chose by right of birth, and the doctor could never claim an unquestionable place in Diana’s and Stanislav’s lives, no matter how hard he tried.

Blood is blood.

No beautiful ode about the good of the many at the cost of the suffering of a few could cover that. At least, I wanted to believe Vladimir’s influence over my friends wasn’t that strong.

“Interesting how things will be with you,” the doctor added casually, and I lowered my gaze, not understanding what he meant.

Dad glanced at me. He looked as puzzled as I must have.

My father was aging. I noticed it every year when it was time for our next meeting. The fine lines I had seen on his familiar face since I was young had, after recent events, carved deep trenches across Kostya’s forehead. The healthy flush in his cheeks had long vanished, replaced by skin pale and dehydrated from an erratic routine of sleeping and eating on the “whenever and whatever” system. There was more gray at his temples. He had been spending too much time within hospital walls, trading shifts with colleagues just to visit me again — and to bring me something tasty to lift my mood.

“Does that even apply to werewolves?”

For the first time, Vladimir gave me a genuine smile full of satisfaction, which I took as a bad sign.

“But you’re not a werewolf. Not entirely,” he said, falling silent again, savoring the moment. More than anything, I wanted to lunge at the doctor, to wipe that smug smile off his face. I was sick of the game Smirnov was playing — and of the bitter helplessness that came from endless not knowing. I felt it every single day: from the moment I barely recognized myself to the moment I realized I might be losing my future as an ordinary human with plans for university, final exams, and, of course, graduation.

“Your first transformation will happen anyway. Sooner or later. If not this month, then the next. The closer the full moon, the higher the risk. No matter how you try, you won’t truly understand what you’re dealing with until it happens.”

“I would help my daughter if I could,” Kostya said.

“Dad, what do you mean? You’re already doing everything you can.”

Kostya shut his eyes and struck the table, as if the words caused him pain.

“I’m doing too little! The closer the full moon, the more I notice… I see…”

He swallowed hard and tugged at the collar of his turtleneck as though the thin fabric were choking him. The words wouldn’t come, no matter how hard he tried, though he kept pushing, discarding phrases that stubbornly refused to form into sentences. For a moment, I felt so sorry for him. I couldn’t even imagine what it was like for Kostya — a man used to controlling not only his own life but others’ from sunset to sunrise, gradually bringing chaos into order — to feel such helplessness. I wished none of this were happening. Guilt scratched inside me, and to dull its tearing sound, I reached for my father’s hand and held it gently. I didn’t care that the entire Smirnov family froze, watching this private scene.

Vladimir was the first to break the silence at the table. With a bored look, he dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin and then spoke in an even tone. For a moment, I wished I had been born not a werewolf but, say, a superhero who could set that blindingly white fabric in his hands on fire with a glance.

“I dare say Konstantin is trying to gently convey certain nuances of lycanthropy to you. But that’s not the only spirit you’ll have to deal with.”

“While my father is searching for the right words, maybe you could finally stop beating around the bush,” I said, squeezing my father’s hand tighter. “You keep promising to tell me everything you’ve been hiding, but I’m not seeing any eagerness. Why should I waste my time here with you, Vladimir, when all you do is use me as a lab rat?”

“Asya, you’re being too harsh,” Diana interjected softly in my father’s defense, but Doctor Smirnov quickly waved her off, silencing her.

“Ow!” I hadn’t even noticed that I was gripping my fork so hard that my nails dug painfully into my skin.

A chair scraped. Heavy footsteps sounded, and when I looked up from the table, I saw Kostya grab the doctor by the collar and lift him into the air.

“Oh, you find this amusing, do you? Being the chosen one, the only one who knows?” Kostya shouted, and something inside me tightened into a knot. I had never seen my father this angry. Even when he raised his voice before, it was nothing like the fury radiating from him now. The whole room seemed electrified by his energy, which swept over everyone at the table. From the look on Diana’s and Stas’s faces, I knew they had risen to their feet, tense and ready. Their expressions were full of concern — though for whom, I could only guess. They stood frozen, watching, ready to intervene the moment things turned worse.

“I let you run your experiments on my land once. But a second time — and on my daughter — I will not allow it!”

Vladimir laughed loudly and deliberately, and my father shook with rage.

“Your land? Konstantin, I think you’re mistaken. Kserton was never yours, if you look at history.”

“It hasn’t been yours for a long time!” My father yanked Vladimir closer, and I saw his hands close around the vampire’s throat, the veins swelling on Kostya’s skin with the strain — but Smirnov didn’t seem the least bit bothered. No gasping, no flush of oxygen loss; instead, the doctor kept laughing in short, sharp bursts, making the already dark atmosphere in the dining room even more oppressive.

“I strongly doubt that. If I wanted, I could bulldoze through the streets you guard so zealously. Level the forest, wipe out every reminder of centuries-old heritage along with its inhabitants — before you could blink or lift a finger.”

“Oh? Just like that? And your wife would let you?” my father said in a mocking tone, as if trying to provoke the doctor — and judging by the abrupt end of his laughter, the words hit their mark.

“What Olga doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Vladimir, who until now had been nothing more than a limp rag doll in my father’s hands, suddenly wrapped his palms around Kostya’s wrists. I expected him to try to loosen the grip, but instead he looked straight into Konstantin’s eyes, unblinking, as if what he was about to say required perfect composure, and spoke in an even tone:
"We are friends, Konstantin. For so many years we’ve worked for the good of the city. Side by side. We’ve saved so many lives. Have I ever given you reason to doubt my methods? Have I truly harmed anyone? There are no victims — and therefore, no evil."

His voice poured into the room like honey, enveloping and calming. My lips involuntarily curved into a smile. How could I ever have thought so badly of this wonderful, kind man who lived forever and devoted his time not to pleasure, but to serving others? Like Atlas, he bore the weight, holding the fragile boundary between mythical beings and the human world, searching for a way to tame the thirst of those unfortunate enough to turn with weak blood.

My thoughts were broken by an unexpected touch on my shoulder, and startled, I turned to meet Kaandor’s amber eyes, glowing almost golden. For the first time, he was this close to me, and I could study the creature, noticing that the silhouette which from afar had seemed a mass of darkness was in fact a smooth covering of short fur. At the tips of his pointed ears were neat tufts, and his leathery nose glistened slightly with moisture, like the polished toe of a freshly shined shoe.

"It will hurt now," Kaandor warned, and sank his long claws into my shoulder, painfully, torturously slowly driving them deeper beneath the skin. I cried out, not so much from pain as from the sting of injustice, not understanding why he was doing this to me. The very fact that Kaandor’s body could be felt physically astonished me and only confused my thoughts more. The sharp pain spread through my veins like electricity along a power line. I felt the heat of it rise up my throat, higher and higher, until it reached my temples. Inside me, a blue flame of agony raged, and I wanted to scream — but every cell in my body seemed frozen in the moment, refusing to obey. The only thing I managed to do was squeeze my eyes shut.

"That’s better. Now you will see. You will see the truth."

Soon it was over. Kaandor’s hand slipped from my shoulder, and when I opened my eyes again, my strange companion had dissolved into nothingness, as if he had never been in the dining room at all. The pain faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind only an unpleasant heaviness in my temples as a reminder.

I tried moving a finger, testing whether I could control my body again. As soon as I confirmed I could, I began frantically feeling my shoulder, searching for the wounds from his claws — but even my clothing was intact.

No wounds, no blood. So strange. Only the oppressive feeling inside reminded me of what had happened.

I turned to the others and realized that nothing had changed. For them, not even a second seemed to have passed. Vladimir had only just finished speaking, and a strange confusion flickered across my father’s face, as if he had only just come to himself and didn’t know why he had gotten angry in the first place, let alone directed that anger at the doctor. Smirnov Sr. continued to stare especially intently into my father’s eyes and cling to his skin, as though his life depended on it.

"No one has ever died from my intervention, and Anastasia was treated with special care in the hospital thanks to my influence. You feel gratitude toward me."

The realization hit me as inevitably as an arrow. That manner of speaking. Those words… I remembered every time Nik had touched me and looked into my eyes in that same way. I remembered how my thoughts and mood had shifted — and, most of all, my feelings toward him. At that moment, the puzzle finally clicked into place in my mind, and I lunged forward, toward my father.

Without realizing what I was doing, I clenched one hand into a fist and covered it with my other palm, creating a grip as if I were about to block a ball in volleyball. I took several quick, wide steps, building momentum as much as the space between me and Kostya allowed. On the last step, I pushed off the floor with all the strength I could muster and swung my arm, pouring everything into the strike, before bringing my fist down on the spot where Vladimir was gripping Kostya.

No one expected that from me. More than that—I didn’t understand myself how I had made the decision, moving more on instinct than thought. Somewhere deep in my mind I knew there was no time to hesitate, and I succeeded: Vladimir’s hold broke instantly. The moment it happened, I shoved him away, hoping to keep him as far from my father as possible.

Vladimir must never touch my father again. No—I would not allow him to cloud Kostya’s thoughts anymore. Damn vampires with their damn abilities.

Unlike my parents, Stas quickly assessed the space, and before I could open my mouth to expose Vladimir to my father—who was staring at me in confusion—Stanislav lunged at me. His arms wrapped around my waist mid-tackle, and we crashed to the floor together.

Diana screamed. Barely keeping up with what was happening, I felt Stas flip me over and pull my arms behind my back one after the other, immobilizing me. He pressed his knee painfully into my spine, pinning me down so I couldn’t get up.

"Stop screaming, Diana! Better bring something to calm her down! She’s having an episode—just like at school."

"I am not," I said. "I’m perfectly fine."

Stas froze for a moment, as if testing the truth of my words. Seeing that I wasn’t trying to pull another trick, he loosened his grip.

That hesitation was enough to catch Smirnov off guard. I moved, trusting my new instincts: my wrist slipped neatly out from between Stas’s thin fingers, and then I tensed my freed arm and, using my torso for power, twisted and threw Stas off me.

A moment later, I was straddling him like a rider. I grabbed his wrists and pushed them above his head. Leaning over him, our eyes met. The space between our faces was so treacherously small that I could feel Stanislav’s warm, uneven breath on my skin, as if he had just run a half-marathon. Low in my belly, a pull answered each new exhale, accompanied by heat flooding my cheeks. They burned so much I knew I must be flushed, and the awareness made me self-conscious—but I didn’t get up. Not yet, not when everything had just shifted into place.

"You’re doing it again," I whispered, hoping only Stas would hear.

"Doing what?" His swallow was oddly nervous, and he kept staring at me with wide-open eyes, as if he’d forgotten how to blink. His pupils were swallowing the light, expanding as though a new universe were forming on the other side.

The thought that my strength now matched Stas’s filled me with elation. He—no, all of them—needed to start seeing me as an equal, not a damsel in distress who always needed saving.

"You’re deciding for me."

"Asya, how am I supposed to tell when you’re in control and when you’re not? Just a few hours ago, you were hitting Arthur in the face without a second thought. After that, you can’t expect me to lower my guard while there’s still a threat to the family."

"Come now, Stanislav. There’s no hint of a threat while Anastasia remains within these walls," Vladimir said, turning his palm upward and tapping his knuckles on the table a few times.

The sound of my full name echoed sharply in my head, and I shot the doctor a displeased look. From my angle, I could see little more than Vladimir’s expression, but it was enough to understand how much he enjoyed throwing barbed remarks my way, savoring every flash of irritation, every negative reaction, as if they were a dessert he couldn’t get enough of. I felt like anything that provoked me brought him pleasure.

Time to wipe that smug smile off his face.

"And how long have you been hypnotizing my father?"

I held his gaze, throwing down my challenge and hoping he wouldn’t be able to sidestep it. Only after asking did I start to doubt—did Kostya and I have any allies in this gaudy, suffocatingly perfect hall? Vladimir was not only on his own turf, but surrounded by his family members, each of them possessing power.

My doubts were scattered by a chorus of voices, all saying the same short "What?" in disbelief. Since Stas seemed just as surprised, I decided to loosen my hold, hoping the lesson had sunk in. Once I let go, Stanislav winced slightly and began rubbing his wrists. Where my fingers had been, faint pink marks remained.

"My God… Was that because of me?"

"Don’t give it a second thought," he said softly, adding with a half-smile, "You misjudged. It happens with newbies."

My father stepped forward and held out his hands to help me up, and then Stas as well.
"What makes you think Vladimir’s capable of that?" Kostya chuckled. "Listen to you—it’s like you’re saying a real villain has turned up in Kserton."

"He has. You just don’t want to see it."

"Asya, Vladimir and I have worked side by side for years. Yes, I don’t approve of what happened with Galina, but at the time there was no choice."

"Did he tell you that, or did you decide it yourself?" I nodded toward the doctor, who had gone suspiciously quiet and was edging closer to the door.

My father blinked slowly, as if his mind had bumped into a blank space on the shelf where the memory should have been.

"You don’t remember, do you? How about the scene that unfolded in the dining hall barely ten minutes ago? Do you remember how you got angry and grabbed the doctor by the collar?"

Like a rag doll, Kostya stood before me with a bewildered expression. His gaze wandered, as if scanning a ticker of hints and a chronicle of events where he played the lead role—but he had entirely forgotten the script.

"Dad," I said gently, touching his shoulder, "you were shouting just now and ready to tear the place apart. You said you wouldn’t let the doctor hurt me."

"But Vladimir has never wished you harm."

"Do you think that, or did he tell you to think it? Remember how you felt. Remember. I know you can do it, Dad. I remember every shift in my emotions when Nik touched me, every word. Those weren’t my thoughts—they were someone else’s, dropped onto my shoulders. Look for something like that in yourself."

"Father," Stanislav said, "what are they talking about?"

There was no answer. Vladimir’s whole posture seemed tense, and a vein bulged on his temple. He clenched his jaw so tightly, burning me with his stare, that there was no doubt left: all these years, the wolf in sheep’s clothing had been controlling Kostya, replacing reality with what he wanted it to be for purposes known only to the puppeteer entrenched in a small, defenseless town. Bastard.

"Father, don’t stay silent," Stas slowly moved toward Vladimir, oddly holding his arms out to the sides. What was he planning? While Kostya wrestled with his own memories, constantly pausing to mull over the new food for thought I tried to give him in small, deliberate doses, the other Smirnov children also began to move. Only Diana stayed on the sidelines, nervously biting her lip, not daring to follow her brothers’ lead. Moving with quiet steps, Artur, Max, and Stas approached from different angles, cutting off Vladimir’s escape route, and there was something ominous in that sight that unsettled me. I felt a creeping anxiety, as if I were watching two predators hunt from the safety of a television screen and trembling at the plight of the roe deer cornered against the wall.

"I don’t understand," Father paled as the flood of realization crashed down on him, piecing together the long history of a false friendship into a single damning picture. "All this time… you!"

Kostya pointed a finger at Vladimir, and I could see the anger washing over him in waves, settling inside like grains of sand that would eventually grow into a boundless desert once fully awakened. He squared his shoulders and twisted his neck with a crack, first to one side, then to the other, as if loosening himself from invisible shackles, before moving toward the enemy — now ours to face together.

"You! You used me!" His voice rolled through the room like thunder, and that’s when I noticed Father’s body beginning to ripple with a faint, almost imperceptible distortion. It was unnatural, almost illusory, as if my vision were failing me. I pulled my sweater sleeve over my palm and rubbed my face, but the image only grew sharper. Vladimir darted toward the door in terror and hesitated for an instant when faced with Max, but Max only glanced at Father and didn’t try to stop him. Seeing his brother’s reaction, Artur swore and blocked Vladimir’s path, but Vladimir shoved him aside and charged on. Like a drowning man reaching for the surface, he stretched his arms toward salvation, desperate to break free — but Stas stopped him. Acting on instinct, almost without thinking, the doctor tried to push Stas away, but it didn’t work.

"Let me go, or we’re all finished!"

Stas exchanged glances with Diana and Artur. Max shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and began studying the pattern on the floor, offering no explanation for his inaction. In that moment, it felt as though the future of the Smirnov family was being decided, and I was struck by how quickly most of them seemed willing to stand against their father. It seemed the unspoken reason had been lingering in their lives long before I arrived, and I could only guess, from subtle clues, how long Artur, Viola, Max, Diana, and Stas had been suspecting something was wrong in the house they had once called home.

"Where is our mother?"

Vladimir looked at Stas with a mix of irritation and disgust, as if the question itself caused him physical pain.

My father took off his jacket and threw it on the floor at his feet, then stepped over it. Without hesitation, he pulled the turtleneck — one of the many in soft pastels and grays that filled his home wardrobe and perfectly complemented the formal style of a small-town police investigator — over his head.

I had never seen my father without a sweater. Even on summer vacations, he wore a T-shirt to the pool. I had never paid attention to it before, but only now did I realize why Kostya never allowed himself to bare his torso even within the walls of his own apartment — something I had always considered normal for men, remembering how easily my stepfather could walk into the living room in just shorts.

The reason lay in the deep scars, long since healed, left on his body under circumstances he had never spoken of. Some of the marks spread wide in pale, thick scar tissue, as if clawed by some beast in his youth; others were clearly fresh. Thin, barely healed lines stood out with a pinkish hue, crisscrossing in chaotic patterns wherever I looked. The cuts were so narrow they seemed to have been etched into his skin with the pointed tip of a knife. I shuddered at the thought of who — and how — could have left such marks. Whether it was connected to the family curse, I didn’t know. And did I even want to know if, one day, similar marks would map themselves across my own skin?

Then something strange began. The faint vibrations grew stronger, and from beneath his skin, a coat of soft, black-as-pitch fur began to push through. It spread too slowly at first to cover the changes taking place underneath Kostya’s skin. The coarse knobs of his spine stretched upward with a rhythmic crack, like a vehicle slowly rolling over a gravel road. They grew so quickly that soon Kostya leaned forward, and I saw that not only his upper body was changing — his lower half was as well. My father’s body dropped to all fours as the fur thickened into a full coat. It looked soft and plush, like the dogs I loved to watch in cute videos online, and it gleamed under the warm lamplight that filled the room.

The vampires in the room silently watched the events unfold, frozen in place as if afraid to draw any attention to themselves, as though a single movement would inevitably earn them the touch of the sharp fangs that had replaced Father’s slightly yellowed teeth. His jaw jutted forward, massive enough that if you placed a watermelon beside it, the fruit would look like nothing more than a small berry.

"I warned you," Vladimir muttered, barely moving his lips, as if even that might provoke the newly turned werewolf into a fight. "Fools. You set all your dogs on me! And yet I was the only one who could have saved you all!"

The wolf sprang lightly from the wooden surface, and its front paws landed squarely on Vladimir’s chest. The doctor staggered back toward the door, but Father bore down on Smirnov with full force. He tried to press himself against the nearest wall but didn’t make it — whether seeking support or simply trying to keep his head away from the gaping jaws that released a menacing, guttural growl. I was awestruck by the sight of the creature my father carried inside him. Was this what I would look like after turning? My inner voice smirked that, in my case, I’d be lucky if I didn’t end up looking like a cute, harmless Pomeranian, good for nothing but entertaining passersby, begging for food while standing on my hind legs with my tongue hanging out.

"Father, if you want us to be on your side, you have to tell us where Mom is."

"Olga will come back as soon as she finishes her business," Vladimir replied with a rehearsed line, and Kostya growled louder, giving the doctor one last warning.

"You’re lying!" Diana had grown bolder now that a massive werewolf stood between her and her father. "If she planned to come back, there’d be at least something of hers left in the house. But we turned the whole mansion upside down and didn’t find a single piece of clothing. There’s nothing here for Olga to return to."

The doctor gave a sad smile.

"Aren’t her children reason enough to return? Is that what you think of the woman who raised you as her own?"

"Where is she?" Arthur lunged forward, but Maxim held him back by the forearms, his face wearing a strange expression full of regret and a secret too heavy to carry alone — yet the mage kept silent. Stas shot his brother a sharp look and noticed the same change in him.

"You," Stanislav pointed at Max. "You know where she is."

For a brief moment, Maxim looked down from under lowered lashes, as if afraid to speak a single word. He took a deep breath, trying to summon the strength to finally release what was begging to break free into the world. His jaw opened, promising to say something — anything — but it seemed to meet resistance from outside, not allowing him to break the silence of the moment. Instead of Max’s voice, Vladimir’s laughter filled the air. He was enjoying the unfolding scene almost as much as his own ego, which had no doubt made sure long ago that the only source of information left was the "great" doctor.

"Maxim, I’m disappointed," Vladimir said after finishing his laugh, seemingly forgetting for a moment about the gaping jaws beside his head. "You tried, even though you knew perfectly well about the magically bound oath."

Stas clicked his tongue in annoyance, understanding how dire the situation was, while I had no idea what any oath meant — much less a magical one.

"An unbreakable practice, when a person swears to do something — or never do something — until the binding spellcaster lifts the oath," Stanislav explained, seeing my confusion.

"But who could have cast it? Viola would hardly put an oath on her own brother," Arthur’s expression darkened for a moment, but he quickly shook his head, brushing away the unwanted thought. "No, she couldn’t have known. She simply couldn’t have been in league with this madman."

"Then who did?" Diana added anxiously, as if unwilling to face the truth herself.

The speculations hadn’t gone far enough to plant the idea of betrayal firmly in anyone’s mind when the door to the hall burst open with force. It was as if an unseen torrent had ripped it from its frame and hurled it across the width of the room, slamming it against the mirror stand by the wall. The mirrors shattered, and the impact sent large shards of glass scattering across the floor.

Horrified, I stared at the scene, thinking only about what could possess such strength. Knowing a little about the Smirnov family by now, I was certain that if Arthur and Maxim were in the same room, the only one capable of such a magical feat was her — Viola.

But I was wrong.

When the figure of a woman with carelessly styled bob-length hair appeared in the doorway and greeted everyone in the room with a cheerful, almost manic smile, my breath caught in my throat. Father noticed the same thing I did. He dropped to the floor, spreading his legs wide and readying himself for a leap, baring his teeth. And though the stance was full of threat, Kostya’s behavior was different from the righteous fury he had been ready to unleash on Vladimir. From the way his ears flattened against his head and the look he gave the unexpected guest, I guessed at the confusion he was feeling — and I, too, found no words, managing only to whisper:

"Mom?"

Chapter Text

Maria entered the room and, noticing Father, approached him without the slightest hesitation, knelt beside him, and ruffled Kostya’s furry head as if she had done it a hundred times before.

"Well, you’ve certainly made a mess here."

Vladimir visibly relaxed at the sight of her and slid down the wall to the floor, exhausted. With one hand, he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, as if the tension made it hard to breathe.

"Maria, what took you so long?" he muttered with some irritation after catching his breath, but Mother only waved him off, continuing to look at Father with a strange tenderness.
"The road from Rostov to Kserton isn’t exactly pleasant, you know. With your wealth, you could’ve sent a helicopter."

Vladimir gave a nervous chuckle.

"This family already attracts far too much attention, even compared to the families of wealthy oil businessmen who gladly moved here for the sake of their precious children and a handful of promises."

"Well, that answers who placed the oath on Max," Stas concluded, tensing even more after Maria’s arrival.

"Who?" I asked in complete confusion, and Stanislav gave a short nod toward Mother.

"Maria, of course."

"Long time no see, darling," purred the woman whose voice was painfully familiar to me, though now I barely recognized Maria. She looked exactly the same as the last time we met, except her tear-streaked face had noticeably brightened, and the dark circles under her eyes were hidden beneath a thick layer of foundation.

What frightened me was the deliberate calm with which she stroked the head of the huge wolf now lying obediently before her, seeming completely relaxed under her gentle fingers. Father looked nothing like the animals I had seen before in the kennels. Was this what a fully realized werewolf looked like—one who knew how to control his strength?

I knew in my head, from talks with Kostya, that Maria understood well the difficult fate and burden Father carried with his head held high for the good of society, refusing to believe that being a werewolf was a life sentence. Yet seeing, in person, how calm and almost proprietorially she behaved around him left an indelible impression—one that shook my already fragile inner world, which still hadn’t found peace since our move.

"Mom, what are you doing here?"

"Answering for past mistakes. I never should have let you go to Kserton, but what’s done can’t be undone. And now I have to pay for it." Maria suddenly grabbed the wolf by the scruff like a misbehaving pup. "And you should’ve called the moment you realized the seal was weakening!"

The werewolf whimpered guiltily. His paws carried his body softly closer to Maria. A pink tongue appeared, sliding along the edge of Mother’s free hand.

"Don’t butter me up!"

"What seal?" I asked, and the black wolf, like a talkative husky, began making inarticulate noises that, in his opinion, probably explained everything perfectly.

"Wouldn’t you rather, you know, turn back to normal first and then talk?" I tried to ask as gently as possible, but from the sidelong, disapproving glare the massive wolf gave me, I understood I had failed.

Nevertheless, a series of small cracks sounded, and Father’s body began to shrink, increasingly taking on the shape of a man. His fur, as if in reverse playback, retreated piece by piece under his skin, and I wondered whether that covering always lay beneath, waiting for its moment, or whether it simply vanished as if it had never been there. So many questions about the creature I was myself—yet so few answers.

"Your mother," Father began when Maria draped a jacket over his shoulders and handed him pants so he could dress, "tried to make sure the fate of a werewolf would never touch you. As we can see now, she didn’t have much success."

Maria pressed her lips in displeasure.

"Actually, I did. For seventeen years, the seal kept the wolf in check, and we’d already let our guard down. There was no hint that the spirit would surface anytime soon—but the moment we let you go back to that cursed city, everything went downhill. The seal’s been broken—and so brutally at that!"

Mother gave me a critical once-over from head to toe.

"Quite the unexpected style change." She gestured toward my entire outfit, and I hurried to explain, realizing how strange it must seem to her after so many years to see me in brand-new, stylish clothes, knowing my devotion to second-hand finds and practical choices.

"It’s not mine. I had to borrow it from the girls."

"It suits you very well." Her lips curved into a tender smile, but only for a moment. Very soon her brow furrowed, and her gaze grew intense, as if she were looking right through me and seeing something hidden from everyone else’s eyes.

"You’ve certainly caused quite a stir here," Maria exhaled, then came closer to me and, with a familiar gesture, tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. Her fingertips brushed my cheek as she did it, and I realized I felt much calmer with both my parents nearby.

"Have you had any visions yet?"

"More like very strange dreams."

"Has anyone tried to speak to you in them?"

On the one hand, I wanted to tell Maria everything—something told me that Mother was surely capable of helping—but under the Smirnovs’ roof, I felt constrained. It was unpleasant to realize that the silence settling in the room was inevitably tied to the fact that everyone present had turned into a pair of ears, catching every word on the fly. I had never liked being the center of attention, and moreover, I had never tried to change that, so my whole body wanted to shrink, as if that way the piercing gazes would have a harder time latching onto the small me standing in the middle of the room.

"Yes. I call her Darkness. Though it turns out ‘she’ is actually a ‘he,’ and today Kaandor started speaking to me even while I was awake."

Mother’s fingers tightened on my shoulder.

"Only speaking? You haven’t seen him?" Her undisguised worry was plain, and in the depths of her eyes I thought I saw an unspoken plea—a hope that it was still reversible.

"There’s no way back," whispered the dark companion, sending a shiver down my spine.

"I have seen him. More than once. At first, I thought he was Vladimir’s shadow…"

"Can you describe him?"

I hesitated, sorting through mental associations in search of the right one.

"He probably looks like Anubis. Instead of a head, he has animal features, something between a dog’s and a wolf’s. His whole body seems woven from a dark mass and appears to have no contact with the outside world—no gleam, no play of light and shadow. He’s flat, two-dimensional. When he appears, no one else sees him, even though he doesn’t try to hide. Well, except Max, who managed to spot him before. Even now, in this very room, he’s appeared several times. But what frightens me most is that, even if he isn’t always visible, he’s constantly somewhere nearby. It’s as if he can make himself visible whenever he wants."

"You’re close to the truth. I am indeed always here, but I appear only when I’m truly needed. When you let me through from the other side."

"The other side?" I asked, scanning the room for the dark companion, but Maria gave my shoulders a quick shake, pulling my attention back to her.

"Whatever he tells you, don’t listen! Look at me—look at me!"

"But why?"

"This creature wants only to harm you!"

"Oh, really?"

Kaandor was standing behind Maria, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching almost lazily.

"He hasn’t said anything that could harm me. Sometimes he throws out ambiguous remarks, but at least he never urges me to do anything."

"For now," Maria released my shoulders with a deliberate, heavy sigh, as though the work ahead would demand all her strength. I still couldn’t fully grasp my mother’s worry. What unsettled me more was how easily Maria had entered Vladimir’s home and how naturally she seemed to belong here, as if she had always been part of it.

"Mom, what are you really doing here?"

"I told you already: I came to answer for the sins of the past and make things right," she repeated, and as if that explanation were complete, she turned to the doctor. "How much vampire venom have you already injected into her?"

"You knew?" My father’s horrified gaze darted to Maria at the mention of the cause of his anger, but she only gestured for him to wait, focusing all her attention on Vladimir.

"Today I had to start a third vial ahead of schedule. Asya was supposed to come to the hospital only in two days, right before the full moon, but circumstances changed, so the course got thrown off a bit."

"What circumstances?" Maria frowned. "You can’t play with dosage and administration schedules. You’ve only provoked a flare-up."

"And what, pray tell, was I supposed to do while you were gallivanting who-knows-where, begging the coven for support, and Diana shows up at my doorstep with Asya in a borderline state?"

"She was about to transform? That can’t be."

"If you don’t believe me, ask my daughter." Vladimir gestured toward Diana, who stood frozen, watching the exchange with a puzzled look, as if she had never met Maria before and couldn’t understand what this stranger was doing in her home.

"Well?" Maria planted her hands on her hips in impatient expectation. Diana swallowed nervously, clearly rattled by her pressure.

I had never seen my mother like this. In my memories, she had always been a gentle woman with a couple of jokes up her sleeve to break the tension. Now, on the contrary, the air in the room seemed to grow heavier because of her. I wasn’t the only one who felt it; Max stepped forward, shielding his beloved, ready to defend Diana without a second thought if needed. The moment Max became a barrier between them, I noticed a faint shadow of a smile appear at the corners of Diana’s lips. Feeling his support, she touched her throat and said quietly:

"Yes. I think so. On the way home, Asya started squirming in her seat. I heard the crack of her bones shifting—I thought she was about to change. I wanted to stop the car, but I decided to risk it, and here we are." Diana gestured around the room. "Father gave Asya a sedative, and she fell asleep."

"Sedative?" Maria repeated to the doctor, losing all interest in the girl.

Vladimir shrugged.

"What else was I supposed to say? ‘Step aside, daughter, I’ve got fresh vampire venom ready, everything’s under control’?" His tone dripped with sarcasm, but no one in the room shared his amusement.

"Let’s summarize." Father stepped up to Maria, close enough to meet her gaze head-on, and in the way Kostya carried himself there was an unspoken threat. "You knew perfectly well that our daughter—a werewolf—was being pumped full of vampire venom, and you sincerely supported that idea without even talking to me?"

"Yes."

Unable to bear the emotions overwhelming him, Kostya swung his arm. I only had time to gasp, covering my mouth with my fingertips, seeing my father so enraged for the first time. He had never raised a hand against anyone, and that was exactly why the scene unfolding before my eyes was even more frightening—the realization that Kostya was no longer in control of himself. And it was all because of me. How would things have turned out if I had stayed in Rostov to finish my studies? What if I had never moved to Kserton? I didn’t have time to finish the thought before I noticed that my father’s fist had not reached its target, frozen in the air.

"I wouldn’t have hit her," my father ground out through clenched teeth. "Never. I was aiming at the wall."

"Thank you, Maksim," my mother said coldly, and only then did I notice my middle brother raising a tense hand. He must have used magic. "Konstantin truly wouldn’t have hit me. His fist would sooner have landed on the wall or on something else within reach. In the best family traditions. Right, Kostya?"

"As in the best traditions, you’re once again making decisions about our child’s future without me."

My parents stared into each other’s eyes, and from the outside it seemed as if an internal struggle was taking place within each of them. The grudges that had been festering inside stirred again, pricking Kostya’s and Maria’s nerves, poisoning their minds. The iceberg of past mistakes slightly emerged above the surface, but the truth reached deep for many miles, sinking into dark waters where no light could reach, hiding what had been done from prying eyes. I had never truly understood why my parents had separated, and now, seeing this scene, I suspected I never would: the truth was far too complex to fit into a single short sentence. Into a single event that had shattered years of love.

Assessing the situation, Maksim hesitantly lowered his hand, ready to cast a spell again at any moment to prevent the family gathering from turning into a bloodbath, and it was pleasant to realize—the Smirnov children wanted peace no less than I did. Unfortunately for all, peace balanced on fragile equilibrium. It had already begun to sway, and little time remained to set the record straight, yet for some reason those who could finally shed light on the matter were only making things worse.

"I supported the doctor’s work because I knew it was the only way out."

"The only way out? To risk our daughter’s life and doom her to the fate of these bloodsuckers?" Kostya quickly glanced at the Smirnov children. "No offense, guys. You’re great, but I wouldn’t want that kind of life for Asya."

"And no one wants to ask what I want?"

It irritated me how easily my parents slipped into another quarrel, making plans and deciding between themselves on a future that didn’t belong to them. I felt once again as if I had been locked up in our apartment under Kostya’s strict punishment, and my body involuntarily wanted to shrink. To disappear from this room. To dissolve into the wind, scattering into thousands of particles. To feel freedom in every movement and know that no one could stop nature.

"And what do you want, darling?"

My father wearily ran a hand through his hair, fully aware of where the conversation was heading again, and I had no desire to sugarcoat the pill.

"To be normal. An ordinary person. To finish the eleventh grade, have fun at graduation, and go to college, instead of wondering with each approaching moon whether I’ll transform when my emotions run too high."

"Asya, you haven’t transformed even once yet. In reality, it’s not so scary if you get used to it. You’ve seen what fate awaits those who reject the spirit."

"Are you serious right now? I ended up in the mansion today because I beat up Artur!"

"Well, not exactly beat up," my victim protested, defending his manliness.

"That’s because you’re a vampire. If it had been a human in your place, the outcome would have been much worse. What if I had attacked Dasha? Or Tanya?" Upon saying her name, I involuntarily let my gaze linger on Stanislav, studying his reaction. Yet nothing changed. I saw neither a shadow of concern nor any emotion at all on Stas’s cold face, as if we were talking about some other girl entirely. What kind of relationship did they even have?

"And who knows how it would have ended for Diana if she hadn’t made it in time. For you, jumping from one state to another might be easy, but I can feel myself losing who I am with each attempt to transform. I’m dangerous, and I’ve already proven it."

"You just need a little time," my father tried to sound as convincing as possible, but I remained adamant.

"How long does it take a werewolf to kill a human? Five minutes? Ten? One? I’ll never learn to stop myself fast enough."

"That’s exactly why it’s so important for Vladimir to keep injecting the venom," Maria insisted. "Only thanks to it can the spirit inside you lose."

"And tell me, when it loses, who will take the stage instead?" Kostya wouldn’t let up, as if suspecting some gap in a secret pact between my mother and the doctor, one they both clearly knew about but once again weren’t rushing to explain to me. "Do you really want her to become one of them?"

"She won’t. She physically can’t," Vladimir spoke up, having by this point quietly returned to the table without my noticing and, as if nothing had happened, refilled his glass. "The venom entered her blood once before, back in the forest. The process had already begun, and the results I observed in the hospital proved that the werewolf curse, fighting against the venom, weakens with each administered dose."

Maksim listened to Vladimir intently, and the longer he described the wonderful prospects of the dubious treatment, the deeper his brow furrowed. That look told me Kaandor didn’t appear the way a guardian spirit should. Everything I knew didn’t match Denis’s account either. The consequences of the path my mother had chosen were obvious, but she refused to acknowledge them. Could she really not see Kaandor the way Maksim did? Which of the two of them was stronger, then?

"Why didn’t you tell me, then?"

Vladimir shrugged.

"And how would you have reacted if you’d found out what I was injecting you with? After your mother Nika’s one-sided story, you, Asya, didn’t think much of me and openly expressed your distrust."

Even now, hearing that the doctor had actually been trying to help me at Maria’s request, I couldn’t bring myself to feel any warmth toward him. My gut screamed warnings, telling me not to let my guard down—because the moment I trusted, even for a second, and got caught in the nets set for me, the way back might turn out long and thorny. And I had no strength left for that. If there was anything human left inside me, it was expressed in sheer exhaustion.

This day had worn me out—conversations and tons of information kept pouring down on me like an avalanche, burying my sense of reality and any shred of logical understanding of what was happening. Everything I knew contradicted itself, making my chest tighten in fearful uncertainty over where the truth lay and where someone’s convenient lie was hiding. It felt as though if this went on much longer, I would suffocate entirely.

"Asya, you can trust him. Vladimir has always been on your side. He never intended to harm anyone," my mother said, gently stroking my back in encouragement.

The unexpected duet of Maria and Vladimir, acting as co-conspirators who had joined forces to deal with one—my—problem, was almost disarming. On the other hand, I had seen with my own eyes what the elder Smirnov was capable of. Without visible effort, he manipulated my father, and I was certain that today was far from the first time Kostya’s thoughts had been muddled and replaced with a convenient, foreign version. How could I know whether Maria herself wasn’t also under the doctor’s influence? Or maybe, if I truly trusted him, I could get exactly what I wanted most—a life of an ordinary high school senior?

I would never know the answer to that question, because just as I was lost in thought, Viola burst into the room, her eyes screaming that something terrible had happened. Something that changed everything.

Chapter Text

"Asya, run!" she shouted, raising her hands and aiming at Vladimir. She let out a furious howl as a shimmering blue sphere of energy appeared between her palms. The moment the light flared, Violetta’s body arched, and with all her strength she hurled the energy at her father. The sight was so terrifying that I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, expecting to hear the doctor’s scream—but nothing of the sort happened. There was a thud. Then another. And another. Everything flickered before my eyes, and I couldn’t understand what the hell was going on. When I opened them again, I froze in shock at what I saw.

Moving as if in fast-forward, my mother was intercepting sphere after sphere that Viola, in her rage, kept releasing, and tossing them aside to shield Vladimir, who, like a coward, tried to follow right behind her, using her as a living shield. But the doctor wasn’t holding my mother by force. She was protecting the elder Smirnov of her own free will, shielding him, while his children stood staring at their sister in confusion, not understanding a thing.

"Maksim, don’t just stand there like a post! Attack her, attack!" Vladimir barked, but Max only kept blinking, following each projectile with his eyes.

"Viola," Max asked quietly with trembling lips, "what are you doing?"

Stas carefully moved along the edge of the room, as if sensing the worst, and came to stand beside me. His fingers brushed softly against my palm, and in the next moment my hand was in his. There was so much warmth in that gesture, so much support—something I desperately needed in the midst of the chaos—that I didn’t want to resist. It seemed he had finally heard and understood what I had said earlier, and instead of stepping in to solve everything for me, he now stood beside me, offering support at the very moment when the ground was threatening to slip from under my feet.

"He killed her! Killed her!"

Only thanks to the flashes of light from the spheres Viola kept launching could I make out her face. It was even paler than usual. A scatter of pinkish spots dotted her cheeks, the way they did on mine after crying. Beneath her eyes were the remains of smeared mascara, dissolving in a stream of bitter tears.

"He killed Mom!"

Stas’s hand in mine twitched, and I immediately turned to him, catching an expression of complete incomprehension on his face. His world was crumbling right now, and he, like a mute spectator, was watching the destruction of Pompeii from a bird’s-eye view, powerless to change anything. His eyes darted around, looking for any point to latch onto—anything to keep from breaking down like his sister right here and now.

The mask had fallen, revealing the real Stas. The cold calm and composure dissolved the moment that short but devastating phrase echoed through the room. However I felt about him, whatever disagreements we’d had, seeing his weakness made me want more than anything to help him: the taste of my own loss still lingered bitterly on my tongue, reminding me of the pain.

I couldn’t believe what I’d heard any more than Stanislav could—because if I did, it would mean my subconscious, which clearly painted Dr. Smirnov as a monster, had been losing to brutal reality in a lopsided score. The truth had struck us all in our weakest places and kept striking, dragging everyone present into the halls of hell, where a fitting cauldron had been lovingly prepared for each to endure their suffering alone.

No, it simply couldn’t be true. I hadn’t heard much about the Smirnov couple, but it was nearly impossible to picture as evil a pair who had, with a firm yet loving hand, united five immortals within the walls of an old manor. Yes, there were dark impulses I could easily—and even gladly—attribute to Vladimir, but the desire to harm the children wasn’t among them.

The way the doctor treated them—how coldly he lectured them, trying to discipline them just to protect them from mistakes—whether I liked to admit it or not, it made me respect him. And would a man whose heart was cold as ice really leave an empty seat at the table for the wife he had killed, as if secretly hoping to see Olga again today? I sensed something was off, but Viola’s reaction drowned out the quiet voice of doubt: the pain on my friend’s face was too vivid, the mark of a terrible loss too clear. What if she really had found Olga’s body in the house? It was best to prepare for the worst.

Wanting to pull Stas out of the whirlpool of emotions consuming him, I squeezed his hand tighter, but his cold fingers simply loosened in response. Unstoppable, he lunged forward with such speed that he caught Maria off guard. While still deflecting the spells that Violetta kept sending at the doctor one after another, my mother had completely forgotten about her own safety. Stas noticed this and, like a predator spotting weak prey in the crowd, sharply changed direction, aiming not at Vladimir but at Maria. I noticed the change too late to react, and when Stas swung his tense hand—fingers pressed tightly together like a blade—straight toward Maria’s throat, a desperate cry tore from my lips. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Event after event unfolded before my eyes like in a terrible dream.

Time seemed to slow, and a familiar chill ran over my skin.

"Oh yes," Kaandor purred sweetly.

At the last moment, Maria deflected the blow, and the fight turned into hand-to-hand combat between her and Stas. Consumed by rage, Stas launched one attack after another, and Mom, focused and tense as a drawn string, skillfully parried each strike before it could come crashing down on her. The sight could have been mesmerizing in its beauty and perfect precision: their movements were flawlessly calculated, and each opponent seemed to anticipate the other’s moves on an instinctive level. Maria predicted Stas’s actions as if eavesdropping on the vampire’s thoughts, using it to her advantage, but there was something strange in this mad dance. Soon I realized what it was—Mom wasn’t striking Stas back.

Before long, Arthur joined the frenzied dance, trying to get to Vladimir. Together with his brother, he attacked in turns, aiming to exhaust their opponent, who barely managed to dodge not only them but also the glowing spheres Violet continued to hurl. Unlike the brothers, Viola was moving slower and slower. She was already breathing heavily, her forehead glistening with sweat. It was clear how much effort each new attack cost her, yet she tried not to fall behind the brothers.

For a brief moment, as if losing concentration—or perhaps realizing the impossibility of deflecting all the force aimed at her at once—Maria made a mistake, and another energy sphere, instead of vanishing like the others when the witch redirected it away from herself, flew toward Diana and struck her straight in the stomach. The blow was so strong that the fragile girl lifted off the floor and her body hurtled into the nearest wall. The impact was powerful enough to make the furniture shake and to knock one of the paintings from its mount.

Max rushed to his beloved, but he had no time to act. Diana’s head hit the wall with a loud thud before she fell to the floor; Maxim carefully lifted her and laid her across his knees. His long fingers gently supported Diana’s head as he examined her.

Di had lost consciousness. God, how strong must that hit have been if she—a vampire—was knocked out? What the hell were they all doing here?!

Max’s lips curved into a contemptuous smile. He gently laid Diana on the carpet by the wall, then stood up and squared his shoulders. Maxim tensed his arms and spread them wide, just as he had done in Dr. Smirnov’s makeshift home infirmary. His thumb moved in sequence from index finger to pinky as if counting them, and he whispered something almost inaudibly. There was no doubt: Max was reciting a new spell, watching the battle and preparing to join it. Remembering the power Max possessed, I felt something break inside me with the realization—nothing good awaited us ahead. Driven by that thought, I began searching for my father with my eyes, seeking support. I hoped to convince him to step in and stop this chaos, and then I saw Kostya take Maria’s side. They covered each other’s backs and together pushed the others away from Dr. Smirnov, who was cowering in the corner.

Viola had spent all her energy. Unable to cast another spell, she grabbed a knife from the table and tried to find the right moment to wound one of my parents. I had already noticed a thin red line on Maria’s cheek and shuddered.

A fire of anger and indignation at the injustice flared within me. Instead of first figuring out what was going on, everyone had rushed to throw punches. And the first line of defense to overcome in order to get to Vladimir was Maria and Kostya.

Why did my family have to be on the front line of this battle? Even though I sympathized with the others, knowing in my head that Viola must have had evidence of what her father had done, my sympathy didn’t dispel the veil of fear weighing on me like a heavy shroud, paralyzing me.

My legs grew heavy, as if filled with lead, forcing me to stand even more firmly on the ground. Fear seeped inside me, whispering in a mocking tone that if I wished, I would have the power to protect my loved ones. My imagination painted a terrifying picture in which I once again stood within the gray walls of the farewell hall—only this time, on the platform were not my grandmother’s coffin, but two others: one for my mother, and one for my father.

At that moment, my gaze met Kostya’s, and he spoke to me so quietly that I understood only by reading his lips:

"Run."

Viola seized the moment of distraction and, with a wide swing, lunged at my father. With a wild roar, she drove the knife under Kostya’s collarbone, burying the blade to the hilt with ease. Blood splattered in all directions, spattering my face. The salty, metallic scent hit my nose. I felt my teeth clatter together as if in a surge of rage, my body unable to decide whether to scream in horror or leap into the fight. With contempt, I watched Vladimir step back toward the window, weighing his chances and clearly realizing the defense wouldn’t last long. I felt a surge of hatred for this man—not so much for what he had done to his own family, but for the threat the doctor had brought upon mine—and more than anything, I wanted to… no, I wouldn’t dare.

"Just admit you really want to."

"No," I protested. "I’m not a monster like him."

Suddenly, Kaandor’s elongated muzzle appeared over my shoulder, and I felt his warm breath on my skin. Almost searing, like the heat of summer, it carried with it the pleasant scent of thyme and rosemary.

"I’m not asking you to become like this bloodsucker. Tell me, has this vampire brought anything into the world except pain? Look"—long fingers gripped my chin, preventing me from turning away—"look at how the ones you love and long to protect are tearing each other apart. You’ve been given the power to stop this with one precise move. All that’s left is to admit you want it more than anything in the world."

My gaze slid from the unfolding battle to the culprit of this grim spectacle, and his attempt to open the window and escape only rekindled the fire within me.

But what could I do? I was a pathetic human, just a girl caught up in a whirlpool of events I could barely explain.

Kaandor laughed theatrically, as if he had heard the course of my thoughts, and, like an old friend, ruffled the hair at the back of my head.

"Just a pitiful human? When will you understand that the human part of you is just as dead as the souls of these vampires?"

Kaandor appeared before me, and our eyes met. The warmth of amber drew me in like a flame draws a moth, and before I could even think, I stepped forward, toward my dark companion, who had already spread his arms and waited with interest, unsure whether I would dare or not.

"I will give you a power you never even dared to dream of."

More than anything, I wanted to plunge into those arms completely. To escape from the gaping hell into a parallel reality where there was no death, no struggle, no pain. Where my parents lived together, and the Smirnovs and the Chyornys were close friends. A world where Diana, Viola, and I held pajama parties, while the boys tried to convince us to sneak out into the forest in the middle of the night, build a campfire, and scare each other until morning with stories about mythical creatures that simply didn’t exist. Everything could have been different if we had been ordinary people. Happier.

I had no strength to watch everything I loved disappear in an instant. A crunch sounded, as if someone had stepped on a cookie, but I kept my gaze desperately fixed on Kaandor, afraid to look at the source of the sound and realize whose body had just been broken like a fragile matchstick. I rushed into the embrace of darkness and, to my surprise, didn’t touch anything at all. It felt as though I had passed straight through Kaandor’s body and ended up once again in a familiar place. A place without light.

"Wake up, wolf. Wake up and take what you want to take."

***

I drifted in an empty space, just as I once had before. My thoughts were free from shackles and all the heavy stones that had weighed down my heart.

I knew nothing. Neither who I was now, undergoing metamorphoses that at times felt excruciating—sharpening my sight, hearing, and smell—and at other times subsided, never allowing me to truly grow accustomed to any state. I could rely neither on myself nor on anyone else, for those around me continued to weave intricate webs of intrigue, pursuing their own goals unknown to me.

I wished I could choose myself—my future and the kind of person I would become—but unlike my peers, my path was littered with far too many obstacles. Like trials, they rose before me, stripping me of the fragile hope I so desperately needed.

The image of a magnificent wolf came to mind—the form my father had taken. Lean, with a sleek, glossy coat, he stood before me brimming with a spirit that radiated strength, while I felt weak and defenseless. I longed for even a fraction of what he had—a measure of courage or perhaps faith in myself. But how could I rely on myself, seeing grief-crazed vampires locked in battle with my family? What did I have to stand against marble-hard muscles and sharp fangs, ready to strike at the first opportunity and drain the drink of life—to take from another what was theirs by birthright?

Freedom was a privilege to be earned, defending every inch of space in a crowd of others just as hungry for a place under the sun. But where did I fit in? Did I even want to become part of the unknown underbelly of a world filled with mythical creatures and magic? I could barely manage an ordinary life, often drawing close to and trusting the wrong people. What could be said about more complex matters—like getting into university? It seemed everyone else knew exactly which path to take, but not me. I was stuck at a crossroads with no signposts.

Advice from others didn’t help. Quite the opposite—they only made me more confused. They all insisted that once I transformed for the first time, I would finally understand everything, for I would have something to compare it to. But what if I once stepped onto the path of shapeshifting and there was no way back? What if the metamorphosis turned out to be irreversible for me, and I became stuck, like others who had rejected the gift?

"Accept what is destined for you," whispered Kaandor.

"But I don’t know how."

"Just trust yourself."

Out of nowhere, in the darkness, appeared the outlines of two forged mirrors. On one of them, at the top of a frame tinged with noble silver, a dark tarnish had formed over long centuries. In the ornament of the crest, a wolf’s head was carved, with the same amber eyes as Kaandor’s. The other mirror looked newer, its polished patterns gleaming so brightly that they seemed like a living river of intertwined serpents.

"It shouldn’t be here," Kaandor’s voice trembled for the first time, all traces of his confident, all-knowing tone gone. From somewhere came muffled sounds of blows, as if someone else was trying to break through the darkness.

Kaandor kept repeating the same phrase over and over, his voice gradually rising to a shout, while the blows grew faster and clearer. They sounded almost desperate, as though someone on the other side sought to prevent the inevitable—something that confused my mind even more, since the dark companion had let me into his space willingly.

Faced with yet another choice, I sighed heavily and noticed that I could smell nothing, as though in this place nothing existed except for the two mirrors—both reflecting my own image clearly. Yet, looking closer, I realized something was wrong. The facial features and figure were still recognizable, but subtle differences were easy to spot. The newer mirror seemed to show a better version of the woman I could become, if only I chose the right path.

It lured me, promising unearthly beauty and a stately posture. The skin appeared unnaturally smooth, as if a thick layer of foundation had been applied; gone was the healthy flush that would bloom on my cheeks the moment I stepped outside into the crisp winter air that was now claiming the land of Kserton, wrapping the forest in a soft blanket of snow. My face was pale, but without any sign of illness—instead, it bore a noble hue, like Japanese porcelain. This made my gaze seem more expressive and revealed a hidden depth in my eyes, where sadness lay—whether for the future or the past, I could only guess. My hair had grown even longer, falling in neat Hollywood waves over my shoulders and chest. The neckline of my sweater revealed delicate, protruding collarbones. I seemed even thinner, more fragile in appearance—but rather than inspire admiration, it only emphasized my current clumsiness, making it all the more jarring.

The reflection in the second mirror was strikingly different, and I wouldn’t say in a worse way. The silhouette had gained noticeable volume. Here and there, the tightly fitting fabric emphasized muscles filled with strength. The face looked sun-kissed, as if I had just stepped off a plane, returning from yet another vacation with my father to the cold Kserton. But that association quickly faded when I noticed a few fine lines of wrinkles already forming on the forehead, hinting that the girl in the reflection was a couple, maybe even several, years older than me—though her hair hadn’t lost its shine, and her eyes brimmed with happiness, overflowing with life.

It wasn’t hard to tell which of these two images projected the true desires growing inside my soul. I desperately wanted strength. The illusion that it alone could grant me the keys to the free life I longed for had become stronger than ever. I took a step forward, but stopped for a moment in hesitation. What if I was completely misunderstanding this, and these reflections were nothing more than a trap meant to catch me at a moment of weakness, binding me in tight nets from which there would be no way back? I was ready to abandon the idea and give myself more time to think when suddenly the pounding stopped, and Kaandor, contrary to my expectations, began to encourage me, repeating that there was only one last step to take. Could I trust this being I knew almost nothing about? I felt an instinctive connection with him, one that grew stronger each time the dark companion materialized in reality, but remembering Maria’s warnings, I couldn’t be sure of anything. What if my mother was wrong and Kaandor was the only friend I could have in this chain of chaotic events, where one thing was constantly replacing another? At least someone had to stay on my side while the world closed in around me, cornering me like a pack of wolves, ready to tear into warm flesh and drink sweet blood.

At the thought of blood, my throat tightened, and I noticed how dry my lips felt. No wonder—after all, I hadn’t taken a single sip of water all day. I hadn’t eaten either—at the mad dinner between the two families, it seemed everyone had more important things to do. I had to put an end to what was happening before someone got hurt, no matter how much I wanted to punish Vladimir for all the evil the doctor had brought into this world.

“He will pay for everything—if you only take the final step,” Kaandor whispered in the darkness, and one of the mirrors seemed to slide toward me, but still, I hesitated.

“Tell me, will I be able to protect my family if I go through it?”

“All of them, if you hurry. There isn’t much time left.”

I didn’t like how deftly Kaandor had inserted a ticking clock into this serene place, where there was nothing but me, a pair of mirrors, and darkness. But I understood that the spirit was right: even if minutes here felt unreal, it didn’t mean reality had mercifully slowed its pace or stopped the battle unfolding in the hall. In the end, I already knew which of the two mirrors I would choose. There was no point in standing here any longer.

The rational part of me came up with a thousand and one more reasons to accept fate, but the uncertainty sent a cold shiver down my spine. More than anything, I feared making another mistake. Trust and openness to the world had already played a cruel trick on me, but I couldn’t keep standing at a crossroads forever. Or could I?

The next moment, I shut my eyes and stepped toward the chosen mirror, meeting no resistance. On the contrary, the cold surface eagerly wrapped around me, and the slightly older Asya reached out her hand, waiting for mine. Her lips curved into a gentle smile. I had never noticed it was so beautiful.

A long-awaited calm enveloped my mind. I felt the strength radiating from my double, and I desperately longed to grow the same strength inside myself for the sake of others.
No, that wasn’t right. For the sake of myself.

The decision felt so right and natural that I cast aside my final doubts and placed my hand in hers.

***

My eyes were painfully burned by the bright light in the dining hall, where the battle continued and the losing side was obvious. I understood where the crackling sound I’d heard earlier came from when I saw my father. Or rather, I only guessed it was Kostya by the dark wolf head that had replaced the face I knew. The transformation wasn’t complete: everything below the neck looked quite human. Only the turtleneck was left in tatters, patchily covering a bare torso that had filled with strength. Strength that now belonged to me too.

Every cell in my body vibrated in unison, starting from the fingertips and rising in a wave, filling me with energy. I had felt echoes of power before, but it was nothing compared to the euphoria that now overwhelmed me. I looked at my hands and saw my nails lengthening and thickening, turning into massive claws. Flexing my fingers, I examined my palms and noticed I was seeing things differently than before. It was unusual to observe everything from above, but to be honest, I liked it.

My admiration was interrupted by the sound of breaking dishes. It was Violetta, who, clutching Maria, toppled with her onto the narrow serving table where containers of fragrant dinner had recently stood. Food was scattered in scraps on the floor, and the potatoes were crushed underfoot into an unappetizing mush.

Viola freed her mother’s arm from her grip and raised a knife for a strike, aiming straight for the heart. I sprang up, but my legs tangled as if tied together, and my body pitched forward. Yielding to an instant impulse, I dropped to all fours and quickly gained speed. One last burst, and I jumped higher to intervene, but I bumped into the enraged Stas with my shoulder. Still, it didn’t knock me off course, unlike Smirnov. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Stanislav turn around from the impact, as if the blow had been so strong he couldn’t stay upright.

A split second later, I reached my target. Throwing my paw-like hands forward, I pounced on Viola from above. My claws slid easily across her skin, tearing through the fabric in their way. Where the claws had been, deep scratches appeared. They quickly bled, and the beast inside me rejoiced. It wanted more. More blood.

“Let everything turn red!”, a mad thought flashed through my mind, and my vision blurred. I became even angrier than before, feeling the lives burning in my hands. So much power in a single touch, sweet control. And the terror in Viola’s eyes, lying on the cold floor beneath me, made me press her throat harder, waiting for the rasp. This was the limitless power that would grant me freedom.

“Stop,” someone croaked in a voice unfamiliar to me, growing louder after a moment. “Stop before it goes too far!”

The new voice caught my attention despite the whisper in my head, and I turned around. What I saw made me freeze and blink hard because I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Nick was standing in the doorway. He looked bad and sickly in a stretched-out T-shirt, his long arms tightly wrapped in bandages visible beneath it. A woman leaned on Karimov’s shoulder. The stranger looked as fragile as Diana, only older. Much older. Her hair was disheveled, with silver strands coloring the right temple.

“What’s this now?” the stranger stared at me puzzled, struggling to find words.

The fight immediately stopped, and everyone present looked at the woman as one, who carefully stepped toward the center of the room, trying not to step into the mush of scattered baked fish and potatoes all over the floor.

“Ma-ma?” Viola asked in a choked voice, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Someone grabbed me under the chest and yanked me off Viola. At that moment, I felt like a powerless doll once again and became furious. Only now I had something to fight back with.

Without thinking long, I kicked out, but it didn’t loosen the stranger’s grip, so I dug my claws deep into soft flesh. A growl sounded, and to my surprise, I realized the sound came from me. Wow!

“Asya, quieter!” Kostya shouted right by my ear, not expecting resistance from me. “You’ll scratch me all over!”

Chapter Text

“Mom,” Stas looked at Olga in confusion. “What happened to you?”

Stanislav flinched, as if he wanted to approach his mother, but didn’t dare. He studied her worriedly, noticing new changes.

“Why do you look like…” He stopped mid-sentence, as if afraid to say aloud the word that was on the tip of his tongue.

Father dragged me to the far corner of the room, away from the others. He kept holding me, his arms wrapped around me from behind. I tried to catch my breath and understand at least a little of what was happening, but the blood kept pounding in my temples, urging me to rush at Vladimir. However, as soon as I found the prey with my eyes, something inside me snapped.

“Go ahead, son,” Olga nodded to Nikita, and he, holding her by the waist, slowly led the woman closer to Stanislav. “Say it.”

Vladimir I knew was gone, replaced by someone else. He was no longer the proud man confident in his mind and greatness, for whom everything happening was just an exciting game. Nor was he the coward who recently sought shelter from fangs, hiding behind his own children. No. A new Vladimir appeared, his face twisted with shame and pain as soon as the doctor looked at the woman he loved.

“You look like a human.”

Stas’s mother smiled, and that smile illuminated her face with relief, as if the secret had been too heavy and she could no longer carry it alone. At that moment, Olga’s foot slipped on the scattered remains of food on the floor. Nik was too weak to keep his balance; his hand slipped off Olga’s waist, and the woman would have inevitably fallen if Maxim hadn’t arrived in time. Unlike the others, he didn’t look at the mother with surprise, but rather the opposite. While Max helped Olga sit down on a chair, every movement of his was full of gentleness and care, as if she might crumble from a careless touch.

“That can’t be,” Viola said, looking at her mother as if she had seen a ghost. “I managed to sneak in and see Father’s laboratory beyond the mirror. I saw pictures where you…” Her voice broke, “you…”

Olga looked at her daughter with regret and kept smiling as if it were the only medicine that could soothe another person’s pain. She raised her hand and beckoned Viola to come closer, in whose eyes uninvited tears had frozen.

Violetta didn’t hesitate. Despite the wounds that covered her body — caused by me — she quickly got up and hurried to her mother, but Max intercepted her when she was a meter away from Olga.

“No,” he said sharply. “Don’t come any closer.”

Viola looked at him almost crazed, and the first tear slid down her cheek.

“Let me go,” she tried to pull her hands out of his tight fingers, but Max held her.

“I said no. It’s too dangerous.”

“Are you crazy?” Viola began hitting Max’s fingers with an open palm. And I was sure that if she really wanted to hurt her brother, she would have hit differently. I had already felt on my own skin how bloodthirsty Viola could be. Especially if there was a knife nearby.

Nik leaned against the wall, trying not to attract attention. He didn’t look at any of us, as if feeling like a stranger in the room.

“She’s our mother!” she continued, but Max pushed her away.

I couldn’t believe I was seeing Nikita again. And not just anywhere, but under the roof of the Smirnovs’ house. I looked at Stas, trying to understand if he knew about this, but Stanislav was too shocked by the appearance of his own mother. It seemed that Nik didn’t exist for him, and that was easy to understand. After all, it wasn’t his heart that was broken, but his life that had been turned upside down by Karimov.

I should have felt anger toward him. Should have wanted to break free from my father’s strong grip and shake Nik hard, demanding explanations and justice for everything he had done. Present a bill for all that he might have taken from me. But I couldn’t find the strength. I looked at the pale shadow of a man whom, albeit by deception, I had loved. The thought of what was hidden under those bandages scared me. Had I really seen him in my nightmare, and was everything I saw really happening to him? After all he’d done, I liked to imagine giving Nik a good thrashing, but could I really hurt him — did I have the strength for that?

“That’s why, if you love her — don’t you dare come closer.”

“What nonsense are you talking?” Viola rushed forward again, and this time Maxim didn’t stop her.

Viola hugged her mother with obvious delight and buried her face in the unruly strands.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” she sighed so deeply that even I could hear it. “Mommy.”

She rubbed her face against Olga’s hair and breathed in again. Her eyes closed in pleasure, and for a moment the scene of a daughter reuniting with her mother touched me. But then something happened that I did not expect at all.

Expressive fangs appeared from beneath Violetta’s painted lips. Her mouth opened wider and wider, and I realized with horror what Viola was planning to do. Max arrived just in time, when the tip of the fang touched the skin on Olga’s neck. It took effort for the twin to pull his sister away from their mother. Wild, intoxicated by the scent, Viola reached for Olga and struggled, while Max tried to restore his sister’s reason with short words.

“Blood,” Diana said, pressing her slender fingers to her nose, trying to mask the smell. “Why? Why does she smell like that?”

“I smell it too,” Stas said, unlike Di, covering his face with his sleeve.

“Viola still managed to wound her,” Max said, sniffing and swallowing hard as he kept holding Violetta. “Konstantin, could you help mother stand up and take her away while we sort this out?”

Father deliberately loosened his grip slowly, checking if I had calmed down.

“I’m fine.”

Dad hesitated for a moment, promised to return soon, helped Olga up, and led her out of the room. No one else moved; everyone silently watched the door close behind Olga and Kostya.

“So,” I began, addressing Vladimir, who looked worse than everyone else in the room, “you managed to make a human out of your wife?”

The doctor leaned his back against the wall, his fingers gripping the window frame tensely, as if that was the only way he could freeze in place. His eyes were bloodshot, like Nikita’s once was at school. Noticing this detail made it clear how badly the thirst affected him, unlike the children. Though Viola had given in to impulse, her eyes remained just as human as before.

“I managed, and not only her. Though only partially,” Vladimir answered gloomily, barely moving his lips. “But the price was too high. So I can’t promise the same to any of you.”

“Mom is going to die?” Stas asked ahead, and after a moment, the doctor nodded.

“Like all humans. Sooner or later.”

“But in her case, sooner rather than later,” Maxim added, and everyone turned to look at him.

He sat on the floor, holding his twin sister in his arms, slowly running his hand over Viola’s golden hair as she leaned against his shoulder. Her shoulders shook with every breath, and it seemed that in his arms she had turned into a small, miserable girl seeking comfort from her older brother after scraping her knee.

“Olga’s limits are less than we’d like.”

“You helped him,” Stas clenched his fists and took a step toward his brother, “do this to her?”

Max shrugged his tear-free shoulder.

“What would you have done if Mom asked?”

Stanislav laughed bitterly, not believing what he had heard.

“I wouldn’t have helped if I knew her life was at stake.”

“Son,” Vladimir called unusually softly, “she wanted to become human again. Wanted to have a real family.”

“So were we just backups? A trial run? Played with and then she can get another, the right one? Lessons learned!” With each new word, Stas’s voice grew louder, and by the end, he was laughing hysterically.

I wanted to intervene. To take Stanislav away before words came out of his mouth that Smirnov would definitely regret later, but someone touched my shoulder, and for a second I feared being grabbed again. I turned around. As soon as I met Mom’s gaze, the bad premonition receded.

“Let’s go,” she said quietly, “this is family business.”

I understood that Maria was right and that we should leave, but inside, there were too many questions left unanswered. Refusing Vladimir’s promise to explain everything was a price I couldn’t pay, so I shook my head, not agreeing to follow Maria. But Mom insisted:

“I can explain it to you myself. Let’s go,” she pulled me by the forearm, and this time I didn’t resist and obediently followed her to the exit. Only after stepping outside did I allow myself one last glance at the others, but no one cared that we were leaving, except for one person — Nik.

Nikita gave a weak smile with one corner of his mouth and, struggling to raise his hand, waved goodbye to me, as if promising we would see each other again soon.

***

“You need to understand something,” Maria led me confidently through the rooms, as if she had been inside the Smirnovs’ house a hundred times before. “Everything I did, I did for you.”

She moved with such certainty, passing straight through rooms via doors I had never noticed before. She knew every corner of the mansion, every secret kept beneath the high ceilings, and that knowledge frightened me. She carried herself nothing like the Maria I had known. She was no longer soft, cheerful, and a little naïve. The mother who had raised me was gone, replaced by another woman. A stranger.

“When your father and I met, things were different. The Kserton’s Coven was thriving, cleverly playing with the natural balance. It wasn’t the strongest, but it was respected, skillfully keeping its activities hidden from the eyes of ordinary mortals, helping the local residents—in its own way, it even prospered. But there was one problem it could never solve. Undoing the work of its ancestors—the new weapon they created during the war—proved impossible.”

Maria pulled the porcelain ballerina figurine on the shelf, and part of the wall slid aside, revealing a narrow corridor where two people could hardly walk side by side without discomfort. My mother motioned for me to go first, and I stepped cautiously into the darkness.

“Werewolves and vampires?” I asked, spreading my arms to either side and feeling along the walls. It was calmer to walk forward while my fingers traced the monotonous surface, which stretched all the way to a modest light source at the end.

“Exactly. I don’t want to bore you with the retelling of the usual tale about those times, but—”

“Dad’s already told me.”

Maria faltered.

“And you call him ‘Dad’ more often now.”

“He’s earned it,” I said sharply, feeling a surge of resentment toward Maria, though I couldn’t quite pinpoint what made me angrier. In my head there were a thousand and one reasons, from the fact that she rarely called me to the secrets she and Kostya had wrapped around my life.

Maria exhaled noisily, not knowing what to say. She always did that when we were about to argue, and after exhaling, she would quickly change the subject. I used to think she did it out of simplicity, maybe a touch of naïveté that kept her from quarreling even with bank clerks or tax officers. Now, I didn’t know what to think. Even now, when Maria continued speaking, she picked up right where she had left off earlier.

“Since you’ve already heard the traditional story, then listen to what happened after. The creatures that cast their shadow over all witchkind were hunted by the covens for centuries, swinging from one extreme to another. It began with the most primitive methods, like tracking and exterminating, but before the first century was out, it became clear: the stronger the weapon you used, the faster werewolves and vampires adapted to it, gradually nullifying the witches’ efforts. And when the werewolves had gathered enough grudges and strength, they returned war for war, leveling many covens to the ground.”

The corridor led us directly to a staircase. The passage clearly hadn’t been built long ago, judging by the flawless coat of paint and the gleaming steps, which made you tread carefully—slipping here would be the last thing you’d want.

The room before us was bathed in light and golden accents. The walls, covered with gold-beige silk with delicate floral patterns, seemed far too refined for a house where people actually lived.

“While the witches and werewolves tore at each other’s throats, the vampires were left to their own devices. The purebloods began increasing the numbers of the weak-blooded, whose thirst soon made them not only bloodthirsty but mad enough to successfully draw attention away from the leaders. By sending group after group to the slaughter, they aimed to take out both the wolves and the witches at once, leaving the world entirely in their hands. Luckily, the witches and werewolves quickly realized where things were headed and made a conditional truce in the face of a common enemy.”

Maria walked straight through the room, and when we stepped through another door, we ended up in the familiar parking area under the house, where the Smirnovs’ cars stood. Opposite the exit, Dad’s car was already running, and Maria headed toward it. I kept following her, still listening.

“When I first saw your father at the institute, I knew at first sight that I was in love. I was drawn to Kostya so impossibly, so desperately, that when I realized who he was, it broke my heart. Among witches, such a bond was considered forbidden at the time. God, how I cried when I understood everything,” Maria smiled, and on her lips played that familiar smile, the one that allowed me to recognize my mother in this woman again. “But Kostya didn’t care what was accepted or not. He loved me and agreed to any conditions, as long as we could keep seeing each other. We met in secret, more and more often telling our families that we were staying at the institute for an extra hour, sometimes two, just to be together.”

When we reached the car, I instinctively went to sit in the front seat, but Maria opened the back door and gestured for me to get in. The last thing I wanted right now was to crawl into the back and take the most uncomfortable seat—in the middle. I hated talking to someone in a car without seeing their face. I could have asked Maria to sit next to me, but I was afraid that if I brought it up, she’d lose her flow and stop talking. My protest stopped at an eye roll, and I obediently climbed inside.

The radio was playing softly, and to my surprise, Kostya was behind the wheel, wearing a light windbreaker that was clearly the wrong size for him. Dad turned toward me and pointed at the jacket.

“This is what happens when you shift carelessly and tear all your clothes. At least this was in the trunk. I have no idea how it even got there.”

I examined the windbreaker: light blue, with thin pink and orange stripes running from the shoulders all the way down the sleeves.

“I think it’s mine. I lost it about five years ago and could never remember where I’d left it back home in Rostov, and apparently, it’s been here all along.”

“That explains why it’s so damn tight on me.”

Maria sank into her seat and shut the door loudly, making Kostya shoot her an annoyed glance but hold back from commenting.

“I thought your midlife crisis had already passed,” she said, her eyes flicking over his outfit in a pointed jab.

“Oh, and you’re dressed so age-appropriately in that low-cut sweater.”

The moment my parents were in a calm setting, they fell back into their old habit—bickering.

“Maria, don’t get sidetracked. You were telling her about how you and Kostya met in secret.”

Both of them fell silent at once. Kostya turned away from Maria and reached for the radio to switch off the music.

“You keep telling the story, I’ll drive us home.”

Maria gave a silent nod and tucked her hair behind her ear. She paused while Dad pulled out of the parking lot. Once we left the Smirnovs’ property, Mom spoke again.

“We couldn’t keep our relationship a secret for long. I don’t know who found out first or how, but the news reached the High Witch and the alpha of the Kserton wolf pack. By the established rules, we should have been declared enemies and exiled, but your grandmother and grandfather, apparently, couldn’t bring themselves to do it. They didn’t say anything to us. They did something worse — they decided everything for us.”

Maria had no intention of stopping and went on as if nothing had happened when the mention of my grandmother echoed in my mind. I couldn’t understand which of the two she meant, but I was ready to swear that neither of my grandmothers—on my father’s side nor on my mother’s—could ever have been called the High Priestess of any coven in the past. Sweet old ladies, who had cared for me more than my own mother ever had, were always kind and smiling, not the cartoonish witches with hooked noses reaching the ceiling, as the fairy tales claimed. I didn’t want to believe it or even allow the thought that my family’s history was even more complicated than it already seemed. Everything that was happening had long since crossed the boundaries of normal—and certainly the boundaries of my understanding.

"During Beltane, our parents called a gathering, timing it with the sabbath to announce a new peace treaty under which werewolves and witches would be equal, and past disagreements would be forgotten like a bad dream, for a way had finally been found to sever wolves from the natural magic they absorbed without giving anything back to the source in return. That was the official version."

As much as I wanted to deny the obvious, Maria’s story easily matched what Kostya had shown me in the kennels: I had seen with my own eyes what my grandfather’s attempts to reject the wolf spirit had led to. I had also seen that my father had inherited lycanthropy from Svetozar. Which meant only one thing: my grandmother, my beloved sweet grandmother who baked the most delicious pies on holidays and loved to gather guests under her roof, had once been the powerful High Priestess of a witch coven. Even realizing that the puzzle pieces fit perfectly together, I could not bring myself to believe it. Her image, like our entire life in Rostov, turned out to have a double bottom—a false cover meant to hide her true nature not only from outsiders, but from me as well. That thought hollowed me out, piece by piece stealing away fragments of warm memories I no longer knew how to trust.

"However, the High Priestess’s retinue knew the truth about what was being prepared, as did the simple novices like me who carried out the small tasks: cleansing the surrounding areas, gathering and arranging rowan branches for the spell. The ritual performed that day was indeed meant to destroy the wolves’ bond with the source of magic—Mother Nature herself. But, like any magic, no spell can exist without an anchor. Cut it loose, and you deprive the boat of its means of salvation—leaving it to drift endlessly in the open sea. Your grandmother understood that she could lure the wolves to their doom and restore the balance of the source, which had been growing weaker, causing more frequent fires, droughts, and typhoons around the world. She was powerful, but not all-powerful. And she had a heart."

"God, you explain everything so slowly," Kostya interrupted, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. "Long story short, your grandma ended up making a deal with your grandpa, and they tricked the guests into lending their power, just so they themselves wouldn’t die of exhaustion while trying to perform a ritual strong enough to re-anchor the werewolves. To our ancestral spirits, as you already know."

"Why do you butt into what you don’t understand? When did you become a warlock?"

Kostya snorted and gripped the steering wheel more tightly.

"Never was one, and don’t intend to be. And stop filling your daughter’s head with fluff. Say it plain, as it is."

"Or what? You could’ve told her yourself ages ago, if you’re so smart."

"I have told her! Slowly, in small doses, so she could process it. Right now, you see, it’s not about your merry Beltane past with dancing and feasts. She needs to deal with what she’s become—thanks to you."

"Thanks to me?" Maria jabbed herself in the chest in outrage. "I don’t recall having mutts in my family tree."

"Mom!" I shouted, unable to believe my ears.

"Asya, I’m sorry. Your mother," Kostya softened his tone, turning back to me, "she doesn’t want to call your new condition by any name. It’s just old habit—throwing barbs at me. Right, Maria?"

The car stopped at a red light.

"Right. That’s not what I meant, okay? We all thought we were doing the right thing for you. We even signed up to risk our lives, and in the end, what? My mother lost her magic and died without the honors and unity with the source she deserved, and your father lost his mind entirely and sank to the level of a primitive creature."

"Now I understand why we never got a dog," was all I could manage to say.

My mood sank below average. More than anything, I wanted silence—to think through the events and shocks of this terribly long and complicated day, which had left me sick at heart, yet somehow was putting everything in its place.

"They paid the price so your father and I could be together. We were happy."

"For the most part," Kostya added.

"But not as long as we would have liked. The coven couldn’t accept my choice, even after the official reason to blame wolves for all mortal sins was taken away. They found a new reason to hate us, blaming the loss of the High Priestess’s power on me. In the witches’ hierarchy, you can’t just take the place of the leader—you have to be born great. Your grandmother lost her power before her time, before a successor had emerged. Nothing unites people like the search for a common enemy. The warlocks and witches I had grown up with banded together against me and cast me out for my bond with Kostya."

"The wolves weren’t doing great either. Losing our bond with magic meant losing our immortality—and we found out the hard way, through trial and error. Protecting the city from the weak-bloods was still our job. People in the pack started valuing their lives more, fighting less, putting themselves before the whole. They stopped shifting, rejecting the spirit within—and he doesn’t forgive mistakes. And you’ve seen for yourself where that decision led them, back in the kennels. Because of our dwindling numbers, I lost almost all my friends when the vampires learned about the Kserton pack’s weakness and began sending the newly turned and blood-maddened weak-bloods to their deaths with twice the force. If it had gone on like that, the city would have drowned in the blood of innocents. Neither I nor the others who still fought could let that happen."

"And you all would have died heroes if they hadn’t come back to Kserton," Maria picked up Kostya’s story, "Vladimir and Olga."

"They took the city under their protection from other vampire clans. Even creatures like them have a sort of code. At least, according to Vladimir. Because his wife came from one of the city’s founding families, the ancient clans abandoned their plans to claim Kserton for themselves. As long as she or a direct descendant lived, no one would dare set foot here—except maybe a few lost souls drawn by hunger to a small city that promised easy prey. The remaining wolves could handle those."

"When the long-awaited peace came and the danger was, for the most part, gone, your father and I moved on—we lived together, started planning our future. And soon, we were going to have you."

"It was almost like a fairy tale. With a beautiful ending."

The memory made Maria smile, but even through her lowered lashes, there was a trace of sadness in her eyes.

"And they lived happily ever after—but apart," she added, and a heavy silence settled in the car, thick with unspoken words.

"I started having dreams at night. Unusually vivid, strange dreams. They frightened me every time with how they ended. In them, I saw a young, beautiful girl with eyes just like mine. She smiled at me and kept repeating that everything would be fine. And then…"

"What happened then?" I prompted, afraid my mother would skip over it, as she often did.

"The dream always ended the same way. A dark figure with amber eyes and a head like a wolf’s would place its hands on the girl’s shoulders and then pull her close. But it wasn’t an embrace. He seemed to be made of darkness itself, and the girl seemed to dissolve into him, merging with him completely. For a long time, I couldn’t understand why I was seeing the same dream over and over—until Kostya and I were told we were expecting a daughter. Then it all made sense. I had a thousand questions and even more fears. Not knowing what else to do, I turned to a witch from the coven who had once been my friend. Her gift of foresight put everything in its place. It was from her I learned that you would inherit power from Kostya’s side of the family."

Kostya snorted and shook his head, knowing how the story had ended.
"I knew those dreams didn’t bode well. When I put the pieces together, it became clear to me that your spirit would be different. Unlike any we had met before. And I also understood that sooner or later it would consume you, and I couldn’t allow that. I made a deal with a witch. Her situation was just as difficult as ours, yet neither of us could have handled it alone. We both got what we wanted. Your power was sealed with a spell before you were even born. It was done, and I thought that soon the dreams would recede and long-awaited peace would come, but they only became more frequent, more vivid. Right before you were born, the scenario began to change. The creature in my dreams started speaking in a strange language I didn’t recognize. It seemed to be trying to threaten me, each time getting closer, but I always managed to wake up. Even when you were no longer part of me, the spirit didn’t give up and kept returning, until one day, you appeared in my dream — a helpless infant in the long arms of a terrifying monster. It held you and rocked you, humming some strange melody to itself. The spirit was distracted when it noticed me and raised its head. That day, it spoke to me in a way I could understand for the first time. ‘You will not be able to separate us,’ the creature said. When I woke up the next morning, I was shaken, desperate for a way out. I didn’t know what else I could do to keep you safe. Only time could test the seal’s strength, but I didn’t want to keep watching the spirit take you from me. A strange thought crept into my mind then. Strange, desperate — yet it gave me hope. I tried to take you out of the city. Kostya didn’t see any problem at the time with you becoming like him. But I did." Maria tapped her chest. "I saw what the spirit planned to do with you. I saw that the nature of werewolves had changed after the ritual and that things would be different. And I couldn’t allow it. So I went in search of your grandmother. Having lost her magic, she left Kserton, leaving the future of the coven to the local witches and warlocks. Many disapproved of her decision to carry out the ritual. If people had known that changing the anchor could cost them their High Priestess, and therefore their connection to Mother Nature, they would never have agreed. That’s how you and I ended up in Rostov."

"That’s where I found you," Kostya added, and Maria nodded.

"Fortunately, not right away. In Rostov, the dreams finally subsided. You grew up an ordinary, normal child without any sign of heritage. The years passed, and nothing changed. I met your stepfather, and you made it to high school. Life went on as usual. Then you decided to see Kserton University and finish your last school year here. Kostya arranged it, and a spot was found. Everything was going perfectly."

"Until it was the children’s turn to pay for the sins of their fathers."

"Could you not interrupt? You had your chance to explain everything to her, so now keep quiet."

"I was protecting her."

"Enough!" I snapped at both of them, sensing the conclusion was closer than ever. "Mom, go on."

"Maria," she corrected, and Kostya winced.

"Oh, come on," he said, raising his hand, palm up, to emphasize his irritation. "What kind of ridiculous idea is it to make your daughter call you by your first name all the time?"

"In another twenty years, when people start noticing that I age more slowly and we look the same age, she won’t have to relearn it. In another twenty years, to others she’ll look old enough to be my mother, not the other way around. Sooner or later we’ll have to pretend to be friends or distant relatives in public."

Kostya didn’t answer her reasonable explanation and only snorted again, as if displeased with the situation but powerless to change it.

"And why will I age, but you won’t?"

"Because I’m a witch, and you’re not."

"But I’m a werewolf now. Don’t we also age more slowly?"

Maria nodded.

"That’s true. Only you were supposed to remain a normal human. To have an ordinary life. But the boy ruined it."

"The boy?"

"What was his name again?" Maria asked Kostya.

"Nikita."

"Ah, yes, Nikita. Nikita decided, like a true knight, to save his beloved from a worse fate and turn her into one like himself. Very sweet, very desperate — and very stupid."

"He didn’t love me," I protested, remembering how Karimov had played with my mind, replacing emotions.

Maria turned to me and looked at me as if I were a naïve child.

"Oh, darling. Men do foolish things almost always because of love. The vampire’s venom began to take effect that very day, just as it should. If not for the seal, you would have become one of the bloodsuckers. Kostya arrived just in time and dealt with the weakblood, giving Stanislav the chance to take you to your father’s hospital. Doctor Smirnov tried to drain the venom along with your blood, and at first, it seemed you had escaped trouble. For a while, Vladimir observed you in the hospital, and soon the changes became obvious. What the doctor didn’t tell Kostya, and therefore you, was about the seal. The spell that protected you from the fate of magical beings wasn’t limited to werewolfhood alone. When the venom entered your system, the seal absorbed the new entity and began merging it with the spirit meant for you by birth, but restrained. The wolf inside you began to grow, gradually pushing you out, and the seal started to crack. We tried to suppress the wolf by introducing more vampire venom, hoping to burn out one weapon with another, but now, in hindsight, I understand — the idea was doomed to fail. I cannot see the creature, no matter how hard I try. It has learned to hide from me, and so throughout your childhood, I thought there was no spirit with you at all. But it was always there, Asya. Maxim saw it with you at school. And it has changed because of my choice and has become exactly like the creature from my dream. You cannot trust it."

"An amazing woman: causes trouble herself, then blames it all on me," Kaandor said in my head, almost laughing, and I agreed with his conclusion.

"Is that all?" I asked aloud.

"Yes, dear. If you have any other questions, I’ll answer if I can."

For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to know anything else. Having learned the story to the end, I felt nothing but nausea inside. My whole life had been thrown off course because of my mother’s fears. She was the one who set in motion the chain of events that led to this moment, and I was not prepared for any of the possible futures. Only time could teach me to be a werewolf, while the lives of the people I knew and loved continued as usual.

"I just want to go home," I said and closed my eyes, not wanting to look at either my mother or my father. "Turn the music back on."

"Alright, dear."

Chapter Text

I was here again: in the small room with two stalls, where on the opposite side, above the sinks, stretched a long mirror. No one else was here. Only the unpleasant buzzing of the flickering ceiling lamp disturbed the silence, foreboding trouble. Nothing was happening, but a sense of dread echoed deep under my ribs, tightening everything in my chest.
What was going to happen was inevitable. It would happen whether I was ready or not.

At last, I gathered my courage and stepped up to the sink. I washed my hands for a long time, adding more and more lavender gel from the dispenser, hoping to break the endless Groundhog Day, to delay the inevitable, but deep down I knew — it wouldn’t help, just like the last dozen times.

The skin on my hands had turned red, and my fingertips were wrinkled. There was no more room to retreat. Taking a deep breath, I reached for the faucet and noticed my hands were shaking. Clenching my teeth, I forced myself to turn off the water.

One step, two, three — I squeezed my eyes shut, but reality still crashed down on me like a heavy weight. I knew what I would see as soon as I dared to open my eyes again: the thin red plaid shirt, the hands already gripping my shoulders with a strong hold. I kicked out, trying to hit my captor, but only struck the tile. Gleb, as always, pressed the cloth tightly to my mouth and nose. I couldn’t breathe, but worse than the suffocation was the helplessness: once again, the kidnapper would get away with it. With the last of my strength, I screamed and, to my surprise, I could hear my own voice, as if nothing were blocking it. How strange.

For some reason, Gleb started shaking. And with him, so did I.

"Asya! Asya, wake up!" The sound of a familiar voice reached my consciousness in a faint echo, but I couldn’t remember whose it was.
"Asya, please! Wake up!" The sound grew louder.

A sharp slap burned my cheek, and I instinctively lurched forward, as if no one had been holding me. The scene changed abruptly, and before me was no longer the wall of a public restroom but my father’s face. Not understanding anything, I stared at the pale Kostya with wide-open eyes. It took only a moment for my gaze to sweep the room and realize — I was home.

"Asya?" Dad called to me more softly now, as if testing whether I’d come to my senses. In response, I only nodded and reached my palms to my eyes to brush away the remnants of sleep.

The last few days I had spent at home, regaining my strength. Trying to distract myself from my problems, I threw myself into schoolwork, catching up on the lessons I’d missed, anything to push the thoughts of what had happened out of my mind. Studying at home was far more pleasant than within the hospital walls. My phone was silent, and even Dasha hadn’t sent any messages.

"You were screaming in your sleep."

"I figured," my voice came out sharper than I intended, so I quickly added, "Thanks for waking me up. What time is it?"

"Almost seven."

Hearing his answer, I smiled wryly. Nothing dispelled the horror of a new reality better than laughing at what should never be laughed at. I was so exhausted and eager to shut out what was happening that now the nightmares had started to torment me even in my sleep. As if there weren’t enough horrors in my waking life.

"Well. I slept longer than usual today."

Kostya didn’t share my humor.

"Maybe your mother should have stayed here with us."

"She shouldn’t have," I objected. "It’s good she’s not here. By the way, where is she?"

"At a friend’s."

"Good. At least for a while you’ll stop arguing and yelling at each other."

I stayed silent for a short while, staring at the ceiling and listening to my own feelings. It seemed there were none. Inside me, there was a black, all-consuming void. I had thought that once I learned the whole story, it would get easier, but the opposite had happened. I didn’t want anything, and at the same time I was afraid of freezing in this state, of stopping breathing, stopping living. I needed to move forward, but it felt like I was standing in the middle of a Minesweeper field: one wrong click and the game would be over before it had really begun. There was no safe direction, no matter what final destination I chose. With no new plans, there was only one way forward: step onto familiar rails and see where the train would take me.

"I should go with the others to the open house this week. They’re not planning any more this year."

My father averted his eyes and fell silent. I could guess what he was thinking. We’d been playing out the same dialogue every day since my normal life — and all the plans that went with it — had been shattered the moment Nik bit me.

"I’ve already told you, you don’t have to enroll this year."

"I do," I cut him off mid-sentence, but he refused to give in.

"Let me finish," Kostya gave me a serious look. "We still don’t know everything about your new nature. If Maria and I had known how it would all turn out, we never would have let you come back to Kserton."

Dad ran his hand through his hair, letting it rest at the back of his head.

"You couldn’t have known, but you still managed to imagine the worst and wind yourselves up — and me along with you."

I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, slowly rolling my shoulders. After such a damned realistic dream with fragments of the day Gleb grabbed me, waking up left my bones aching as if I were seventy-one, not seventeen.

"Wind ourselves up?" Kostya’s lips curved into a sad smile. "Asya, nightmares for witches are no joke. Many have some degree of prophetic ability, so Maria’s concern is understandable, no matter how angry I was with her at first. I thought she was afraid of my heritage. That the old coven dogmas had settled deeper inside her than I had imagined. But whatever disagreements we had, we tried to do what was best for you. To work together. Her dream has already become part of our reality. One day you’ll understand that being a parent means acting, sometimes blindly, hoping to do right by your child."

My father hesitated and swallowed hard, as if afraid that saying the words aloud would make the situation irreversible.

"Have you ever thought that maybe Maria herself pulled the nightmare into reality? Kaandor is already here. I’m neither a werewolf nor anything I can clearly name."

Kostya’s lips twitched, but he didn’t dare say what was on his mind. He was probably about to ask again where I’d picked up that kind of phrasing.

"Has he appeared to you again?"

"No," I lied, trying to count how many times I’d seen Kaandor in my room over the past few days. He had been silent and seemed to feel perfectly comfortable within the apartment walls. Once, I caught him looking at the spines of books on the shelves. Kaandor stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted to the right, as if he really could read the titles and authors’ names. Out of curiosity, I caught myself wondering if he actually could read, but I held back, deciding not to start a dialogue with the spirit anytime soon. I needed time for myself. Time to put my life back in order.

I rolled my eyes in exhaustion. I was sick of everyone treating me like I was made of glass. At seventeen, I felt more like a child talking to my parents than I had at five.

"Since I’m something I can’t even name, it’s my right to decide who I want to be. And today, I’m Asya — an ordinary high school senior at Kserton Gymnasium, who really needs to attend the university’s open house."

Kostya snorted.

"You can’t just start ignoring your power. My blood is in you!"

"So what? It’s been in me since conception, but I haven’t spent my life running around looking like a dog beaten down by life!"

The words burst from my lips in a raised tone before I could think. I just wanted to be left alone — was that really so hard? But no, they had to darken the sky and drag me back, every single minute of my existence, to the new reality I wasn’t ready to accept. Not long ago, I had only just learned about vampires, struggling to believe in the secret life of mythical beings living next door. And now I was expected to, as if nothing had happened, leap higher than my own head and accept that I was not only an inseparable part of this insane, mysterious world but also a sort of freak who didn’t belong anywhere. A black sheep. Just like being back in my Rostov school.

"So that’s what you think about werewolves? One of those ‘beaten dogs’ ripped you out of Nick’s hands that night, in case you’ve forgotten."

"And tore Galina to pieces," I added sharply. "And, as we both know, that wasn’t necessary. You came too late and couldn’t change anything — the venom was already in me."

"What did you expect? For me to just stand aside and watch those two destroy you? I had to step in while there was still any chance at all!"

"You yourself said that a vampire’s venom couldn’t turn me because of my heritage. So there was no point in interfering — and especially not in killing Nick’s mother! Looks like Maria and Vladimir were the only ones who understood what was happening this whole time, unlike you. You only made it worse!"

"I was doing… everything… everything…" Kostya’s breathing turned heavy, and his hand slid to the left side of his chest. Where his heart was. For a moment, something inside me snapped, and my stomach twisted into a tight knot.

"Dad?" my voice trembled. "Dad, are you okay?"

My father looked at me with a glazed stare and froze, as if his body had been pierced through by unbearable pain. His legs gave way, knees buckling. He searched for something to lean on, but his back pressed against the smooth wall without finding support. With a crash, Kostya collapsed to the floor, and I rushed to him. Frantically, I tried to feel for a pulse to understand what was happening. His chest rose with effort, as if breathing was a struggle. He gasped for air, trying to force out even a single word, but kept choking. When my father’s eyes rolled back, I screamed in horror and helplessness.

Bolting upright, I ran to the phone and, without thinking, dialed Stas’s number, not knowing who else to call.

***

"You did the right thing calling us right away instead of an ambulance. Very lucky we were passing by."

Doctor Smirnov and his son appeared on the doorstep in less than five minutes. When Stas saw my bewildered, tear-streaked face, he immediately wrapped me in a saving embrace. Carefully stepping aside with me, he gave way to Vladimir, who easily found my father in the living room and provided the necessary help. Through my own sobs, I couldn’t make out what was happening in the room, and to be honest, I was afraid to hear the ominous silence that would herald the irreversible.

But everything turned out fine. Vladimir carried my father to the bedroom and laid him in bed, assuring me that Kostya would come to his senses soon.

"This happens to your brother when emotions become especially strong. Those with poor control let the beast out in a fit, while the stronger ones" — the doctor nodded toward the closed door — "switch themselves off to avoid doing something they’ll regret."

"I thought it was a heart attack. I was terrified," my hands itched to rub my eyes, which still burned from tears. "But isn’t holding the spirit back dangerous for people like us?"

"Fortunately, your father doesn’t do it often, and he gave his beast plenty of freedom yesterday."

Stas was busy in the kitchen, brewing tea. As soon as he poured boiling water over the herbs in the teapot, the room filled with the scent of lemon balm.

"I’m sorry you had to go through that. In any case, the danger has passed. Things could have turned out much worse if the doctors had come here."

For the first time, I thought about the consequences my family might face if someone learned about the Chernys’ shapeshifting. On the other hand, Kostya had lived in Kserton for so many years without raising suspicion — why would trouble suddenly find us now? I understood that I still knew too little and planned too little ahead, which made me feel the weight of fears pressing down on me all at once. After all, if anyone could put the family in danger — even unintentionally — it was me. Instead of the promised strength, I felt only the paralyzing helplessness in my body. An insider among outsiders. An outsider among my own.

Stas placed a cup of tea in front of me and sat down beside me. With exaggerated care, he took my hand in his and gave it a light squeeze, as if letting me know he was ready to stay in the house as long as necessary, just to help.

"Will Dad wake up soon?"

"Hard to say. This has happened to him before. On average, I’d say he can be out for around three days until the beast inside calms down. What happened before the episode?"

I hesitated, not wanting to let the doctor into the details of my personal life. It was unlikely that an argument with his daughter would fit under the "anamnesis" category that could help the patient. Some part of my life had to remain under wraps.

"Nothing worth telling," I reached for the cup and carelessly took a quick sip. The hot liquid burned my lips, and a curse escaped me.

"You may heal faster now, but that’s no reason to pour boiling water into your mouth. It won’t make it taste any better," Stas tried to turn it into a joke, but I wasn’t in the mood to laugh. In defending my boundaries and arguing with Dad, I never imagined it could end like this. It was strange how upbeat Stanislav seemed after yesterday’s news. Apparently, my parents and I had made the right choice leaving the Smirnovs to sort out their own family drama. At least Stas kept only slightly distant from his father, which meant they had managed to find some points of understanding. I could only hope the others were also okay after the heavy news about their mother — and the unexpected guest, Nikita, in their home.

The world is an unpredictable thing; you can never say for certain how it will all change tomorrow. One minute you think your father is a fearless being immune to ordinary illnesses, and the next you’re wondering if it’s a heart attack before you — or something worse. Though honestly, what could be worse? Nothing came to mind, but my imagination painted in vivid detail a massive coffin of dark lacquered wood. I shook my head to drive away the unwelcome image.

No more deaths. No more funerals.

Vladimir said nothing, but he watched me with open curiosity. It was as if he was waiting for me to change my mind, but the doctor’s wishes were his problem alone.

"Damn," I muttered quietly, remembering what day it would be tomorrow. "So much for my trip to the open day if Kostya doesn’t wake up by tonight."

"I could try to speed up the process," Vladimir offered, deliberately keeping the details to himself. "But you kids will have to take a walk."

The doctor spoke in a calm tone, but despite that, an unpleasant foreboding stirred inside me. I was used to being constantly on guard around this man. It felt like the moment I let my vigilance drop, I could find myself locked in a tiny room deep in a hospital basement, like Nick’s mother once was, and become one of his test subjects — in his mind, for the greater good. And yet, after speaking with my mother, I began to see the story from a new angle. Vladimir had helped me, working in tandem with Maria. Who knew what he’d been doing with Karimov, but he had kept him alive, and someone had tortured Nikita — I had seen it — but it seemed Nik knew exactly what he was signing up for: he hadn’t asked us to take him from the Smirnovs’ house, and he hadn’t thanked Viola for freeing him. He acted like an outsider in the house, yet at the same time, he helped Olga stay on her feet.

Could I leave my father with Vladimir and not expect trouble, knowing now that everything he had done was for the benefit of others? It seemed he was unafraid of outside judgment, fear, or distrust. Vladimir had his own truth, and I had been able to see and understand, most likely, only a small part of it. Doubts gnawed at me, while the hope of attending the open day at Kserton State University tempted me. The dream of a simple human life — one I was not yet ready to give up — loomed on the shore, signaling and reinforcing my belief that it was not too late to don the wolf in sheep’s clothing, to learn to pretend to be ordinary, just as the entire Smirnov family could, and even my father. As if this simple event could, at least for a little while, roll back recent events and give me the support I was desperately searching for.

My unease spread to Stas, who began asking Vladimir leading questions, gradually calming himself in the process.

"Have you ever managed to help Konstantin wake up earlier before?"

"Once or twice, when I thought it was necessary. Usually, the circumstances are different, but since Asya won’t be able to spend the next day by her father’s side, it’s worth hurrying. I’d offer my services, but we’ve been putting off feeding for far too long. After yesterday’s events and the scent of Olga’s blood, it creates certain risks, even for those born to it. Viola was already on edge the last time we met with Asya. We can’t delay any longer, especially before the open day, when, as usual, the whole district will gather. Too many people for young and hungry vampires — too dangerous. We’ll leave at dawn and be back by evening."

"I remember our plan. If something comes up, you could cover for Asya so she can still go to the open day."

"How could I let someone else’s daughter go anywhere?" Vladimir sounded genuinely surprised at his son’s reasoning. "Isn’t that what caused the argument?"

"What makes you think we argued?" I faltered.

Vladimir sank into the couch, stretching his arms across the soft surface with a satisfied air.

"Because the last few times this happened to Konstantin were right after he spoke with his ex-wife."

I couldn’t believe my ears. As far back as I could remember, my parents did nothing but fight. How often must my father have felt unwell if every conversation between Kostya and Maria came down to mutual reproaches? Only in recent years had they managed to meet in person less often, using me as a go-between. But the situation had changed: first, they had managed to clash at my grandmother’s funeral, and now Maria and Kostya were forced to be in the same city. Just yesterday, in the car, they had been exchanging barbs. Perhaps that had heated my father enough, and I had become the final snowflake to fall on the mountain’s peak, triggering the avalanche.

"If you accept my help, you and Stas should take a walk somewhere," he pulled a set of car keys from his jeans pocket and tossed them to his son, who caught them easily in his palm with a practiced motion. "You can take my car. I’ll call when I’m done."

"Shall we go?" Stas stood up quickly and was already heading for the door when I gestured for him to wait.

"I need to change. I’m not going outside in pajamas."

"Kigurumi is quite fashionable."

"I’m not about to drag street dirt onto the soft plush that’s so nice to sleep in," I retorted, unmoved, and still headed for my room.

"Asya," the doctor called after me before I could disappear behind the door. "You should call Maria."

***

"Where are we going?" I asked as soon as I sat in the passenger seat, struggling with the seatbelt that kept snagging on my down jacket’s fabric.

"I had something planned for today," Stanislav replied vaguely. "Do you mind coming along? It’s not far."

"Anywhere, as long as it’s a distraction."

"Deal," Stanislav started the engine of his father’s sedan.

The dark interior contrasted with the whiteness of the snow outside. As soon as the car moved, the snow-white cover crunched under the weight of the tires. Soon we turned onto a familiar wide road that stretched through the forest. The pine tops were crowned with fluffy snow caps, rising over the emerald green like whipped cream on a dessert. The radio played a rhythmic tune I didn’t recognize, but the soothing atmosphere still couldn’t make me think of anything other than Kostya, who had been left at home. I knew I couldn’t help my father better than Dr. Smirnov could, but I kept tormenting myself, feeling guilty for the attack.

Stas drove with focus, handling the car gently, as if he had all the time in the world despite mentioning urgent business. The dignified feel of the noble leather upholstery, and the confident, calm way Stas held the wheel, made him seem older in my eyes. A demigod carved from stone had descended among mortals, clouding their minds with perfect simple lines and symmetry. Only the way Stas occasionally raised a brow, assessing other drivers who rudely cut off cars ahead, disturbed the perfect picture.

I thought about how much Stas had changed over the past months. It seemed even more than I had, though in terms of reasons for upheaval, the first-place medal was unquestionably mine. What happened in the forest had changed Stanislav — and the way he stayed close, trying to help whenever he could.

"Why do you care about me so much?"

The question caught him off guard.

"Isn’t that what friends do?"

"Yes, but in our case, the change was pretty sudden. You acted differently toward me before that night."

Stanislav shrugged, then began scanning the road, as if afraid to miss the right turn.

"Halloween made me reconsider some things."

"Like what?"

"Like the value of life. When you have eternity ahead of you, it’s easy to get used to the idea of your own invulnerability — and to extend that to others. I’m young, unlike my parents, and I’d never really looked death in the face, only knowing about it from others’ words. You see, I’d never seen a werewolf in action before. I still remember in detail how your father appeared in the clearing, how easily he sank his jaws into Nick’s shoulder and shook him like a rag doll. That impressed me — but not as much as what Konstantin did to Galina."

Stas pressed his lips together, unwilling to describe the scene that had no doubt already replayed in vivid detail in his mind, shielding me from my own memories. Back then, I’d lost consciousness fairly quickly, though I vaguely remembered the silhouette of the wolf that had thrown Karimov off me. At the time, I didn’t know who my father was, nor about the ancestral curse waiting for its hour. The problems of those earlier days now seemed complex and almost unbearable. If only I had known what surprises fate had in store for me — but no. It was bitter to admit that there are gifts you can’t return, and yet you still have to go on living.

"It was truly scary at home, too. I was afraid Kostya might hurt one of my brothers or sisters trying to get to Vladimir. I myself wanted to give my father a good beating after the fuss Viola made. Luckily, she was wrong and Olga is alive." Stas glanced at me, his face changing. "Sorry. I didn’t think these last few days might be harder for you to relive."

"It’s fine. Go on, if you want."

"Honestly, I’m not sure what else there is to add. It’s like I realized how fragile life can be when I saw someone else’s death. And Galina was one of us — eternal — though she had a dependence on the call of blood. Not all vampires are as lucky as my family. And human fragility… it’s like thin crystal: hit it one too many times and, after the beautiful chime, cracks will run through it, turning a once perfect vessel into a beautiful nothing, stripping away its very right to exist."

He spoke so beautifully that I found myself listening in awe, surprised at the way Stas’s mind worked. Though Smirnov was an eighteen-year-old guy, the imagery that so easily formed in his head suited aristocrats of the early nineteenth century, who had been trained from birth to speak with refinement, as if in the language of the soul.

"Honestly, I feel sorry for Galina. If I had a say, I wouldn’t have let my father kill Nik’s mother."

"I wouldn’t wish such a fate on anyone either," Stas shuddered. "It was all just… too much. It’s a good thing you didn’t see it."

"It was that bad? My father won’t tell me."

"Can I not go into detail? Even if I wanted to, I doubt I could describe where and which part of Galina was torn off, and where it was thrown. A disgusting, monstrous sight. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre looks like a children’s story in comparison."

"A Brothers Grimm story," I noted, recalling how, in her ignorance, my mother had once given me a collection of those old tales. Maria had never read them herself, but the colorful and vivid illustrations on the pages had quickly convinced her to buy it. I remember how long I couldn’t look at candy after reading the story of Hansel and Gretel. Even though the text didn’t have gory details, just the understanding of how many children the witch had boiled in a pot or baked in an oven was enough to make my blood run cold. But our life wasn’t someone’s invention. It was happening here and now, taking new turns until we learned our lesson — though I wished I knew which one.

Stas smiled at my comment, clearly showing that he, too, had once come across creepy fairy tales.

“If only I’d made it in time, none of this would have happened,” he admitted a little quieter.

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Oh.” Stanislav gave a humorless chuckle, betraying the pain hidden inside. “Don’t underestimate my inner critic.”

“It wasn’t your fangs that tore Galina apart. It wasn’t your decision to turn me into one of your kind.”

“But it was my decision not to follow you into the forest. I felt something was wrong, and still I chose to have fun at the disco with the guys like nothing was happening.”

“You couldn’t have known for sure. In the end, I would have started yelling, said a lot of nasty things to get rid of you. You know, Galina actually threatened that if I didn’t show up alone, she would hurt Kostya. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“But Konstantin wasn’t there.”

I only spread my hands.

“Who knew that back then?”

“Touche. And still, if I had been at least a little more alert, I would have caught the smell of blood sooner. And if I’d been more careful, I could have followed you without anyone noticing.”

“All those ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ won’t change anything. You can imagine forever how things might have turned out in the past, forgetting the present and all the good that’s waiting on the shore.”

“And what’s waiting for us there?”

“We’ll get there and find out.”

“Sure? I’m not much of a swimmer.” Stas’s mood shifted, and only his slightly raised brows, drawn together above the bridge of his nose, still hinted at his sad thoughts.

“I’ll help you.”

My palm settled on top of Stas’s hand resting on the gearshift. The gesture came so easily and sincerely that I didn’t even have time to process it before touching him. His cold, smooth-as-marble skin didn’t push me away; instead, it responded gently to each stroke, gradually absorbing the warmth radiating from my very heart. We were like fire and ice—or, more accurately, “vampire and wolf”—and for some reason, the taboo made this closeness all the more anticipated, all the more desired. I lifted my eyes to look at Stas’s face when suddenly I was jerked forward sharply, though the seatbelt held me in place. I quickly pulled my hand away and looked forward in confusion—then gasped. The hood had plowed into a huge snowbank, and part of the snow from its top had avalanched onto the car, nearly covering the windshield.

Stas cursed, shifted into neutral, pulled up the handbrake, and quickly stepped out to assess the damage. Muffled curses reached me. Stanislav crouched down, either inspecting something under the hood or checking the condition of the wheels, and I wanted to know what had happened. I tried to find the button to release the seatbelt, but my hands wouldn’t cooperate and my fingers trembled—so badly had I been startled.

At last, I managed to get out of the car and walk over to Stas, but after glancing quickly around the area, I still couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. Realization struck like a cartoon light bulb flaring to life, and my face flushed hot—this was all because of me! How stupid. I’d startled Stas with such an unexpected impulse of affection that he’d been distracted and driven straight into the snowbank. Hopefully there wasn’t a low fence or anything else underneath that could damage the bodywork.

“Looks like we’re fine, but if not, my dad’s going to kill me,” Stas said in frustration, running his hand tiredly through his hair, pressing down the thick waves. The damper the weather got, the more his hair resembled light curls that could have used a trim. But honestly, the way they shone so warmly in the natural light stirred a twinge of envy in me—boys always seemed to get the noble mane and long, thick lashes. We girls could only sigh, rubbing miracle products from countless jars into our skin, trying to get even a little closer to the effortless beauty that came so easily to others. Just take birds, for example: the males often sported playful colors, sometimes overly flashy, compared to the gray suits of their chosen mates. By nature, we humans weren’t much different from them. We went against nature, inventing new rules and beauty standards just to make people buy more and more, chasing fleeting trends to feel more beautiful. But the truth was obvious and cruel: no one was born perfect.

“What happened here?” came the chime of a doorbell, and Denis appeared on the threshold of the fishing shop. Frowning, he looked over the scene before him, then whistled and quickly hurried down the steps.

“Everyone alive?” Drozdov recognized me right away and gave a greeting nod, directing the question more to Stas.

“Seems like it, yeah.”

“You could use some more practice with parking,” Denis remarked with a smirk, to which Stas replied after a long, meaningful pause, “I got distracted.”

My cheeks felt like they’d flushed even brighter, and I quickly buried my face in the high collar of my jacket, secretly hoping the guys would blame the cold air. Winter had truly taken hold in Ksertoni. That much was clear from the towering snowbanks here and there, so the chances of blaming my blush on the frost were good.

But no one cared about me or my cheeks—unlike Vladimir’s car.

“Got any shovels in the shop?”

“Sure do. We’d just finished clearing the path to the store. The public works crews have vanished again. Funny guys. Every time there’s a heavy snowfall, they disappear without a trace. Then on TV, all you hear is: ‘Snow came earlier than expected this year, and the equipment wasn’t ready to go.’ Where have they ever seen a November in Ksertoni without snow? You can’t get anywhere in my dad’s wheelchair as it is.”

“Yeah. Same lame excuse every year,” Stas stood up. “I actually came here on business. Is my order ready?”

Denis nodded and gestured for us to follow him.

“Careful, the steps are slippery.”

***

Although Denis was managing the store alone today, he moved with focus, not forgetting to take care of his guests. As soon as we came in, Drozdov seated me in a display folding chair meant for outdoor leisure and handed me a cup of tea filled to the brim, carrying a sharp aroma of bergamot. With pleasure, I wrapped both hands around the vessel, letting my fingertips thaw after the cold outside.

The guys each took a shovel and went to clear the snow-covered car. There were no other customers at this hour besides me, and I sat back in the chair, continuing to blame myself for what had happened. I wished I knew how Stas had taken the touch that had made him, in a moment of foolishness, crash into the snowbank. I could only guess what emotions had swept over him at that moment. After all, Stanislav had a girlfriend, and I knew that perfectly well. The bitter taste of the tea underscored the aftertaste already lingering on my tongue, making the situation worse.

I could tell myself all I wanted that the gesture had been purely friendly, deceiving myself and others, but deep down, I already knew the truth — and I didn’t like it.

There were several reasons that made me think worse of myself. My relationship with Tanya balanced on a thin edge — it was hard to call us friends, but still possible. Yet it seemed easier to justify myself if I thought of Rostova as just another classmate, someone to whom I owed no bond of friendship. And besides, she had already been so eager to see me as a rival that it was irritating. Every jab she made, like a painfully sharp needle, pierced under my skin. It used to anger me that Tanya was creating a problem out of nothing, but now I began to wonder — was it really out of nothing?

On the other hand, putting myself in Tanya’s place made me feel vile. I could easily picture the image of a girl who, from the shadows, pulled someone else’s beloved toward herself, agreeing to any terms just to avoid being left out and to get the desired attention. I had always condemned women who so easily broke the unspoken sisterhood by intruding into someone else’s relationship — not to mention their family — through the back door, stirring up a fire that turned a couple’s memories into fragile ashes, destroying a union through the interference of a third wheel.

The mere thought of how easily and carelessly I had reached toward Stas in the car poisoned me. More than anything, I didn’t want to become like those I had never even met but had judged from afar.

A saving thought came to me with the last sip of tea. I couldn’t really have feelings for Stanislav, could I? He was one person, and I was another. Even on the level of what we were, something told me our relationship couldn’t exist without the constant shadow of danger — the threat of sudden turning or of sharp, elongated fangs. Spending most of my time with Stas at the hospital, I had never once asked myself when or where he managed to get blood, afraid to know the truth.

Every part of my being should have been calling for the destruction of those like Stanislav and his family — or so I thought. Could the wolf inside feel disgust only toward the weak-blooded while remaining friendly toward the born vampires? I didn’t know the real answer, nor was I sure that, after all the changes to my spirit, I was supposed to act and feel like others of my kind.

I could easily imagine my father’s face when my relationship with Nikita inevitably became too obvious to hide. I remembered what Maria had told me yesterday and regretted not asking, casually in the middle of the conversation, whether relationships between wolves and vampires were considered just as shameful as the love my mother and father had shared. All the best questions, unfortunately, come too late. And besides, yesterday all I’d wanted after all the stress was silence.

I still couldn’t bring myself to call Maria and tell her what had happened to Kostya, putting off that conversation as much as possible. I wasn’t ready to see her. I wasn’t ready to hear her. I needed strength to patch the hole in my chest after her betrayal — after all the omissions she had fed me all these years. Something told me that all the decisions about my future had been made by her alone, while my father had merely agreed to the little she was willing to let him in on.

At least my parents had something in common besides me: they both preferred to act without considering anyone else’s opinion, thinking they knew best.

I felt so much, and at the same time — nothing at all, unable to separate one emotion from another. Fear, pain, love, and anxiety fought inside me, flaring even brighter just to make me look at them. But the truth was that a person can’t feel everything all at once.

Maybe my heart, wounded by two betrayals in a row, simply wanted to patch at least one of the holes as quickly as possible — and decided to start with the one Nikita’s lies had left? What if I was clinging to any sign of kindness just to feel warmth again? To forget everything. To forget the abyss of blue eyes that deceptively pulled me into the trap of revenge hidden behind a façade of false love. A vendetta for an evil in which my hands were clean.

How nice it had been not to run into Nik in the city, and how damn unfortunate that I had seen him again yesterday. That must have been what reopened the wound.

After thinking about everything a little longer, I didn’t notice how time passed, and the guys came back from outside, carrying shovels over their shoulders, the edges still holding remnants of clinging snow that would soon melt into a dirty puddle in the corner where Stas and Denis had carelessly placed them.

"Well, that’s it. Now we can get out without any problems," Stanislav wiped the drops of snow from his forehead with the edge of his sleeve.

"Just don’t accidentally back into the snowbank across the street," Denis said, giving Stas a friendly punch on the shoulder, joking.

"Or maybe I’ll do it on purpose, just to hear you groan like an old man again."

"No way! If you drive into it a second time, you’ll be digging yourself."

"Fair enough," Stas said, turning his gaze to me. "How about you? Warmed up?"

I nodded silently, staring at the honey-colored irises of his eyes. I tried to listen to myself and understand what I truly felt for Stanislav and, most importantly, what this discovery would cost me. But the inner talking bird was silent. It had abandoned me to fate, forcing me to make decisions carefully, searching for the perfect balance between the scales of illusion. On one side, stone after stone fell as guilt, multiplying the already numerous “buts,” while on the other side lay only a light feather of momentary pleasure from a touch.

This wouldn’t do, no. Too bad I couldn’t go home before Vladimir called. Though if the price for an unthinking gesture turned into the sharp sting of shame next to Stas, it would be well deserved. I could endure it. Sooner or later, when I could finally listen to myself and figure out what I truly wanted, the situation would become clearer. More precisely, my attitude toward it. Mom always said there are no difficult situations, only the weight, the meaning we give them.

Denis left us alone, turning into a narrow corridor leading to the garden. I thought it would be interesting to see how the inner courtyard had changed with winter’s arrival and how surprisingly contrasting the lush blooms in the greenhouse must look. Or maybe the greenhouse also experienced a lull during winter? I didn’t know for sure and thought it would be nice to find out when Drozdov returned.

In fact, I wanted to talk to him about more than that. As I already knew, unlike me, Denis had gained the power of a werewolf and handled natural instincts calmly. Seeing how easily he interacted with Stas, I wondered how he managed to coexist peacefully with those considered enemies by wolves. Kostya had said that even the presence of vampires stirred youthful blood, yet Denis showed no sign of it—either expertly controlling himself or truly feeling no hostility toward a natural enemy.

I, on the other hand, felt drawn to vampires. My family’s life had become closely intertwined with the Smirnovs, and now I felt something particularly warm toward Stas. Especially after yesterday. I had witnessed such a vivid family drama that no one could keep their mask on. Despite nature, we all remained beings with our own feelings, pain, and inner problems. I still needed to understand what exactly caused the warm feeling toward Stas, but I already clearly realized that if there was a vampire who sparked a storm of negative emotions inside me, his name had long been burning on the tip of my tongue—Vladimir. I felt undoubtedly friendly feelings toward Diana, noticing every time how carefully she treated me, as if I were part of the family. When a stranger treats you not merely as an equal but as someone long known and dear, it inevitably draws you in, warming relations. It makes you risk opening up, reaching out, accepting the risks that it may all be nothing but a pitiful pretense. But the game is worth the candle.

"What’s it like," I began aloud, trying briefly to distract myself from thoughts of werewolves and vampires, "to be an adult?"

"I didn’t really notice much of a difference. Except I could get a driver’s license and drive alone. Otherwise, the restrictions at home are the same, and I don’t drink. Not much excitement."

"And in terms of how you feel?"

Stanislav looked up at the ceiling, as if listening to his sensations, but soon shrugged carelessly.

"Nothing."

"Really nothing?"

"And here’s the order!" Denis returned, lighting up the room with a smile, holding a large bouquet with both hands, sprinkled with tiny pale blue flowers, each glowing with small yellow spots at the center. Inside every bloom, a tiny sun seemed to long to give warmth to anyone who looked upon it.

"How beautiful!" I said aloud, and immediately panic filled my head: could it really be for me?

"Pack it carefully so it doesn’t freeze on the way. I want to lay the forget-me-nots while they’re still beautiful and fresh."

"I see. For your mother, then," Denis carried the bouquet to the counter, pulled out a roll of thick clear polyethylene, and began creating a dome around the arrangement to preserve the warmth of the out-of-season plant as long as possible. If Denis and his mother managed to sell forget-me-nots in the middle of winter, the greenhouse must be as green as in September. I doubted that such flowers could be made to bloom artificially at the end of November, but apparently the Drozdov family had their secrets, envied by any other flower shop. I had never seen forget-me-nots for sale myself, except maybe in summer from grandmothers selling by the underground passages.

More than the flowers themselves, I was surprised by who they were for. I wished I knew how things had ended yesterday, since Stas ordered the flowers for Olga. I hoped she felt better. Yesterday, the woman looked too ill and had thoroughly frightened her household, who had thought for a long time that mother had simply gone off somewhere unknown. I felt the guys had poorly received the news that Vladimir had restored Olga’s human form. I wished I knew how he had done it.

I thought it would be rude to voice all my questions with Denis present, not knowing how deeply he was involved in the Smirnov family affairs, so I remained silent, smirking at how easily I had been ready to believe that after what happened in the car, I’d get a bouquet with a bright ribbon and a declaration of love from Stas as well. And why did such silly thoughts even enter my head? Nothing foreshadowed such a turn of events, yet I had happily floated somewhere in the clouds, dreaming of a romantic scenario. Perhaps the very idea of pure, tender love was more appealing than a relationship with a specific person. I felt as if I were in love with the idea of love, not with my friend.

It was enough to realize it, and the enchantment dispersed as if it had never existed. Whether it would last long or not remained a mystery. Sometimes it’s so hard to tell where sincerity hides and where convenient self-deception masks the real motives, the acknowledgment of which we haven’t yet allowed ourselves.

"You’ve gone a bit quiet," Stas observed, worry etched on his face as he studied mine. "Don’t worry, Kostya will be fine."

Denis immediately joined the conversation:

"Did something happen to uncle?"

"The doctor says it’s nothing for werewolves. He lost his temper but didn’t let the spirit out," I replied.

Denis whistled and chided me:

"I don’t know what happened between you, but you should be more careful with your old man. We still have a long way to go to reach your father’s level of self-control, and if he’s gone, there won’t be anyone to teach us."

Stas gave Denis a solid flick on the head.

"Don’t scare Asya," he said.

"I’m not scaring her," Denis pouted like a hurt child, his already plump lips pushed out and his neck stretching demonstratively as if the blow was still painfully reverberating through his body. "I’m just saying it like it is. Not many people have this skill, and there’s hardly anyone to learn from. I’m still waiting for uncle to find time to train me. The skill is very useful! One moment — and instead of turning into a beast, you just drop dead. No need to guess later how many you hurt, how many you wounded, maybe even… well, you get it."

"You don’t seem like someone with self-control issues," I said.

Denis smiled, flattered, but an unspoken sadness and fear lingered in his eyes. He must have already lost control once and regretted it deeply.

"I’m glad to hear that, but in reality, I’m no less dangerous than you," he said.

"I barely have any idea what you’re capable of," I admitted.

"Really?" Stas interrupted, having dealt with the consequences more than once over the past weeks. "I could give you a couple of examples. Easily."

I rolled my eyes in exhaustion. There was already enough tension to raise alarm, and I so desperately wanted to relax, even briefly. To exhale and feel normal. But instead, I wandered among the living like a bomb with a delayed timer, one to which a clumsy amateur forgot to attach the display, leaving no one knowing when it would explode.

"Let’s not, okay? Not today. My head’s full enough already."

The guys exchanged guilty glances and stopped pressing. Denis handed Stas a wrapped bouquet. We said a quick goodbye and then returned to the car.

The interior had cooled considerably, and as soon as my back touched the seat, my teeth chattered from the cold. Stas started the engine and turned on the seat heaters, murmuring reassuringly that it would soon get more comfortable. When the car merged onto an unfamiliar highway, I started the conversation first.

One of Stas’s advantages was his reticence. It was easy to be silent with him, which I rarely found comfortable with other people, yet endless chatter like Tatiana’s constant flow of new gossip hardly resonated with me either. I suppose it depends primarily on the person you’re with and their attitude toward you. I was sure that even if Stas didn’t see me as someone special, he still protected and empathized with me like a true friend.

"So, you had a heart-to-heart with Olga?" I asked.

Stas became serious and cast me a quick glance, as if afraid to be distracted from the road.

"We did. And we said our goodbyes," he said, brushing the strands of hair from his forehead. "She said she was tired of being like us. It turned out Mom had long urged Vladimir to find a way to restore her humanity, but he refused outright. He was afraid of causing harm. After all, they had been together for centuries. Then all the chaos with Galina happened, and Nikita asked him for the same. He wanted to get rid of the thirst, to become normal. He said he was willing to do anything, and you know Vladimir: he just loves experimenting. Father was glad to find a volunteer he didn’t care about, and he took it on. Vladimir did something with samples of your blood, extracted something from them — he didn’t explain the details to us yesterday, and the results didn’t take long to appear."

I was stunned by what I heard, not knowing whether to be happy for Karimov or envious. If he managed to become human, fate had played a cruel and ironic joke on me: it seemed unfair that after everything, Nik was the one to get what I could only dream of.

"So Nikita is human now?" I asked.

Stas shrugged.

"At first, Dad thought he had succeeded: Nikita’s thirst receded, and his abilities were broken. Vladimir planned to wait a bit to observe any arising complications and adjust the formula, but Olga wouldn’t listen. As soon as Dad left for work, she took the serum from the lab and injected herself."

"That sounds reckless on her part. Kind of dumb, actually," I said skeptically, but softened my words, thinking it was still Stas’s mother we were talking about. "No offense."

Stanislas calmly kept his eyes on the road.

"Desperate actions provoke desperate decisions," he said thoughtfully, then continued, "Even to think that the solution would come so quickly, it was madness for Dad to start. Vladimir understood that miracles don’t happen, but Olga wanted to believe only in them. I don’t know, maybe vampires get dumber with age? Your mother’s been alive a long time, has seen a lot, and yet this absurd desperate act."

Stas frowned, lost in thought. He stared ahead as if answers to questions spinning in his mind were hidden just beyond the horizon, but he couldn’t reach them. Ending his internal debate, he waved his hand and resumed:

"At first, her reaction was roughly the same as Nikita’s, with one exception: her body started catching up with the years she had actually lived. Vladimir couldn’t notice this with Nik: he’d lived about as long as I have. But Olga’s body began to wither. That’s why she looks so ill now."

"Is she dying?" I asked.

"We don’t know for sure, but the conclusion seems obvious," Stas pressed the accelerator, making the car speed along the highway. "I don’t believe her body has a couple of extra years left once the serum catches up with the lived years. She knows it’s the end. We all know it’s the end, but no one says it out loud. It turned out that Dad was gradually moving Olga’s things to another apartment in secret. So we wouldn’t notice, but we still felt something was wrong."

Stas came to a sudden stop at a traffic light, as if deciding at the last moment not to break the rules.

"Vladimir isn’t sure he can fix everything before her body reaches its limits, and Olga… seems to have accepted her fate entirely. You know, she talks about the end as if she’s glad it’s coming soon, and asks us to do nothing, to accept this strange, twisted choice. We argued even worse yesterday than when you were here, and she left. She said she wanted to find out what it’s like to be an ordinary human."

Stas’s jaw tensed. Memories of yesterday’s events brought him pain, and I didn’t know how to help: even I couldn’t handle it myself.

"Don’t you think going to her now might be a bad idea?" I asked as gently as I could. I least of all wanted a new meeting with his mother to rip off the scab of a still-healing wound and hurt Stas again. If he had already made up his mind, maybe there was no point in trying to talk him out of it. There are paths people consciously choose to satisfy some inner need. A friend can warn of the risks, but no one can make the decision for another, because the responsibility never falls on the adviser. Sometimes negative experiences are necessary to move forward. And it doesn’t matter if we like someone’s choice or not. A friend can only accept it and be there when it’s time to pay the price.

Stas bit his lower lip, as he always did when he got nervous, and I noticed his hand gripping the steering wheel tighter.

"I wouldn’t go to her, even if I knew where she went. I have a general idea where Olga lives now. I’m sure Vladimir will be watching her from afar in case things turn backward, and mother starts contacting one of us again, or worse, a creature like Galina. We can’t allow that. Nikita is staying at our house, and maybe father can track changes in him sooner."

I tried to ignore every mention of Nikita, afraid to ask about him. I needed time to start seeing Karimov as just an acquaintance and not think about what his appearance in my life had cost me, which was difficult whenever Stas brought him up.

A mask of cold seriousness darkened Stanislav’s face, promising nothing good.

"And what will you do if Olga goes mad like the weak-bloods?"

Stas shot me a quick glance, trying to focus on the road rather than the possible future that promised pain and darkness for the whole family. The answer hung in the air, which seemed to thicken, intensifying the tension.

"Why ask if you already know the answer? You saw what the twins did to Gleb. When a creature like us reaches a certain point of no return, we have no other choice. If my family doesn’t take care of what’s happening in Kserton, the vampires will be exposed very soon, and then the werewolves will be at risk. Maybe even witches, though it’s easier for them to hide among the crowd. They’ve mastered that, thanks to the Inquisition."

"She didn’t reach Russia anyway. We have no reason to thank her," I said, making quotation marks in the air with my fingers on the last word, imagining how long my mother’s coven would have survived if it had been the other way around.

"So what then? Witches came here in droves. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have German, maybe even Polish roots in your family tree."

"German? Why?"

"You love order too much. You try to be proper, good, do everything the right way. Be as expected. Isn’t that why you cling so much to everything human?"

I snorted, though I partly thought Stas might be right, albeit only remotely.

"If everything were like you say, I wouldn’t ride a bike, I’d dress differently. God, instead of books on the shelves, everything would be stacked with pallets of shadows, all kinds of nail polishes, glosses, and lipsticks, but I’m as far from that usual girly nonsense as a motorboat in the middle of the ocean," I wanted to smile, but the corner of my lips only twitched before my real desire turned into words. "I just want everything to be like it used to be, you know? Not to be good or proper, like you say. Just to live normally. Not to think about my body changing the next second, releasing a wolf in front of, say, a teacher in class or a rude clerk in a 24/7 store. Do you understand?"

"Honestly? No. To me, it all sounds the same, within the same frame. It’s like you’re lying to yourself and trying to rephrase the same meanings, packaging them prettier, softening them. The meaning hasn’t changed with word order, Asya."

"Maybe someday I’ll find the right words for you to understand and believe."

"Let’s try another approach?" Stas’s hand slid over the wheel, flicked the turn signal, and the cabin echoed with rhythmic clicks. "What’s a normal life for an eleventh grader?"

I lowered my gaze at a question with an obvious answer. To calmly and steadily finish school. Prepare for final exams, sometimes sacrificing sleep. Dream of graduation. Imagine a beautifully decorated hall with a high stage under spotlights, with people singing. Maybe teachers would even arrange karaoke. I’d buy myself a long dress, just below the knee, made of flowing shiny fabric, cool against the skin after wild dances with friends. The hall filled with bass and bursts of laughter. Everyone having fun, smiles flashing across faces. Then, when the big celebration ended, we’d go with only our group to meet the sunrise at the forest edge, forever leaving school days behind and stepping into a beautiful adult life full of possibilities spoken of everywhere. But instead of telling him about the riot of colors, I answered differently:

"There’s no question of a good job if I stay a werewolf, or of moving anywhere. I’ll be stuck here in this small town forever, hiding among other mythical creatures who successfully mimic humans. But we’ll never become them. Not only will hope for a better future die, but there will be random victims. Those who, in a moment of weakness when we can’t control the thirst or the beast inside, lose their future forever. To answer your question, a normal life is the right to choose who you want to be, without worrying about countless ‘buts.’ To age and change. To go through stages, to grow up."

"But we’re both growing up, changing. Constantine’s gray hair proves better than words that the chances of becoming a charming old lady are real with you."

"True. But what about illnesses? An old lady with dementia jumping into wolf form could be quite a local disaster."

"You’re getting ahead of yourself," Stas looked at me with a hint of skepticism. "And where does dementia come from? Has anyone in your family had it?"

I shook my head.

"As far as I know, no. But what guarantees I won’t be the first? Then what?"

"But you’re preparing in advance for literally everything. No supplies in the backpack in case of a tsunami, right?" Smirnov chuckled, highlighting how absurd it might look from the outside to try to safeguard against all possible scenarios, and I had to turn to the window. Stas read me like an open book, and I least of all wanted to show him the paragraph in capital letters about the power bank, charged flashlight, pack of matches, and a couple of energy bars hidden at the bottom of the big backpack compartment. But it didn’t help.

"Seriously? Are you serious?" my friend asked, still amused, and I wanted to die of embarrassment, although maybe the heated seats, which had literally warmed me on the road, were partly to blame. I wanted to unzip my jacket.

"Yes, serious," my voice faltered and became a shy whisper. "Are you going to laugh now?"

The cheerful mask quickly changed to pressed lips. Stas cleared his throat and straightened up in the driver’s seat, as if trying to pull himself together and shake off his mood, not knowing what else to do. The words couldn’t be taken back, and the unpleasant residue was already settling inside like a thin layer.

"Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought if you looked at things from the outside, it might be easier. Maybe I approach what’s happening differently because I don’t know anything else. I was born this way. The thirst, of course, isn’t the same for me as being a werewolf is for you, as father explained, but it’s normal and mundane. Maybe one day your relationship with being a werewolf will feel the same."

"I don’t know, we’ll see. Right now, everything happening terrifies me to pieces. And this is only the beginning of the changes. Tomorrow could be worse—or maybe easier. You can’t tell by Kosta; it doesn’t seem like he’s having any difficulties, and Denis either, if you watch from the outside. But I know that the real struggle is inside. Look at father collapsing today—it’s all because of me."

"Don’t blame yourself. It happens to everyone. If people never argued, it would be boring."

"You really think so? What’s fun about arguing?"

"What did you two fight about this time?"

"Don’t say it like Kosta and I are always fighting."

Stas’s words touched me because what happened inside our home never leaked outside. Even though we argued with father, it wouldn’t be fair to say we were constantly at odds. I loved Kosta, and though living together under one roof was hard because of our different views, I wanted to believe it was just a short phase—that it would end soon and be replaced by peace. Where I craved freedom, father saw possible danger. Barely perceptible, it seemed, but in hindsight, recalling events leading up to Halloween, I realized Kosta knew slightly more about Ksertoni, and there was indeed reason to worry. Yet being trapped again within four walls when the outside world marked the most anticipated and important year of high school terrified me, because I wouldn’t get a second chance to live through this cycle. After all, you can never step into the same river twice. Even a vampire can’t—the emotions would already be different. The new would become predictable old, dull, and there would be no pause on the upward loop of time. Perhaps Olga had reached this stage and decided to risk everything. Who knows?

"If I’m wrong, I’ll be glad. In any case, now you know what can happen to a wolf when emotions run especially high, and you’ll take it into account in the future. If I were you, I’d listen to father in everything. He knows what he’s dealing with from experience, and you might not even guess the true reasons spinning in his head. Nobody wishes you harm more than father."

"And you’re really eighteen?"

Stanislav gave me a quick, surprised glance, not understanding the sudden question about my age, and slowed down before entering a wide parking lot, densely packed with cars in several rows.

"Yeah, I told you. Same for Diana."

"Then stop acting like you’re three hundred years old and giving unsolicited advice."

"Booh-booh-booh," Stas mimicked, and at that moment I really wanted to wipe the all-knowing smile off my classmate’s face. But before I could speak again, I looked at the scenery outside the window. I had to blink to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. The car stopped on the first row of the parking lot, in front of a tiny building with a single window. On both sides of the building, rows of bright funeral wreaths of every color and size stretched along the street, and in front of them were samples of stone grave markers.

"Are we at a cemetery?" I asked in horror, not understanding how we had ended up there. If this was the beginning of one of Smirnov’s ridiculous pranks, I had no desire to participate, especially since my grandmother had recently passed away. My mother sometimes called me in the evenings during the week, even when I was in the hospital, to talk about her day. There weren’t many calls, but they existed. Shortly before arriving in Ksertoni, for example, Maria had told me she collected grandmother’s ashes, and soon there would be a sealed compartment in Rostov with her urn. I realized that process wasn’t as quick as I had assumed. The long wait for the plaque and oval photograph took several months. So grandmother’s ashes would rest for a few more months in the apartment, on the surface of the oak dresser, next to her favorite crystal glasses, used only on special occasions.

"Yes, in Ksertoni," Stas said methodically, checking if he hadn’t forgotten anything in the car while gradually putting his smartphone and keys into his pockets. "I told you we needed to visit mother."

"I thought you meant Olga."

Stas gave a weak smile, unlike anything he’d ever done, and I could hardly tell which thought made him sadder.

"Of course not. I said I’m not looking for her. Olga made her choice, and out of respect for everything she’s done for the family, I won’t remind her of myself unnecessarily. No matter how hard it is."

"I don’t understand."

Stanislav sighed wearily and rested his head on the wheel, as if sending prayers to anyone who could hear, searching for strength.

"We came to my biological mother’s, Asya. Today is her birthday."

***

We walked along the wide road between the square plots, making our way from the oldest graves to the newer ones. The snow had been well cleared here, but ice proved to be a bigger problem, causing our feet to slip every now and then. Tired of balancing on my own, I took Stas by the arm, and together we continued in small steps, glancing around as we went.

And there was a lot to see. Some graves looked neat and well-kept: on some fences, fresh paint gleamed under the weak winter sun, and at the base of the gravestones lay artificial flowers. Though I wasn’t a fan of plastic, dead flowers seemed the most appropriate. Fearless against decay, they continued to adorn the modest resting places of the deceased, giving the illusion that someone came to honor their memory regularly, unlike the neighbors overgrown with grass. Tall, dry weeds covered some plots so thoroughly that even peering through them, it was impossible to tell whose grave it was. I felt sadness for those people, imagining scenarios for why no one came to visit them anymore. Perhaps the entire family had long since died, leaving no one to remember them fondly? Or maybe the relatives had simply moved away in search of a better life and hadn’t yet returned?

A separate, more pungent ache in my chest came from the thought that the person buried here might not have been so worthy of others keeping bright memories of them or tending to the grave. Out of sight — out of mind, and in ten years, no one would remember their name. Complete oblivion. A mark of Death, erasing a person not only from the world of the living but from history entirely.

"Here," Stas said, carefully guiding me to the right at the intersection. After passing six more plots, we stood in front of a fenced area with a neat, simple marble slab at its center, on which was engraved in even lettering:

Evdokieva Alina Sergeevna
1967–1999

Below the name and dates, in smaller, seemingly newer letters—perhaps because of the shade—read:

Nothing is forgotten. And it never will be.

Stas carefully began removing the protective film from the bouquet and intended to place the forget-me-nots, but seeing someone else’s offering, he recoiled, muttering quietly.

"And why does he keep coming," he said with disdain, squatting down.

With two fingers, he lifted the stem of another donor’s bouquet sticking out of its wrapping and moved it aside, freeing space for his own. I looked around for a recent visitor, but instead noticed the familiar silhouette of Kaandor. Today he was unusually silent. It seemed as if we and Stas didn’t interest him at all: the spirit leaned against a slab several plots away from Stas’s mother’s grave, staring into the depth of the forest.

"Whose is that?" I asked, noticing Stas grimace as he rubbed his palm against the edge of his jacket, as if the bouquet were dirty, though it appeared clean.

"Probably from my real father," Stas said with engineering precision as he placed the forget-me-nots at the center at the foot of the gravestone.

"The one who never showed up after Vladimir’s letter?"

Stas nodded briefly, as if he didn’t want to raise the topic.

"Always those nasty white lilies. They stink to high heaven. I smelled them from a few rows away and still hoped I wouldn’t find a bouquet from him here. Every year, he beats me to it, no matter when I arrive. If only he had once gathered courage and waited," Stas spoke through clenched teeth, and I saw his hands tighten into fists. The skin stretched, making his knuckles sharp.

I placed my hand on Stas’s shoulder to support him, and he didn’t brush it off. We stood like that for a while in silence. He was probably forming a birthday greeting for his mother in his mind, one that would remain just between them. I was only a guest here, trying not to interfere, wondering if I would ever find the strength to visit my grandmother’s grave myself — the idea of speaking to the dead, who could never respond, seemed strange to me. Yet, watching Stas, I saw nothing more natural than his silent conversation with a mother he never got to know. From what I had heard, Alina died giving birth to her son, hoping only to see her beloved once more. But he never came to say goodbye, nor did he later raise the child.

At that moment, I realized I could easily have ended up in Stas’s place if Kostya hadn’t found where Maria had run off to. Knowing neither my father nor the real reasons for my parents’ split, I would most likely have hated the person who, for some reason, chose to abandon me without even trying to see me. Though I could not feel the flood of emotions that had haunted Stas for years, placing myself in his position was not difficult. People always reach for their roots, seeking a sense of connection with others. To reduce loneliness by finding similar shades of emotion in other lives and discovering new hues to illuminate the path ahead.

"Why didn’t you take her last name?" I broke the silence, feeling my fingers stiffen in the winter wind.

"Vladimir put his own on my birth certificate when he decided to take me in, and she managed to stick to it. You know, it was easier for me to think of myself as part of his family, as if the last name alone brought me closer to Diana and Arthur. If I had decided to change it after turning eighteen, that connection would have been cut off."

"You did the right thing leaving the name."

"Asya — the expert on how to live right," he said sarcastically, in a tone like an advertising slogan, like a born marketer. I squeezed his shoulder firmly before I could think, and he yelped.

"Watch your strength," he muttered, rubbing the sore spot. "You’re not human anymore."

"Neither are you a sugar cube. Won’t melt."

"By the way, speaking of sugar," he began, standing and brushing snow off his knees, brought there by the wind. "It would be nice to have something hot to drink. Maybe some cocoa?"

Stas shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and held out his elbow invitingly, offering me support, and I couldn’t help but smile.

"Sounds perfect."

***

We decided to spend the rest of the day at the mall, inviting some other kids from school. Dasha and Andrey, Artur, and Stas’s sisters joined our group. The conversations about the supernatural stopped in the presence of ordinary, “human” kids, and I finally got a brief respite from the heavy thoughts about what would happen to me next. I think the others needed a break too. Everyone except Max, it seemed: he stayed home to look after Nik while his father was away. Viola hadn’t smiled once during the whole meeting, studying the contents of her cup with interest, while Artur lingered pale and shadowy beside her. Diana handled herself best, stretching her lips into a sweet smile in front of everyone, though she, too, remained mostly quiet.

A faint hope that I might eventually reverse Vladimir’s transformation glimmered inside me. So, after persuading the girls and leaving the boys to wander by the arcade machines in the basement, I went to look at dresses for the Christmas ball.

Diana took obvious pleasure in directing the process, slapping our hands every time Dasha or I reached for a hanger with a shade she called “unsuitable for our face tones.” Soon, each of us had chosen four pretty dresses. Our group took over all the fitting rooms, showing off our new looks to each other, with Diana trying to complement them with the store’s jewelry.

"No, this definitely won’t do," she commented, eyeing a turquoise lace dress with a satin belt. "It looks too flashy on you, and it hides your figure more than it flatters it. Take it off and let Dasha try it. With her height, it will fit differently and look much more natural."

If Diana had a cure for any sorrow, its name was shopping.

"But I like the lavender one..." Dasha tried to protest cautiously, but she was met with a scorching look that one couldn’t help but obey.

I obediently returned to the fitting room and pulled the dress over my head, then called Diana and asked her to pass it to Dasha. My turn left me with a narrow dress in a delicate milky shade, shimmering with thousands of sparkling grains in the light, as if woven from desert dunes. I would never have tried a long-sleeved dress with an open back down to the waist if Diana hadn’t insisted. But there was no avoiding it, and to prevent a possible quarrel, I reluctantly stepped inside. Though it seemed dense at first, the dress wrapped around me like a second skin. Very soon, I managed to zip up the long side zipper and step out to the girls:

"I told you it wouldn’t suit me," I muttered as I left the fitting room, fully aware that such dresses were meant for beautiful adult women, whose youthful softness had long faded. This dress was for a wild yet magnificent swan—something I, the ugly duckling, would never become.

Waiting for a final verdict, it took a few minutes of silence before I realized the look of admiration on Diana and Violetta’s faces. Very quickly, Dasha joined them, so astonished that she covered her mouth with her hand.

"Asya! It’s absolutely stunning!"

I skeptically examined my reflection in the full-length mirror at the end of the hall and found nothing to marvel at. Yes, the dress looked amazing by itself, but it seemed to wear me rather than the other way around.

"Just look at it!" Diana came up from behind and gently touched my shoulders, urging me closer to the mirror. "If there is a 'perfect' dress, this is definitely it! Take it without thinking."

"I don’t even know..." I half-turned, trying to see how the back looked in the deep cut, but I hardly understood anything.

"Wait, I’ll take a photo!" Diana immediately pulled out her phone and stepped back a few steps so the photo would capture a full-length image. "Look."

The back looked more interesting than the simple front, yet my already pale skin seemed to blend with the milky shade of the dress, making it appear as if the fabric wasn’t even there.

"I feel naked in it," I said embarrassed, instantly wrapping my arms around myself as if I really were bare. "Right, Dasha?"

"Well..." she drew out thoughtfully, giving herself time to choose her words. "I think it’s really beautiful and suits you."

"Can we even wear this to the school ball? It’s so adult!" I continued, not sure whom I was trying to convince: myself or the girls.

But they were adamant, praising the dress in unison. Even Viola, always so quiet, casually complimented it, briefly concluding that I couldn’t find a better one.

"If you don’t buy it now, you’ll regret it until graduation."

"Fine. There’ll be time to think. And it’s more appropriate for graduation anyway. What would the teachers even think? Dresses like this should be sold like beer—only with ID."

"Such a bore," Diana said, rolling her eyes, and then gave up: "Fine. Don’t want it, don’t buy it. But don’t cry later!"

"Okay," I smiled, more amused by how Diana struggled to pronounce "bore," tripping over the hissing sound. To me, it sounded more like a compliment than an insult, though I didn’t rule out that it had more to do with Diana herself, who never meant me harm, unlike Tatyana, who suddenly appeared in the store looking as if everyone owed her.

"Oh, Tanya! Hi," I said nonchalantly, stretching my lips into a smile, feeling uncomfortable as I noticed Rostova stiffen like a string and stride toward me.

"Well, you, Black One, you really outdo yourself," Tatyana said, clearly restraining her anger, pressing her lips together after every word. "Are you trying to steal my friends too?"

"Us? Friends?" Viola shot her a haughty look. "No way."

Swinging her hips, Violetta headed to the register, while Dasha and Diana, sensing trouble, quickly retreated, leaving me alone with the enraged harpy.

"I’ll come by for you tomorrow before the institute," Diana said gently, leaving, giving a last apologetic look, as if to say Rostova wasn’t her problem.

"Do people only get to socialize with you? Or maybe only in your presence?" I began gathering the dresses in the fitting room.

"No, of course not, I’m not a tyrant. But inviting everyone to pick a dress for the ball without me—that’s mean, Asya. Very mean."

"Tanya, it just happened spontaneously. No secret plot. Stas and I stopped by for cocoa, and he suggested we gather the others, and then..."

"Wha-a-at?" Tatyana dragged the word, almost in ultrasound. The shout hit my ears painfully, and I instinctively raised my hands to my head to at least dull the nasty vibrations. Why does power always intensify at the worst possible moment? If only taste got stronger while drinking cocoa, not this.

"What’s wrong?"

"I told you to stay away from Stas," Rostova threateningly pointed at me like it was a gun.

"I thought you saw perfectly well at the hospital how we became friends and cooled off."

"No, I didn’t! Friendship between a guy and a girl doesn’t happen."

"Doesn’t happen, you say? Tanya, double standards."

"Explain yourself."

"When I hang out with Stas, it’s 'friendship between a guy and a girl doesn’t exist,' but when you comforted Nik, it was fine."

"It was different with Nikita! He needed support, by the way, because of your meanness. Dumping a guy by text—how low can you go!"

"And did she support you? How many times did you kiss?"
Tatiana stiffened like a drawn string, her arms stretched straight along her sides. She clenched her fists fiercely, and for a moment I even thought her shoulders shook, and she was about to lunge at me.

"How dare you?" she shouted, almost crying. "I only wanted to help Karimov. Nothing happened! Who do you take me for?"

"And who do you take me for?" I asked deliberately calmly, though a fire raged inside me, as if tongues of Tatiana's fury touched me, igniting the darkness within that had been waiting for a chance to burst out. It was searching for a suitable victim, and she was here, within arm’s reach. All that remained was to bare my teeth. Tear through the fabric barrier and reach the soft, juicy flesh.

I recoiled, suddenly realizing what I had been thinking. What the hell was that?

"Go on, teach her a lesson. Let her learn her place," Kaandor’s voice teased in my mind, but the spirit did not materialize in the hall.

Tatiana kept speaking, but her words passed through me like a dull hum. I felt a pulsation in my fingers. Cold sweat covered my back. This was bad. Could I really manifest right here, in the middle of a shopping center? I needed to get out. Run away from people, immediately.

Without waiting for Rostova to finish, I grabbed the dresses in a bundle and threw them onto the table at the exit of the fitting room, then hurried out of the store. The faceless, colorful corridors with glass showcases stretched on forever as I searched for the exit. The uniform spaces confused me at every turn, and I barely knew if I was going the right way, but I didn’t slow down, afraid to stop. I weaved around the crowds, keeping to the edges, trying not to touch anyone, not to provoke the beast inside.

My temples throbbed harder when I found the escalator. Wasting no time, I started descending, almost running, hoping to spot the coveted doors below, but my hope was shattered by the sign for the arcade. Where were those damn sliding doors? A fire alarm blared in my ears, and suddenly the sound hurt so much I couldn’t stay on my feet and collapsed onto the cold, smooth floor. I pressed my palms tightly against my ears until my fingers trembled from the tension, but the noise continued to torture me, muddling my thoughts. My whole body tensed from the pain, and if the building really was on fire, I was ready to turn to ash along with it.

"Do you think it’s really burning? I don’t smell smoke, do you?" a muffled voice, Andrew’s, reached me.

"Neither do I."

"Wait, is that Asya lying down?" His tone was full of concern.

The vibration of footsteps echoed through my body, and soon someone’s hand touched my shoulder. Pain surged through me in waves; I shut my eyes and screamed, trying in vain to reduce it. I was gently lifted and carried somewhere. My face pressed into the soft fabric of a jacket, and I inhaled deeply the familiar scent, seeking refuge. "He’s here. He’s near. Everything will be fine," the incantation looped in my mind.

A sharp gust of cold air revived me, and the maddening siren ceased as soon as Stas closed the glass doors behind us. Cautiously, I removed my hands from my head, tested the now bearable sensations, and finally relaxed.

"Hold onto my neck with your hands, please," Stanislav asked. "This way we’ll get to the car faster."

I gladly obeyed, embracing him, savoring the saving calm. Stas was my support, and since I dared not hope for more, my best friend. A perfect title for a man who would never be mine.

"Stas?"

"Yes?"

"Don’t tell either your father or mine. Okay?" I whispered, but Stas didn’t have time to reply.

"Are you okay?" Diana called to her brother, and seeing me, hurried over. "What? What happened to Asya?"

"It’s unclear," Andrew replied. "We left the arcade, and she was lying curled up on the escalator floor."

"You fell? Maybe the hospital?" Diana started checking me over, and Stas exhaled wearily.

"She doesn’t need any hospital. She’s fine now."

"How can she be fine?" Andrew protested. "It doesn’t happen for no reason. Is your stomach hurting or something?"

"My head," I replied dryly, feeling my throat go dry.

"Your head shouldn’t hurt that badly."

I had no strength to come up with suitable excuses to calm Andrew, who didn’t even suspect that all the beings around him were not human and suffered from problems beyond his understanding. He meant no harm, rather showed genuine care and concern, even if we didn’t interact often. I remembered well how kindly Andrew treated Nick and how often he would join us at lunch, making boyish jokes I barely understood. He was always kind, but how to get him to leave me alone, I didn’t know. Honestly, I had no energy to talk.

"Asya often suffers from migraines, didn’t you know?" Stas lied convincingly, and Andrew easily believed him. At least he stopped insisting on the hospital.

"No, I hadn’t noticed before. Sorry," he said, looking at me with sympathy and trying to cheer me with a smile. I tried to return the smile, but the corners of my lips trembled and betrayed me again. Not today, Andrew. Not today.

"I’ll take her home. Will you wait for Dasha?"

"Yes, of course. She texted that she’s about to leave with Tatiana."

"Tatiana’s here?"

"Yeah, she must’ve just arrived. I didn’t know."

"But I knew," I croaked, and Stas looked at me curiously, trying to understand what I meant.

He froze for a moment, as if unsure whether to wait for his girlfriend or not. Weighing the pros and cons, he asked Andrew to tell Rostova he’d call soon, turned, and carried me to the car. Only when he carefully placed me in the front seat did I fully relax, thanking all the gods I knew that Tatiana would not be coming with us.

Guiding his brother and sisters, Stas walked around the car to the front and got in behind the wheel. Soon, Diana, Violetta, and Artur settled less comfortably in the back seat.

"And why are you without the car today?" Stas asked Viola, looking through the rearview mirror.

"We wanted to walk through the forest."

"And how did it go? Successful?" The car started moving, and Stas slowly turned the steering wheel, leaving the parking lot.

"We didn’t meet anyone, but a foreign scent lingered in the air near the cemetery. We’ll check again at night if Max is free."

"Just as I thought."

"Did you meet that stranger today?"

"No, I didn’t," he replied with a slight smirk. "Neither yesterday, nor today. Not eighteen years ago, when Vladimir sent letters to my father with invitations."

"Why do you think it was him? You couldn’t have sniffed out his scent well enough to recognize him. It’s just speculation."

Stas fell silent for a while, showing by every gesture how focused he was on the road while waiting for a turn to enter the highway. Once out of the traffic jam, Stanislav accelerated and merged into the rhythmic flow. Dusk settled outside. The snow in the shadows took on a calming blue, and when the trees on the right parted, I could see the sun sinking into crimson-streaked clouds, gradually lowering. Stanislav hesitated a moment longer and in an almost whisper said a short phrase, after which no further questions followed.

"A bouquet of white lilies lay by the grave marker."

Chapter Text

After what happened at the mall, Stas drove me home, and he managed to convince me to call Maria. He reasoned that while Kostya was in such a state, it would be good if my mother stayed nearby. I only half-agreed with Stas. In my view, Maria really should know what was happening with my father, just in case things took a turn for the worse. However, it was definitely not safe for me to be near her. I was still angry with Maria and not sure that it was safe for her to be around me in my current state. What a witch could do against a creature like me, I did not know for sure and did not want to find out.

Maria calmly listened to me and Dr. Smirnov, who, after hearing the news about my father’s condition, assured her that he would watch over both of us and that I was completely safe around him. I still had doubts, out of habit. My mother, however, found such a promise as reliable as Swiss watches, and so she wished me a peaceful night and disappeared again, God knows where, without even trying to offer help. A cuckoo of a mother, honestly. Out of sight, out of mind. I wonder what she told her new husband Sashka when she rushed off to Kserton? Maybe she’ll just roll back. Anywhere. Without her, I’d figure out what to do and why on my own. Maria had already decided enough for me.

I spent the entire night on an unpleasant task: listening to the sounds from the next bedroom. Dr. Smirnov stayed on duty beside Kostya all night, hoping that my father would wake up by morning. A nasty feeling of distrust gnawed at me from the inside, despite all the reasoning, and I couldn’t really sleep. As soon as I closed my eyes, the edge of a white coat appeared in the darkness, and the doctor with a syringe ready. Strange visions only provoked the spirit inside, changing me more and more. We had already determined that vampire venom only made things worse. The fear that Kaandor was not what he was supposed to be did not let go.

I understood that Maria, with the best intentions, approved the doctor’s experiments, seeing how the reverse practice—injecting something into my blood—slowly but surely helped Vladimir’s wife and Nik reverse the vampiric processes. If it worked for me, my heightened hearing and vision would no longer return. Even if the changes rarely reminded me of themselves, I couldn’t attribute them to the positive effect of the vampire venom. Father said that we, werewolves, constantly fluctuate in our perception of the world, feeling things more or less depending on the moon phase. But these strange thoughts and desires had never come to me before. Was I supposed to crave human flesh? If I felt the same way about Violetta, Stas, or Diana, I wouldn’t have been surprised—they were natural enemies of the creature I had become. But imagining how sweet and soft Tatiana’s flesh was… wasn’t that against the very essence of being a werewolf? We are supposed to protect people from others, not feed on them.

No matter how tempting it was to return to a normal human life, continuing experiments with vampire venom was impossible. The awareness of the risk—that I could really snap at someone who wouldn’t even have time to squeak—made my blood run cold. Speed, strength, reflexes—everything a wolf had in its arsenal was enough to finish off a victim in two easy moves, and no one would even have time to interfere. I needed to talk to the doctor, and then to my mother once I cooled down a bit. Convincing Kostya probably wouldn’t take long: he would be glad if it meant keeping me away from Vladimir. But predicting the doctor’s reaction was difficult, almost impossible. Returning to the apartment and learning that Vladimir would have to stay in the house all night, I prudently avoided bringing up his research. Who knows, if he sensed I wasn’t ready to participate voluntarily, Smirnov might have acted more decisively. For example, he could have snuck into my room with a syringe in hand and a grin that looked more like a snarl. I didn’t believe that Vladimir focused entirely on Olga’s problem and Nik’s experiments. If the changes inside me gave the doctor such a breakthrough, who could be sure he wouldn’t start looking for a cure for his wife while continuing to experiment on me?

Imagining the syringe again, I shivered and firmly decided to give up on trying to sleep. I turned on the light and started checking my homework list. Algebra still awaited me. If any subject came hard to me, it was algebra. But there was no choice: I had missed quite a few classes and now had to catch up, thinking about entirely different things. It would be good to immerse myself in studying again while there was time and improve my grades by the end of the term.

Teachers gave me leeway after the hospital, sighing sympathetically whenever we met in the hallway. To them, I was the poor new girl who, in her second month of school, had fallen into the clutches of a forest beast. Thanks to my father and Dr. Smirnov, the whole town knew what happened, and everyone readily believed it. But people’s sympathy is fleeting. Kserton might be a small town, but since my arrival, this had been the second big event occupying the townspeople’s minds. Who knows when the third one would happen? In a week, or maybe even tomorrow? There was no guarantee I had any time left, which meant it was time to roll up my sleeves and really focus on my textbooks if I still planned to enroll in the Kserton State Institute.

My eyes ran over the textbook pages as I tried to grasp the essence of the definitions. The formulas contained fewer numbers and more letters, making my already tired eyes water, but I pressed on, biting into the dense words, as if the textbook was written not for eleventh graders, but for professors. Who teaches like this, I wondered? Why not just explain what goes where, and most importantly—why?

That night, I spent what felt like the longest time on algebra. When I finished the last assignment, I checked the answers in the back of the textbook and breathed a sigh of relief. My back ached from the long minutes over the notebook, and I stretched over the chair, enjoying the crackle of my joints. The dim light of the desk lamp illuminated the spine of the history textbook, in which I still had to catch up on three entire sections. Fortunately, the night was still deep.

I pulled the textbook from the stack and, cross-referencing Dasha’s messages—she had diligently sent me lists of homework for every day I spent in the hospital—I began skimming the text, trying to imagine the events while deliberately skipping the cruelty, so as not to ruin my mood.

By morning, algebra, history, Russian, and English were done. If it weren’t for the alarm on my smartphone, I wouldn’t have even realized it was seven a.m. The house was as quiet as if my father were away on duty again, but my heart remembered everything that happened yesterday. Trying to cheer myself up, I clung to the doctor’s words that Kostya might wake in the morning. I hoped to hear his voice from the next room, but I only heard my own breathing.

After a quick hot shower, I tried to shake off the last traces of fatigue, but in vain. After drying my hair, I returned to my room and packed my backpack for school. Looking at Dasha’s messages, I was ready to scream at how much there still was to do this week. At the very least, I had to prepare a biology report for tomorrow and review a ton of material for the dreaded geometry test. If there was hope to handle biology quickly, the last three years of struggling with geometry had been no picnic.

My grades were crying by the end of the term. I certainly wouldn’t fail out of school, but my GPA could clearly drop, which was absolutely unacceptable in the eleventh grade.

Kostya’s pleas not to go to the open day now seemed like a perfectly reasonable decision, even if motivated by a completely different reason. If only the university doors opened more often for applicants — I would have skipped it without a second thought. But what if this was my last chance to see the campus with my own eyes? What if there would be no other opportunity to talk to the teachers and hear about the programs I could apply to? The mysterious possibilities beckoned me like a bright light under the dome of a delicate lamp to a reckless moth, and I wanted so badly to give in. To give in to the girl inside who so wanted to go with her friends and taste student life.

The more you forbid yourself something, the more you actually want it. I didn’t know what to do, and I had no strength left to make a balanced decision. Having come up with nothing better, I decided to make a wager with fate: if Kostya came to, I wouldn’t go anywhere. I’d go to class and then come straight home to dive into geometry prep. But if my father didn’t wake up before I left for school…

After hastily eating sandwiches and washing down the last crumbs with milky oolong, I knocked on the locked door of Kostya’s room. The door swung open so abruptly that I got scared: Dr. Smirnov moved terrifyingly silently.

"Good morning, Asya," Vladimir looked fresh, as if he had thoroughly enjoyed ten hours of sleep. "I didn’t hear you wake up."

"I didn’t go to bed. I stayed up all night doing homework," I admitted honestly.

Vladimir nodded understandingly, as if he still remembered what it was like to study.

"The gymnasium program is strong. If it gets too hard, you should talk to your father and, while it’s not too late, consider transferring."

I saw only polite condescension in his words. A veiled "you’re just foolish" wrapped in a beautiful package, which made me like Vladimir even less—though how could that be possible?

Making an effort not to say everything I had on my tongue, I placed my hands behind my back and dug my nails into my palms. The pain was soothing. It made the unbearable bearable.

"It’s fine, I’ll catch up quickly. There were no problems until I ended up in the hospital. A couple of sleepless nights won’t hurt me much."

"A couple might not hurt, but you’ll have to reckon with the wolf inside. He may have his own plans," Vladimir joked, wagging his finger as if the conversation were an amusing show for him, almost a comedic theater performance worth a front-row ticket.

"The wolf inside, by your estimates, might fall asleep soon, right?"

"I don’t recall you coming for a new dose of poison. I won’t force you to take more, but you understand, we don’t have enough data yet."

"My feelings have already dulled."

"It was the same with Olga and Nikita at first. Any recurring manifestations?"

"No," I lied, having decided yesterday not to tell the doctor anything about what happened.

"Alright then. I’ll continue observing Olga for a while. With you young ones, it’s rather difficult to track changes. As we’ve found, some nuances with Nikita couldn’t be identified, and it’s hard to say whether Olga’s case is an exception or the rule. Working with you, I have no reference at all," he shook his head. "And we have to consider accelerated metabolism."

"Shouldn’t accelerated metabolism eliminate the poison faster?"

"In the classical sense, accelerated metabolism consumes more energy. If you imagine the poison acts like ethanol, the elimination rate would indeed be higher. However, defining what is ‘high’ is difficult, because you have to consider multiple factors, such as sex, age, predispositions, and chronic conditions. Your pattern with Nikita and Olga was never identical due to physiological differences. You are, at the very least, a different type, and your natural defenses against poison are still poorly studied by me. Frankly, there’s no one else to study them—the witches abandoned these ideas long ago. So I have to move almost blindly in this direction and carefully monitor the consequences of Olga’s reverse transformation. My wife’s case might be an exception, useless for further practice, so I place my hopes on Karimov. I don’t rule out that it might eventually result in an unpleasant scenario for you, where werewolves become a key to human life for us, but not vice versa."

"Maria thinks differently. She believes in you very much."

"Your mother is full of enthusiasm, unlike me. I am rather guided by bitter experience and keep joy in check for at least half a year. Magic can’t always be repeated twice, and that’s the greatest tragedy. Even penicillin, an invention that saved hundreds of thousands of lives, simultaneously killed dozens with antibiotic intolerance."

"So until my condition worsens, there’s no need to continue the poison," I summarized, and Vladimir slightly frowned, as if he found the conclusion absurd.

"As a doctor, I would say the exact opposite. We must cyclically reinforce immunity, not stop treatment at the first sign of improvement."

"And how long did you administer the serum to Olga?"

"For a month."

"And for me, you’ve been giving the vampire poison already…?"

Vladimir understood what I was hinting at and hesitated, though I knew the answer without his confirmation. He had started injecting the poison into my blood at Maria’s request right after Halloween, simultaneously testing the witch theory, which meant my ‘treatment’ month was nearly over.

"About the same."

"There’s the answer. So I’ve had enough injections."

"As you wish. I cannot force you and I don’t want to."

I smiled politely, as best I could. He truly couldn’t force me to take the poison. Vladimir had another style—he lured potential victims into a trap with sweet words and deceptively gentle speech. A trickster in an angel costume. Even knowing everything from Maria, I stayed cautious simply because the doctor had never been fully honest with me. He played a role he had chosen for himself, with little concern for my approval of his methods.

"Well, I’ll get ready for school then."

"Of course. I’ll leave the door open. Maybe the sounds of activity in the house will help Konstantin come to."

"Alright," I was about to leave when I suddenly remembered what I wanted to ask. "You’ll write to me if Dad comes to, okay?"

"Of course. Don’t worry," Vladimir replied lightly and cheerfully, hurrying to take his post as the wooden chair placed by the head of Kostya’s bed.

When I was done getting ready and standing in the hallway fastening my jacket, I realized it wasn’t very nice to lock the doctor in without a way out of the apartment. I hadn’t thought of that yesterday and felt awkward. I hoped Vladimir hadn’t noticed and that it caused no inconvenience. I didn’t dig through Kostya’s things for a second set of keys, leaving my keys on the hook by the door and asking Vladimir to lock behind me. Not that a thief or mischievous teenager could harm a vampire, but it was better to avoid potential incidents.

"Asya?" called the doctor.

I had already opened the door and was about to step out, but I turned at the sound of my name. The doctor studied my face as if searching for something to better understand my state, probing the ground and testing me with words. One who is capable of lying can sense how its scent clings to another. And it seemed that right now Vladimir was trying to find the trace, while I also practiced pretending. Like a mirror, I reflected what I saw in him, just to keep him as far away as possible.

"Yes, doctor?"

"You’ll tell me if you notice any changes, won’t you?"

"Of course."

***

In algebra class, we were taking a test, and for the thousandth time, I thanked myself for the sleepless night and for managing to catch up on the material. I wouldn’t say it was easy, but having a clear understanding of the problem in front of me was far better than sitting there looking around for classmates willing to help. Cheating wouldn’t have worked anyway: they handed out eight different versions. But at least glancing at a solution to a similar problem and trying to adapt it to my own version was better than nothing.

My brain was boiling as I worked through the equations, and the feeling when I filled the fourth page and finally put down my pen was incredibly sweet. All that remained was to hope that a stupid arithmetic error didn’t jump out somewhere. I put the sheet at the edge of the desk and started observing my classmates. Every single one of them was hunched over their papers, writing diligently. It felt strange to finish the test before everyone else, though perhaps my advantage was the freshness of the material—or my own naïveté in thinking I had understood everything, who knows? The results would show.

When the bell rang, Dasha was still finishing her paper, so I had to wait for her near the classroom. Tatiana seemed to purposely bump me with her shoulder as we left the room, but I didn’t say a word. We hadn’t spoken since yesterday, and honestly, I had nothing to say. If she expected me to crawl on my knees and swear that I’d never talk to Stas again, she was mistaken. I’d wait a couple of days for Rostova to cool down, and then, maybe, she’d get her head straight. She couldn’t control who talked to whom, and I had no desire to cater to her capricious whims. Let her get used to the idea that not everything happens according to her wishes.

Dasha walked out of the classroom and passed by, glancing briefly in my direction, and I thought maybe my friend had misjudged the situation and hurried to catch up.

"Seems like I got the easiest version. I spent all night catching up on the material, completely forgetting we had a test today, and yet I finished before everyone else."

Dasha looked embarrassed, staring at her feet and holding the edge of her backpack, biting her lip.

"By the way, did you manage to get out of the mall safely yesterday? I read in the news this morning that there wasn’t even a fire—someone just messed around and pulled the fire safety lever."

"Yeah, we’re fine," Dasha answered very quietly. As we walked across the passage on the third floor, she carefully stepped away from me, trying to keep her distance. I noticed her strange behavior and tried to recall what we had talked about yesterday. Maybe I had accidentally offended her? Nothing came to mind, but to be honest, I’d been a little off myself the last few days: I could have missed something.

"Dasha, what’s wrong?"

She shook her head thoughtfully, as if weighing whether to tell the truth, and only muttered a short, sad "nothing." I had never liked silences and unspoken things, and considering recent events, you could say I had developed an allergy to them. Not waiting for her answer, I reached out and held her shoulder until she stepped far enough away.

"Come on, what happened?"

Dasha bit her lip even harder. Her eyes made it clear how much she wanted to explain, yet at the same time, she hesitated. Her head bowed slightly forward, as if carrying a heavy burden that no one could lift from her shoulders.

"Better… not talk for a while," she began uncertainly.

"Did I say something to upset you?" I ran through all my recent words in my head, trying to figure out where I had gone wrong. Being near Dasha was always easy. It didn’t feel necessary to talk non-stop to feel even a little closer. She was smart yet simple, without pride. She explained things where others lacked knowledge. She cared through gentleness. Without Dasha, I would have never collected all the homework and notes from classmates. She methodically photographed her own notes for me by the end of the day and sent them via messenger.

"No, Asya, not me," she replied sadly, hugging herself as if searching for strength. "It’s Tanya."

I blinked slowly, trying to understand how our relationship with Dasha was connected to Tanya, and the answer quickly became clear. That Rostova goat!

"She forbade you from talking to me? What a dictator in a skirt."

"Well… not just me," Dasha dragged out. "Yesterday she sent messages all over the school saying that you… how do I put it…" She trailed off and grimaced, as if the words were so filthy she didn’t dare even speak them.

"What? Don’t keep me in suspense."

Dasha glanced around to make sure no one else was in the passage, leaned close to my ear, and whispered a dirty insult usually used for women with promiscuous reputations. I was stunned. I stared at Dasha wide-eyed, shocked by what I heard. Tanya said that about me? To the whole school?

"I’ve never—" I started to defend myself but stopped when I heard approaching footsteps. A tenth-grade boy met my gaze, winked at me playfully, then scanned me from head to toe and whistled. My face flushed instantly, and I wanted to throw my hood over my head, but of course, I had come to class in a turtleneck with a narrow collar, not a plain hoodie.

Well, Rostova, thanks. I didn’t think I could hurt your pride and self-confidence so much.

"Dasha, I’ve never… with anyone. Not like that. Honestly," I pleaded, realizing that even if Dasha was reacting to Tanya’s gossip, what could I expect from people who had never talked to me?

"I believe you," she tried to reassure me, still unable to look me in the eyes properly. "It’s just that now everyone is talking about it. One rumor builds on another. The boys are already bragging about who’s with you, when, where, and how."

She nodded, hinting at actions that no one had the courage to name out loud.

"I understand that they’re only lying and showing off to each other, but Asya, any girl who walks with you will inevitably be seen in their eyes," she pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows, avoiding the shameful word, "the same way."

The meaning of Dasha’s words hit me like snow sliding off a roof on a cold day.

"I see," I said dryly, realizing I could burst into tears in the hallway from hurt and anger. "I won’t keep you."

I hurriedly turned on my toes and walked to the girls’ restroom, feeling tears well up in my eyes. People passing by caught my gaze, and I heard their cutting comments, tossed back and forth. Nasty, dirty remarks about what they supposedly did with me, in what positions, and when. I didn’t understand some of the words, but I guessed that the funnier the word sounded from the outside, the worse the act it was meant to imply.

The last few meters to the door, I ran, just to hide from the predatory eyes of hyenas who had been given fresh prey to savor.

How can people be so cruel? Why do they say all of this? Build new lies, fully knowing they’ve never even spoken two words with me? Why do people try to elevate themselves in their friends’ eyes by humiliating someone else?

I ran into the first available stall, threw my backpack against the wall, and lowered the toilet seat. I pulled my legs to my chest and sobbed bitterly from hurt, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was just friends with Stas. And, in my own way, I liked him. Truly liked him, the way a girl can like a boy, but I would never, ever try to take him away, fearing I would turn into one of those drama-show heroines I despised. You can’t build your happiness on someone else’s misfortune. And besides, isn’t being close to someone important to you more valuable than doing something stupid and losing a friendship forever? I knew the line I shouldn’t cross and stayed right at the edge, but it didn’t help.

Everything fell apart. The normal life I had imagined drifted further away, and despair inside me shattered the last hope for better days. Fear whispered that my father might not wake up today or even next week, leaving me in months of endless waiting. My heart kept reopening the wound left by Nick’s betrayal, and then a new, gleaming blade was thrust into my back from where I least expected it. Tanya must have realized I wouldn’t play by her rules and decided to do something vile just to distance me from Stas, or better yet — to make me run from school with my tail between my legs, since no protection would come from anywhere.

It was amazing how perfectly my classmate had timed it. What happened with my father wasn’t public knowledge, but the coincidence worked perfectly in Tanya’s favor. I wondered if she even considered the consequences of spreading such a rumor about the daughter of a respected local figure. Probably not. After all, with the money the Rostova family supposedly had, she could have come out unscathed even from worse situations.

I spent the rest of the break in the girls’ restroom, crying and reflecting on the situation. Waiting for the bell, I carefully opened the door, made sure no one was around, and went to the sink. Cold water stung my skin as I washed the remnants of tears from my face. Raising my eyes to the mirror, I stared at my reflection and felt pity for the girl looking back with red, swollen eyes. No matter how many times I rinsed my face, the redness wouldn’t go away. People would still notice the mark left by the cruel tongues, and I would have to live with it.

How I wished I could just leave. Pack my things and never return. For them to forget me like last year’s snow. But I already knew from the hospital incident that the people of Kserton were insatiable: give them a new rumor to savor, and they’d devour it while waiting for the next. I had become a supplier of juicy stories for local entertainment: one day a stranger’s mother had fled from a respected police officer, the next a girl used connections to get into a prestigious school, then got into trouble near school, and now this. In three months, more had happened to me in this small town than most Ksertonians experienced in a lifetime. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg of what actually happened.

The temptation to go home was strong, but I knew that if I went back, I’d lose to Tanya, who would revel in my suffering. Crying and leaving would be the best proof to support her failed narrative. People only abandon ship when the secret is out and the lifeboat is already in the water. That won’t do.

Hoping all my tears had been shed, I gathered my courage and went to biology class, prepared to endure the nasty gossip. I needed to control myself and not react in front of others; then, perhaps, the vicious gossips would quiet down. That had worked well in my previous school, where even the laziest person would point out that I wasn’t like them. Most girls found my interests and tastes strange, and I had no passion for shopping trips or testing makeup samples in the mall: who knew how many hands had touched that tube before mine, or how many had touched the escalator? That’s where true evil and germs hide — in the cosmetics department.

The classroom was buzzing. Teacher Bobylev was writing new terms on the board, and classmates barely lifted their heads from their notebooks, trying to keep up. The seat next to Stas was empty, waiting for me. I quietly slipped through the classroom, muttering a short "sorry" to the teacher, and sat down.

"Slut…" started the boy at the next desk, but his neighbor hissed at him. I didn’t remember her name, but decided to find out later, feeling grateful. After all, even Dasha wasn’t ready to defend me, yet here was a girl I had once helped with a missed word. Maybe she just didn’t want her neighbor in trouble and shushed him before the teacher heard.

Stas continued taking notes, paying me no attention. A troubling thought that Smirnov might turn away from me too slipped in, and I tried to push it away.

"What page are we on?" I asked him, though I could see which chapter his book was open to. I needed to know if Stanislav would talk to me or if the rumors had destroyed our friendship too.

"Eighty-five," he answered casually, and I felt relief. "Why are you late?"

He glanced at me briefly, careful not to irritate the teacher, then noticed something amiss, furrowed his brows, and studied my face carefully. When I saw Stas frown, I realized he hadn’t missed the traces of tears.

"What happened?"

He doesn’t know. Stas asked with such genuine concern that there was no doubt. My heart leapt in my chest, for I was standing at a crossroads. If I didn’t explain to Stas what had happened, he would hear the rumors from others anyway. Maybe even Tatiana herself would bring them. Strange that she hadn’t included him in the mass message. Of all people, Stas Rostov was the one she should have wanted to show first that I had no place beside him—neither as a friend nor as anything else. A perfect way to erase a rival from history, reinforcing her own personal “and they lived happily ever after” in the fabric of existence. Then why didn’t he know?

A lump formed in my throat, and bitterness filled my mouth. I was afraid to recount the vile rumors to Stanislav because I didn’t want to see his reaction firsthand. The day’s events had already overflowed their cup, and I was surprised Kaandor wasn’t around. Every time emotions ran particularly high, he appeared. Could it be that this trial wasn’t enough to make him come again? If today were Friday the thirteenth, I would have blamed all misfortunes on it, but it was an ordinary day, when the whole world seemed to decide at once to test my endurance.

Perhaps my skin had become stronger than my soul. One more blow, and it seemed my soul would crumble to dust, but the façade would conceal it all. I was afraid to know what he would think. Too salty, too bitter.

I hesitated to respond, not knowing what to do, and Stas covered my hand with his—so cold and yet so pleasant. It was as if he were cooling the heat of the blue flame raging inside me.

My best friend. My worst enemy.

When I looked past the audacity and slight arrogance with which Stas treated others, I saw a person capable of selfless care, and I began to feel differently about him. I saw how alive and sensitive he could be in grief and now dreamed of catching genuine happiness in his eyes. To become its cause. But all I could offer him was disappointment.

A boy behind us whistled across the classroom:
“Look,” he said cheerfully, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Smirnov wants a piece of the Black too.”

Stas immediately turned toward the speaker. Veins pulsed on his temples. If vampires could kill with a glance, he would definitely look like Stanislav now: his irises filled with darkness, and something fearless and wild inside was ready to strike.

“What are you talking about?” His voice was almost a growl, but the classmate didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t pretend. What a shining knight you are,” the boy smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “Though why am I even talking? You’ve probably already tried the goods more than once and want seconds. She’s insatiable, isn’t she? Ran after Nikita so fast—already counted eight lovers in the school. Tatiana isn’t like that, from a good family. Not like this one…”

The chair Stas was sitting on tilted and fell. Before the back could touch the floor, there was a slap, like thunder after lightning. Everything happened so fast. Stas stood over his classmate, breathing heavily. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, and I saw that Stanislav was beside himself with rage. His arms had straightened after the first strike, fingers shaking, but he skillfully concealed it, quickly clenching his hands into fists.

“Don’t you dare speak about Asya like that,” he said slowly, deliberately, so that his stunned opponent could grasp the meaning.

“Are you out of your mind?” the classmate whispered, eyes wide at Stas, then, after a short pause, laughed nervously. “You probably all sleep with her in your family, like animals. Live under the same roof and don’t hide it, messing with each other. So, Asya, does it feel good to be the sixth?”

“Smirnov! Kulikov!” the teacher shouted. “Both of you, follow me! To the principal!”

The teacher strode to the door and swung it open with a sharp gesture, urging the students forward. The classmate immediately lost his cheer and noticeably paled, his face blending with the pale blue of his shirt. Stas reacted more calmly, though his gaze lacked both anger and resolve. He stared at the floor, ashamed, and for a second, the nasty voice of fear whispered that Stas would get in trouble because of me. Something had to be done—and fast.

“Kirill Nikolaevich,” I rose from my desk, hoping the teacher would notice. “Stas isn’t at fault. It’s all me.”

I blurted it out in one breath and froze, unsure how to continue. Should I really recount the rumors and explain how Tatiana’s jealousy had in one instant destroyed not only my reputation but possibly my future at Kserton School? What if I told the truth, but the teacher didn’t believe me? What could I even do to protect myself and Stas, who had simply decided to stand up for me, while I had barely enough strength to cry over the hurt and bitterness at my own future, crumbling before my eyes from every angle?

Teacher Bobylev inhaled so loudly that it was audible at my desk. He tiredly rubbed his nose and then raised his face to the ceiling for a moment, as if asking why all these troubles had fallen on his lesson.

“Since it’s all you, then you too, to the principal,” Bobylev pointed to the exit, and I, slumping, trudged toward the door. “Class, do not make noise while we are gone. Take notes on the terms and concepts from pages eighty-six to eighty-nine, and answer the questions at the end of the paragraph in your notebooks. I will return and check selectively.”

***

"Smirnov," the principal began sternly, sitting at the head of the long table. "Neither our school nor the law of the Russian Federation condones physical violence. Only because there have been no previous complaints about your behavior from teachers or students am I willing to hear you out instead of throwing you straight out of school. And no contributions from your highly esteemed father will change this. Speak."

"Kulikov disrupted the class with loud and offensive remarks about Asya."

The principal turned an interested gaze toward me, after which Stas coughed and clarified, "I mean about the student Chernyaya. He spread rumors and conjectures that had nothing to do with my classmate, and I intervened. At first verbally, but Kulikov didn’t understand. Then I helped him understand."

"Do you hear yourself? You 'helped him understand' by hitting another student. Smirnov, is everything okay at home right now?"

The question caught Stanislav off guard, and I, more than anyone, knew what was happening in the Smirnov household and felt sympathy from a distance: inventing a somewhat believable explanation while omitting details and still appearing sincere enough to satisfy the principal—that was no easy task. Just in case, I even tried to sniff for any magical hints from the principal, the way I would around vampires or werewolves, but no matter how hard I tried, she didn’t smell remotely magical. How simple it would have been if she had known what was happening in the city.

Kulikov couldn’t contain a giggle, enjoying how the principal had turned her attention to Stas. But the principal noticed his snicker and directed a stern gaze at my classmate:

"You find this amusing, I see? Well, we’ll see how much fun you have when the secretary calls your father."

"What did I do to him? I didn’t do anything!" For added effect, Kulikov gave his face an angelic expression, widening his eyes and blinking dramatically. He even pouted like a real Cupid. Only the halo above his head was missing.

"You speak maliciously, young man, and spread dirty rumors. I am already aware of the evening message that circulated throughout the eleventh grade. I’ve read its contents, but I haven’t yet caught the culprit. And something tells me your candidacy, Kulikov, is perfectly suited for the instigator of this mess," the principal said, placing her thick-lensed glasses on her nose—like people over fifty often do—and began reading aloud from the sheet in front of her: "Summer arrest for alcohol consumption, last year—numerous complaints about disciplinary violations in class. Average grades leave much to be desired, and, most importantly, no achievements or socially useful school activities. Considering your history, it’s not hard to believe you provoked Stanislav rather than the other way around."

Kulikov blushed and pressed his lips together. His nostrils flared with each breath, like a bull about to charge an experienced matador waving a vulgar scarlet cloth in front of it, luring it into a trap for the amusement of onlookers behind the barriers.

"I only told the truth!"

"Is that so? May I ask why you assumed that a message from a faceless account, created that very day, necessarily represents the truth?" the principal asked, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. "What if someone had sent similar messages about you to the eleventh grade?"

"I’d be thrilled!" Kulikov blurted out without thinking, and I snorted. Of course, such rumors make a boy the king among classmates, but if someone spreads them about a girl, trouble is inevitable. Double standards. A cruel and unfair world.

"You don’t seem very happy about it, then, regarding Asya. On the contrary, you seem to reproach, without even trying to find out how much truth is in those words."

"What’s there to check?" he nodded toward me. "Just look at her, and it’s obvious."

"Excuse me?" I protested, unable to believe what I heard.

"Look at those tight pants! They cling to your hips, which you’re always swaying. Every time I pass by, I’m amazed how with such sharp and tempting curves you don’t fall on someone’s face. You know, I wouldn’t even mind," Kulikov said, looking at me with a fiery gaze, completely unafraid of the principal’s presence. As the meaning of his words reached my consciousness, a storm churned in my stomach. I felt nauseated at his dirty fantasies and what he would have been willing to do to me if given the chance.

Stas sprang from his seat and loomed over Kulikov, looking down from his height. He pushed him with both hands on the shoulder once.

"Say that again."

Second push. Kulikov’s lip twisted in anger.

"Go on. Just try," Stas pushed him a third time, and I tried to grab his forearm and pull him back before a fight broke out, but Smirnov dodged and pushed his opponent again.

Then the principal stepped in to help, leading Kulikov aside and shielding the brat behind her as if he were the one who needed protection—and clearly he didn’t.

"Principal, did you hear what he said?"

"Not now, Chernyaya. We’ll discuss this situation privately," she said, giving me a meaningful look, as if I should catch something important from her tone. "Woman to woman."

'Woman to woman' sounded harsh, like a fire alarm in a shopping center. Lately, I’d only been thinking about problems of a magical nature, trying at least to pretend to be ordinary in case I only had to play a role, rather than truly rid myself of my werewolf heritage, forgetting what the real world was like, where we coexisted shoulder to shoulder with humans. Afraid to unleash my full power, I feared harming others, forgetting that not every person deserved saving, because besides the good people doing good in the world, there were others on the ugly, werewolf side of the coin, like Kulikov. For every good person, there were five like him, regardless of country, time, or order. What if werewolf powers aren’t just about controlling insane vampires, but about maintaining balance among humans? What if people like me can tip the scales and make the world a little better than yesterday?

"Since you cannot resolve this conflict peacefully, I have no choice but to call your fathers," she pressed the button on the rectangular landline and gave instructions to the secretary, then returned her attention to the boys. "In the meantime, go to the waiting room. And not a sound, understood? Otherwise, an expulsion order will be issued today."

"My father can’t come. He’s on duty," Stas clarified.

"Never mind, we’ll call your mother then."

"She’s, unfortunately, out of town."

"How convenient. Well, Smirnov, we’ll sort it out somehow. After all, you have brothers and sisters here."

"I’m already an adult and able to take responsibility for my actions."

The principal stretched her lips in a smirk, showing she didn’t take him seriously.

"Oh, if only words matched deeds!" she sighed and sank into her chair. "Go, boys. We’ll return to you later."

Kulikov and Smirnov sulkily walked toward the exit. Stas froze in the hallway and gave me a worried look, unsure of what the principal wanted. I was nervous too, managing only a weak smile, hoping I could cope. It had to be admitted: sometimes another person’s intervention made life much easier. It felt lighter knowing you weren’t facing a problem alone and someone had your back. Stas was always there, never failing to care for me, even when met with resistance. Being grown-up seemed to mean handling problems alone in your own way. Yet what I wanted most now was for Stanislav to be allowed to stay in the room—but the door closed treacherously behind him, and the principal slowly returned to the table.

"Sit down, Asya," her tone softened noticeably as she sat at the head of the table and gestured for me to take a chair on her right.

My legs wouldn’t obey me—I wanted to stay standing, but you don’t argue with the principal. The last thing I needed was for Kostya to be dragged to school. Of course, my phone had stayed in the classroom, so there was no way to check whether my father had woken up or not. Everything was happening at the worst possible moment.

"Let’s be honest," the principal began as soon as I touched the chair, "are these rumors true?"

"I would never…" I started to defend myself, feeling disgusted with my own words. Why should girls have to explain themselves to anyone for their sexual lives or for how baseless a rumor might be? Boys are never asked such things, and no one hunts them for having multiple partners, no matter how they dress. As soon as I got caught up in this story, the first thing I heard was, "It’s your fault, you dressed wrong." But what kind of clothing could ever give anyone the right to sexualize my body in the middle of school? Or anywhere else, for that matter. Clothing is just clothing—a tool that lets me look how I want, express my individuality, and stay warm. I honestly didn’t understand, and didn’t want to understand, how ordinary pants could seduce someone or give them the right to interfere in my private life.

Summoning all my courage, I tried to answer as politely as possible, just to avoid making an already difficult situation worse:

"I know who is spreading these rumors about me and why. But it’s all untrue and has nothing to do with school."

She started flipping through the papers on her desk and soon pulled out a printout of my grades.

"You’ve fallen behind in the program over the last month, but the teachers speak highly of your recent progress. You’re trying, well done. But even so, I can’t turn a blind eye to what’s happening. It disrupts the work process and distracts the other students."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked, not understanding what she was getting at.

"You’ll have to name the instigator."

"That’s easy: the rumors are being spread by Tatyana Rostova."

"Are you sure about that?" she asked seriously, looking at me over the glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

"Of course! There’s simply no one else, and another classmate pointed her out."

"What’s her last name?"

"Romanova."

"I see," the principal said, pressing the button on the phone again. "Zina, call the next students to my office…"

***

"Thanks a lot for turning me in to the principal," Tanya hissed through her teeth as we walked down the stairs toward the parking lot. "Once my mother finds out, forget about the New Year’s ball."

She pulled her hair out from under her scarf and let out a tired sigh, puffing out her cheeks.

"And what did you expect?" I said, feeling triumphant that justice had been served. "You came up with a solution, huh? Did you even stop for a minute to think about the consequences? Now the whole school thinks I’m a slut, and that stigma will stick not just until graduation but all the way through college. The town’s small, and there are even fewer reasons for anyone to gossip.

"Your own fault," she said, squinting. "I told you to stay away from Stas."

"Or what? You’d send another mass message?" I asked defiantly, imagining Tanya again unable to string two words together in her defense while standing on the principal’s carpet. The principal had coldly and directly asked whether Rostova had spread the rumor, and after some thinly veiled hints about possible changes to the honors student’s transcript, Tanya had confessed, hoping to save her grades. It had ended without a serious reprimand or even a major punishment; the principal decided to leave that to the parents, thinking disciplinary matters were better handled at home than in the walls of a prestigious school. Next time it could have been much worse.

I didn’t care what punishment Rostova would get. The important thing was that she left me alone—one less problem. Although the rumors would probably linger for a while, I could only hope the principal would find a way to redirect the students’ attention.

Tanya glared at me, and, as far as I could tell, couldn’t think of a reply, so she redirected her anger at an easier target. Confidently, Rostova caught up with Dasha, who had tried to stay ahead. Dasha clearly didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire of the argument. She practically trembled when she saw the principal and nodded to the questions addressed to her. Unlike Tanya, Dasha’s parents couldn’t afford her tuition. If she hadn’t been as smart as she was, she would never have earned a scholarship. If she got caught up in a scandal, or worse, started one herself, her place at school would have been at risk. Perhaps that’s why she always behaved more quietly and modestly than the others, afraid of losing what she had gained through hard work that neither I nor Rostova could even imagine. I hadn’t thought about that when I named Dasha to the principal, so now I felt guilty and tried to give my friend time to either forgive me or at least process what had happened. But Tanya didn’t seem to have that thought.

"I thought we were friends!" Rostova accused Dasha, who couldn’t even meet her eyes, studying the snow at her feet. "How could you blab?"

"There was no other way to find out if you were telling the truth, so I took the risk," Dasha said softly, as if the words themselves hurt.

"And how, satisfied with the result? Listen to me: if my mother forbids me from going to the ball, I’ll make sure everyone knows what happened!"

"Don’t drag Dasha into this. It’s not her fault you had that idiotic idea," I intervened, seeing how uncomfortable Dasha was under Tanya’s pressure.

I least of all wanted Dasha to feel bad when she had done the right thing. Even if the consequences lingered for me in the form of ubiquitous snickers and stupid comments, I could at least stay strong knowing the instigator had answered to the principal. Surely, I would still feel every lie sharply as it spread like a snowball thanks to classmates’ and other students’ imaginations, but now there were people who knew the truth. People who would reject every rumor and not join the stinking chorus of gossipers.

"No way! Friends don’t do that. She put herself in the middle. If you’d stayed quiet, Dasha, none of this would have happened."

"And what about the fact that Dasha is my friend too?" I shot back, and Tanya scowled and shrugged.

"How convenient," Rostova said with biting sarcasm, "all your friends, Asya. Dasha, Nikita, Stanislav… Who’s next? Maybe Artur? I wonder what Violetta will say about that?"

"Artur has a mind of his own, and it’s none of your business who he chooses as friends," Violetta’s voice rang across the parking lot deliberately loud, and I turned, startled. Violetta was standing with Stas and Diana at the foot of the school, a little further away. I must have missed it, caught up in the argument with Rostova, when they came out too.

Tanya stretched her lips into a fake smile, though her eyes still radiated anger and contempt.

"Let’s see how you sing when it really happens."

"Tanya," Stas cleared his throat dramatically to draw Rostova’s attention. "Shall we step aside and talk?"

Stanislav nodded toward the forest edge, indicating the direction, and Tanya moved that way. Violetta and Diana joined me and Dasha. For a moment, there was an awkward silence, as all the girls, like me, seemed to wait for the showdown between Smirnov and Rostova. I wished I could hear what Tanya and Stas were saying, but, of course, the guys kept walking away. Surely Smirnov wanted to make sure not even a fragment of their conversation reached the sisters, Dasha, or me. Even reaching the forest edge, Stas didn’t stop; he took Tanya’s hand and led her into the woods. Had I known him worse, I might have worried about Rostova’s safety, but what Tanya didn’t realize actually protected her in the situation. Would I have preferred not to know? To forget the terrifying side of Kserton and the creatures that comfortably inhabit its surroundings? There was no clear answer anymore, even though inside I longed for a normal human life.

Diana suggested we all stop for a snack and take a short break after a tough day at school before heading to the university open day, and I agreed willingly. To keep Violetta from going alone, Dasha got into her car, still showing sadness from the recent events. On the one hand, I didn’t want to leave her alone with the strict and straightforward Violetta, but I wasn’t ready to switch places with Dasha either—who knew what thoughts Violetta could have developed even jokingly with Rostova’s influence? I had no desire to find out, so I silently followed Diana to her dark sedan.

***

When the car turned off the highway onto the familiar parking lot, my chest tightened at the sight of the familiar pizzeria window. The very one where Nik had taken me on our first date. Diana fluttered out of the car with such ease, while I barely managed to unbuckle my seatbelt. I reached for the car door handle and noticed my fingers trembling. Dark memories surged, as if it had all happened yesterday, and regrets froze in my mind, making my head feel heavy. Gathering my strength, I tried to relax in the seat. I tilted my head back and fixed my gaze on the plain, light-colored ceiling of the car, trying to push unwelcome thoughts out of my mind. But associations are associations—they arise suddenly, as soon as a trigger flashes in your field of vision. I can’t spend the rest of my life, really, getting lost at the sight of pizzeria signs or any place resembling this one.

A fight must be met with a fight—that’s what I decided and forced myself out of the car. At the entrance, my classmates were waiting, maintaining polite conversation about the upcoming open house.

“Dash, do you already have a faculty in mind?” Diana asked casually.

“I’ll go to Philology. I decided a long time ago, and honestly, I don’t even know why I’m going to the university today. I probably won’t change my mind.”

“Even if you’ve decided, it’s still great to see the university in person! It’s nothing like school. Maybe you’ll even get to meet some of the professors.”

“I came with roughly the same thoughts. My mom persuaded me to go anyway. But there’s really no point comparing it with our gymnasium—it’s hardly like the others: too advanced and modern. In other schools in Kserton, the budgets are much smaller for obvious reasons, though I wouldn’t say they teach worse. It’s more about the difference in approach to education.”

The girls nodded, agreeing with every word I said, and I, caught up in the general mood, unexpectedly nodded too, even though I didn’t agree. What we went through in our school was drastically different from what the official curriculum prescribed. Of course, the same subjects were on the schedule, as well as the main topics for the final exams, but all sorts of extra elective classes available to any student offered so many more opportunities. The biology labs alone were worth it! Only some universities offer studies on bacterial cultures, according to the internet, but we did this research as early as September. It was definitely worth comparing; otherwise, the hefty sums our caring parents paid from their bank accounts for a better future would have been meaningless.

“It’s just a pity that local students can’t get a place in the dormitory,” Dasha said as Diana reached for the door handle.

Violetta and Dasha walked ahead of Diana, continuing to fantasize about dorm life with other classmates. They seemed to think that moving out from under their parents’ watchful eyes under the guise of studying was a great way to grow up and escape constantly nagging relatives. If I could understand Dasha’s reasoning, hearing it from Violetta was strange. Can’t she—an adult hunter and vampire in one—just put Arthur in a car and drive off wherever she wants, with their money? For the first time, I wondered why she continued living under the same roof as Vladimir, playing at being a family. Yet Violetta discussed the university openly and sincerely with Dasha, like an ordinary schoolgirl experiencing the stages of growing up for the first time. It was surprising how Viola’s usual coldness and restraint gave way to something new and warm in her interactions. Either she was perfectly playing the role life gave her, or she genuinely imagined what it would be like to dream of leaving the vicious circle of Kserton’s mystical underworld and finally enter the stage of adulthood, where you can rely only on yourself. “We are born and die alone,” someone great once said. But if death is the gift denied to you because of your heritage, then what? At what point does growing up end, and life becomes a monotone canvas where there’s no room for new things, and the old presses down like a stiff boot?

Inside the pizzeria, everything remained as I remembered, except for the waitress greeting the guests. She hardly resembled Galina; she seemed like her complete opposite: instead of light strands, her thick hair gleamed black like a raven’s wing, and if she had makeup on, it looked so natural that a quick glance could easily mistake it for innate beauty and freshness. The waitress led us into the hall, holding a stack of menus to her chest and gesturing politely to a table in the corner. The very same table where Nik and I had once sat, and my stomach knotted.

“Can we sit over there?” I asked hastily, noticing Diana unwrapping her scarf. “By the window?”

“Of course,” the waitress smiled warmly and placed the menu on the indicated table. I thanked her briefly and slid along the soft seat to the window, trying to stay as far as possible from the area that involuntarily triggered memories. Scenes from the past still brought pain, though not as intense. Sometimes I wondered how Nikita felt. Was everything okay with him? But I quickly reminded myself that Karimov didn’t deserve my concern. Not after he deceitfully planted feelings in my heart that my mind couldn’t reject, even knowing the truth.

“Why do you sigh so sadly?” Diana asked, touching my hand with her cold fingers. “Are you nervous?”

“No, not really. We’re not taking entrance exams. We’ll just go to the university, listen to what they say, and leave.”

“That sounds uninspiring,” Violetta said without looking up from the open menu.

“What can you do,” I said, stretching and picking up the folded brochure to choose a dish. “It is what it is.”

“To be honest,” Dasha joined in, “I’m really nervous. What if they don’t like us? What if we say or ask something wrong?”

“I’ll just sit quietly and listen to what they suggest,” Diana said, radiating confidence. “Anyway, all the important things will be explained, and any specific details can be clarified later with the admissions office.”

“Then why are you even going today?” It was hard to focus on the colorful pictures of pizzas, but curiosity got the better of me.

“I want to see what it looks like inside. Maybe the photos on the website don’t show the place accurately. It’s important for me to know where my classes will take place for the next five years. I’m not ready to accept old rooms with skimpy heating and crumbling plaster here and there.”

“Especially after our school,” Viola added, grimacing as if she had seen far worse places and felt the difference. I could only guess where the other students had studied before returning to Kserton.

Diana suggested ordering two large pizzas for the four of us, and I liked the idea because I couldn’t possibly eat even a small pizza whole. That unpleasant, ticklish feeling inside me persisted and wouldn’t go away. This pizzeria was my personal circle of hell. A place that drained my energy just by existing.

My classmates continued talking about something, but only fragments of their words reached me. I wasn’t listening, absorbed in watching the cars speeding past the window, searching for even a little peace. As if on cue, a dark cherry SUV rushed by and plunged me into a swamp of pain with renewed force. It must have been Nikita’s father returning home from the supermarket, or maybe he was just running errands.

I licked my dry lips and, as if in a trance, tasted the familiar flavor of lemon marmalade. That was exactly how Nik’s kiss had tasted. The memory surfaced—the softness of Karimov’s lips that day and how devilishly tempting it had been to touch them. Again and again, growing bolder each time, giving in more willingly, sinking into his arms. If this love had always been just an illusion, imposed from someone else’s shoulder, then why did my heart clench painfully every time I thought of Nikita?

"Asya, dig in!" Diana’s cheerful voice pulled me back to reality. "Otherwise, we’ll eat everything before you even blink."

I tried to smile, but my cheeks felt tight. My skin pinched unpleasantly. As casually as possible, I grabbed a piece from the plate, trying to act like everything was fine. The stretchy cheese refused to let go of the pizza triangle, following its beloved to the edge of the table like a devoted suitor, where I finally separated the excess with the tines of my fork.

***

Kserton State University literally welcomed us with wide-open doors. It was crowded, like the first day of school on September 1st, only here, in addition to prospective students, there were their parents as well. At the entrance, students smiled at the newcomers and handed out brochures with brief descriptions of popular programs. Everyone seemed happy and content. Seeing Dasha’s excitement, I couldn’t help but want to soak in the atmosphere myself: turning my head, admiring the carved ceiling, smiling at passersby—only my mood after the pizzeria remained as dark as a storm cloud.

I checked my phone and saw that Vladimir hadn’t written or called, which meant my dad still hadn’t woken up, despite the doctor’s assurances. The only comfort was the thought that this wasn’t the first time it had happened to Kostya, which meant the doctor understood what was going on. All I could do was trust and wait, but that was devilishly hard. You can’t switch off anxiety by pressing the right button. A bitter thought crept in—that Kostya couldn’t wake up because of Vladimir—and tried to settle over my mind like a dense fog, blocking the horizon. I should have been thinking about studies and observing, like the other kids, the wide stairs covered with dark green carpet to prevent students from slipping on the marble.

The second floor was crowded. Along the walls were all kinds of stands with printed information about the faculties one could enter. People gathered in groups, looking like local professors. Everyone was, without exception, dressed formally, unlike some applicants who looked like they had just run a half marathon before the event. Dasha tugged Viola toward a woman handing out glossy brochures about the Faculty of Philology. Afraid to wander alone among so many strangers, I trudged after the girls. The woman turned out to be the dean of the faculty and willingly answered Dasha’s questions about the program. I found it interesting to watch their conversation until one of our classmates joined us. Approaching with a couple of tall guys almost on our heels, he nodded at a banner listing graduates who had finished the institute with honors and said:

"Look, overachievers," he snorted and laughed nastily. "They’ve gathered a whole list of useless people."

"Of course they did," one of the guys supported him with a smirk. "Studying philology doesn’t take much brainpower. These sheep can only speak nicely, and after graduation—nothing. No job, no money."

The trio laughed loudly and demonstratively, though their words disgusted me.

"Look, the sheep from our school immediately understood which herd they belong to," one continued, gasping with laughter.

The giggles stopped as soon as Viola turned to the classmates. Under the force of her gaze, you’d hide your head in the sand whether you wanted to or not. Brave only in words, the trio hurried to another stand.

I quickly scanned the hall, reading the names of other faculties, and suggested to Dasha that we go read about the Faculty of Journalism. Judging by the crowd of peers and their parents around it, I thought many were interested in this faculty. Approaching and overhearing other conversations, I got confused. People were discussing which profession would be in demand in ten years: economist or lawyer, and this conversation hardly seemed related to journalism. Before I could figure it out, Violetta took charge. She grabbed Dasha’s hand and told me to follow and not fall behind. Thanks to Viola, the three of us managed to push through the crowd of arguing people and finally reach the stand we were interested in.

No one spoke directly to the professor representing the faculty. She stood with a bored expression behind a high counter and occasionally tapped on her laptop keyboard. Only when we approached closely and politely waited for a free moment did she look up at us expectantly. I greeted her briefly and asked her to tell us about the Faculty of Philology. It turned out it had been opened just this year. The professor had moved to Ksertone from Saint Petersburg and had previously written a culture column for an online publication I had never heard of. She wrote a lot about theater productions, exhibitions, and literary novelties, and I was surprised that being a journalist didn’t mean only writing about, say, scary things. You could choose a niche that interested you and use the same skills to communicate what mattered to you through texts.

The longer she spoke, the brighter her eyes shone. I could feel how much she loved her work, and I wanted to become like her in the future. To not make a mistake and choose the right path, so I could inspire others who were just stepping onto this path.

By the end of the conversation, she handed each of us a folded program with information about courses, entrance exams, and required scores. In addition to standardized test scores, one also had to submit a motivational letter explaining why they wanted to study journalism. In that moment, I felt very excited about the prospect of studying journalism, but writing such an essay could become a problem. If my enthusiasm faded on the way home, it wouldn’t be easy to invent why I wanted to attend this faculty. After a short moment of thought, I reassured myself that I didn’t have to decide immediately. When the university loudspeaker invited all applicants and their parents to the assembly hall, I got busy, quickly grabbed a few more brochures about other faculties just in case, and hurried downstairs with the girls.

As soon as we reached the entrance to the hall, my phone vibrated. I hastily pulled it out of my pocket, hoping for good news, and immediately drooped when the screen lit up—it was another spam email. The triviality threw me off again and dragged me back into my worries, while I should have been focusing on studying and, like the others, observing the assembly hall we had just entered. But my mind had already wandered far away.

My thoughts began to flit again between the three men who had entered my life uninvited and firmly claimed a place for themselves. Driving them away was definitely beyond my power. And could I even stop worrying about my father? Despite all our disagreements, Kostya remained the dearest person to me. I only realized this now, picturing both my mother and father in my mind at the same time. It seemed that under my mother’s roof I had spent most of my conscious life and had only recently flown from the family nest toward the prospects promised by a good school and the local institute. And yet, I worried far more about Kostya’s health than about the fact that Maria was somewhere in the city. We hadn’t spoken since what happened at the Smirnovs’ house, and I wasn’t ready to reach out again. Accepting the fact that my mother secretly plotted behind my back and decided how best to handle her daughter’s uncertain future angered me, even though inside I understood: everything Maria did came from love. In this, my mother and father were alike. They always pretended to know better what was best for me. So why was I angrier at Maria? Or did it just seem that way now, in hindsight, after the last quarrel had shaken my father? Unfortunately, I had no ready answers to my questions.

Dasha dragged us down the aisle to take seats closer to the stage. The cherry-red seats, reminiscent of an old movie theater, stretched in long rows to the right and left of the wide aisle, where groups of seemingly familiar people had gathered. I quickly spotted a few acquaintances from our school but couldn’t recall their names. My circle of friends was basically limited to the Smirnov family and Dasha with Tanya, for good reason. I was afraid to get close to anyone else, lest I place an unsuspecting friend in the crosshairs. Life had already shown me the true face of the creature hidden inside, waiting for the moment when defenses would fall. Who knew whom the long claws would reach for, and, most importantly, whether the victim could survive the encounter? Besides, I was sure that after Tanya’s rumors in school, hardly anyone else would want to be friends with me. Definitely not the girls.

There were enough seats for our group only in the fifth row, and we hurried to take them despite Dasha’s disgruntled protests. Listening to her, it seemed as if all the lucky ones who got seats in the front row would inevitably receive a university scholarship, provided they didn’t forget to nod along with the words of each speaker. Dasha hesitated in the aisle, glancing periodically toward the front of the hall in hopes of finding a better option. Under Viola’s stern gaze, she stopped pacing but asked to leave a seat in the aisle for herself.

"Just in case," she murmured at last, and I only shrugged, letting her go ahead. There was no point even pretending to understand Dasha’s anxiety. In reality, I didn’t just not understand it—I felt oddly irritated by her unusual mood, as if it hovered in the air and infected me. My list of worries was already written over in fine script, so feeling pressure from someone else seemed unbearable. Like a persistent song in my head, a rhythmic tapping sounded—it was Dasha tapping her foot on the floor. I had never noticed this habit before.

Knock-knock-knock. Knock. Knock-knock. And round and round. The tapping stubbornly refused to blend into the multitude of other sounds, no matter how hard I tried to focus elsewhere. Soon, I wanted to press Dasha’s foot to the floor to stop this unbearable torture.

"Asya?" Diana touched my shoulder, and turning, I noticed the concern in Smirnov’s eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Of course," I carefully removed Diana’s hand and placed it on her lap.

"Really? If you want, I can take you home."

"I’m fine," I said, not recognizing my own voice.

The audience quieted as a tall man in a dark blue suit and white shirt stepped onto the stage from behind the curtains. The spotlight reflected off his rectangular glasses, hiding his eyes. Like a TV star, he strode to the wooden podium with a microphone and waved a greeting to the arriving guests. As soon as he smiled, applause broke out from the back rows, which I joined out of politeness rather than respect, as I hardly knew anything about the man on stage. If not for the photographs on the university’s homepage, I would have had to guess his status.

"Good evening, dear friends!" The man, standing at the microphone, spread his arms as if trying to embrace the entire hall. "My name is Pavel Pavlovich Pankratov, and I am pleased to welcome new applicants and their parents to the Kserton State Institute. For the past thirty years, I have served as rector of this, I dare say, outstanding institution. Within our walls, great minds grow strong, and coal turns into diamonds before facing the harsh but fair world."

Pavel Pavlovich’s inspiring speech was interrupted by the loud bang of the heavy door at the hall entrance, followed by a quiet giggle and a hissing sound in the distance. Curious, I, like others, turned toward the source and saw Stanislav and Artur, who hadn’t even had time to check their coats.

"It is very pleasant to see so many inspired and youthful eyes striving for knowledge," the rector continued as the brothers hurried to the empty seats in the back row. "Education at our university rests on three pillars, as the ancients believed, which maintain balance in the world. They are called discipline, mutual support, and order. By joining our institute’s family, applicants will discover new horizons of knowledge and self-realization through the abundance of faculties and programs, which department heads will explain in more detail. But before I leave, I want to announce the following: the doors of my office are always open to those wishing to engage in active and socially beneficial activities aimed at the institute’s welfare. Office hours can always be confirmed with my secretary, Olga Mikhailovna."

Despite his advanced age, the rector descended the steps briskly to applause, buttoned his jacket, and soon sat in his reserved seat in the front row.

While the new speaker waited for a presentation to appear on the screen covering the far wall, I took the opportunity to look for Stas, but even with my werewolf vision, finding Smirnov in the crowd of strangers was difficult. Giving up, I took out my phone and texted him:

A: Where did you leave Rostov?

The two checkmarks indicating the message had been read appeared quickly, but there was no reply. When I stopped waiting and locked my phone, preparing to focus on the economics faculty speech, the phone vibrated.

S: She probably won’t come today.

A: What, did the talk go badly?

S: Something like that. For her, at least.

A: I hope you didn’t eat her? :D

S: That’s more your department now ;)

Stas’s joke sent a shiver down my spine. He would reply too. Well, I started it.

A: How did it go?

S: Not now, okay? I don’t want to recount it in messages.

A: You’re not obliged to tell me anything anyway.

The phone went silent. So we weren’t that close if Stas politely avoided the topic, citing a vague “later.” The sting of distrust bit sharply, like a snake, and I spiraled into thoughts that I had misunderstood everything. What if Stas didn’t value me the way I did him? What if, in his mind, we were never friends, just acquaintances forced together by coincidences and misfortune? In a city where vampires, werewolves, and who knows what else lived among humans, mythical creatures could create a safe circle in which, with some exceptions, they could reveal their true selves. Doomed, never choosing friends. Bound by a chain of birthright and blood. Bastards created by foolish witch magic. I had never looked at friendship with the Smirnov family as inevitability rather than a choice of the heart.

How could I have been so blind? Diana’s kindness, Stas’s care, and even Violetta’s voice of reason had turned from sincerity into mere formal handouts for a weak, frightened girl who was only beginning to discover herself and the true nature of things. It was so bitter that my eyes stung with hot tears. They wanted to spill out at the worst possible moment and in the wrong place. I forced myself to stay seated instead of rushing, out of habit, to the girls’ restroom, simply because I had no idea where it was located in the institute. Like Pavlov’s dog, honestly: the slightest tear, and I would bolt.

Pulling the sleeves of my hoodie down to the tips of my fingers, I gripped the soft, cool fabric. The new tactile sensation calmed me slightly, as if helping to cool the fire inside, but it was still not enough to soothe my soul.

"He doesn’t love you," Kaandor whispered in my ear, and I flinched, not expecting the creature to return. "And he never will."

"You don’t know that," I murmured, barely moving my lips, hoping it would be enough for my dark companion, but instead, I drew the attention of Violetta and Diana, who immediately turned to me, frowning.

"Did you say something?"

"No," I lied, and Diana scrutinized my face even more closely. Kaandor laughed sharply in my subconscious, turning my sadness into rage, making my hands itch to run along the flawless concrete walls of the hall, painted in a pleasant powdery shade.

"There is no sadder tale in the world than the song of a she-wolf’s unrequited love for Nosferatu," Kaandor said in an intentionally theatrical tone, and I was ready to swear that he had begun to waltz inside the prison of my mind, which had forever locked him in, as I hoped, without a chance to materialize.

"Tick-tock, tick-tock," he said cheerfully.

"Ow!" My claws pricked my skin painfully, and the people nearby turned toward me. Their displeased faces demanded to know why I was disturbing the presentation, seeing only an ordinary high school girl before them, and I forced a smile, quietly muttering, "Sorry, sorry."

In horror, I realized that another wave of attention was about to sweep over me in the crowded hall, and, of course, I was in the front rows.

"Our institute has a philology faculty, as well as journalism, for those who want to work with the power of words," the presenters continued, and my inner thoughts were interrupted by Dasha, who sat up straight and moved to the edge of her chair, trying to be closer to the stage. Her future looked clear and simple. I even envied her, understanding that every victory of hers had been earned through sleepless nights with textbooks and flawless completion of assignments. Her intelligence and knowledge were the result of effort, not innate talent or a special memory. Dasha’s perseverance impressed me, and at the same time, I wondered: how would she have acted if she were in my shoes? Would she still pursue her carefully planned path, perhaps one she had charted as early as fourth grade? I would never know the answer, simply because, fortunately for Dasha, she would never face the chain of changes that had fallen to me. If only someone could truly understand me and serve as an example—but even my father could not. Neither he nor Denis Drozdov could. They knew about the legacy that haunted the family. They had time to prepare for changes, which could pass them by or be inherited. The news fell on me like a snowball, sweeping me far from my familiar life and leaving hope behind.

"In addition to the exam results, applicants to these faculties must write a motivation letter and come to write an essay on a given topic within a limited time. The schedule will be posted on the university website no later than a month before the planned date," the presenters continued.

"You can’t get rid of what is already part of you."

"Shut up!"

"Miss, what do you think you’re doing?" a woman in the chair in front of me exclaimed in indignation. Instantly reacting, Viola grabbed the collar of my hoodie and forced me to stand, hastily trying to lead me out of the hall. She pushed me toward the aisle along the wall, and each touch reverberated inside me like a heartbeat:

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump.

A dark haze clouded my eyes, but I tried to stay steady. Stepping forward grew harder with every move. I feared that a misstep would make me fall on some of the applicants, and who knew where a claw might strike.

Just don’t hurt anyone. Just don’t hurt anyone, I kept repeating to myself, trying to drown out Kaandor’s gleeful tirades as he reveled in my weakening will.

My phone vibrated, and in a moment of clarity, I unlocked the screen, hoping to see a message from Vladimir: if only my father could come to his senses right now, when I so desperately needed another werewolf by my side. Mentally, Kostya might not understand the choices and reconciliation with his daughter’s natural nature, but Dad knew better than anyone what could keep the beast inside. I would have given anything for someone to be there with me safely—even if there was a risk of turning into a dog without the chance to revert. Better a kennel than hands in blood, especially when it involves loved ones.

Viola and Diana risked themselves trying to get me through the long hall to the frosty winter air. But instead of a saving message from my father or Vladimir, I saw a notification that the phone was back in network coverage, followed by a message from Stas, which should have arrived back in the hall but, for some unknown reason, came only now:

S: "Alright, don’t sulk like that. I can see everything from the back row. So, Tanya and I talked, and I explained again that I’m not looking for a serious relationship. She thought there was love between us, can you imagine? Complete nonsense))) I’m too young to play games like that. I don’t need anyone. Especially 'forever and ever.'"

The doors to the street swung open, and the wind hit my face. Tiny flakes of snow stung my cheeks like a slap, along with the last sentence from the message.
"Nobody needs me," spun in my head, and a sharp pain pierced between my shoulder blades, as if someone had gently thrust a knife into my back, then twisted the blade several times, savoring the process.

"She needs to be taken away," Viola grabbed me by the waist and headed toward the parking lot. "And fast."

"I’ll do it," Diana intercepted my hand, and for a moment I noticed Violet frowning disapprovingly.

"You're not a hunter," Viola tried to say as gently as possible, and it was clear how much effort it cost her to change her tone, just not to accidentally offend Diana.

"Let her be. She's my friend."

"Not the right time for heroics. What will you do if she tries to turn on you in the car like last time, only this time she succeeds?"

Diana’s face twitched ever so slightly, as if the risks Smirnova was ready to embrace without hesitation hadn’t occurred to her before.

"I’ll walk," I offered an alternative, seeing the forest nearby. It was good that there were so many patches of forest everywhere in Kserton where locals didn’t go. Perhaps that was why my father had spent his entire conscious life here: unable to avoid his turning, he ran into the forest. Quite convenient, when you think about it.

"Not a chance," Viola snorted and zipped up her jacket when the university doors opened. The more you act like a normal person, the longer your secret stays safe.

But first Arthur appeared in the doorway, and behind him, Stas—whom I least wanted to see right now.

"Fine, you win," I said quickly, just wanting to get out of there and avoid talking to unsuspecting Stanislav. He shouldn’t see what state I was in. I didn’t have the energy to invent any remotely convincing excuse to explain my sudden mood change around him, so the only option left was to run away cowardly, holding onto Diana’s hands.

"Let’s go. Quickly."

No persuasion was needed. Brushing my bangs from my eyes, Diana walked briskly toward the car, pulling me along. She even opened the passenger-side door and waited for me to sit before closing it, as if afraid I might change my mind at the last second and bolt into the forest.

But behind my impulsive offer, the downsides of my plan were actively forming in my mind. After all, this forest was right next to the institute, packed with young talents who would be easy prey if Kaandor took the upper hand over me. I couldn’t allow that, though the temptation to unleash the power that made my fingertips burn was strong. To give in to temptation and see what would happen, remembering Denis’s stories. If Maria hadn’t bound my power with a spell before birth, would I speak of the wolf side the same way Denis did? I fear I’ll never know, and I can only wonder how life might have turned out if I had trusted nature from the start, rather than following someone else’s path against my own essence.

***

Diana decided to avoid the main road and drove along the sparsely populated roads next to the forest. It was completely dark now, and aside from the headlights, there was nothing to light the way. That actually worked in our favor: if things got out of control, no random onlooker would see what was happening inside the car.

I stared into the darkness outside, trying to make out the landscape for some distraction, but all I could see was a dark veil with the occasional tree branch. My vision sharpened again, but not enough to discern finer details. Only thanks to the pristine white snow—which under the cover of night looked indigo—I could make out the trees, set in a checkerboard pattern. It created the illusion that the snow spread evenly for hundreds of meters, and unlike the locals, it had nothing to hide—come and see. Everything laid bare.

A deceptive safety, designed to lure an unsuspecting traveler into its territory and lead them inward. To throw them off course and leave them to fate, testing whether luck would be enough to get out alive. If a person didn’t get completely lost, there was always the risk of encountering a mythical creature. Now I understood that for certain. How many unfortunate souls had gone missing after meeting someone like me? Official statistics probably didn’t exist. Although maybe Kostya kept count. I wondered if my father ever killed people while turning into a wolf—and if he did, how he continued living with it.

I shuddered at my own thoughts, imagining the bewildered eyes of a lost stranger. What if someone wandered into the forest on a full moon? How would the wolf behave, the one that replaced my rational self, when confronted alone with a traveler? I knew too little about the future. I had no confidence that a werewolf would not harm an ordinary person. And could anyone give me that confidence?

"You’ve gotten really quiet," Diana broke the silence in the car. I rubbed my temples tiredly and turned to my friend.

"Sorry. I keep thinking about what might happen if I break. If I can’t hold back and let the beast loose. Back at your house, I only partially gave in to Kaandor’s will. You saw what came of it."

"Are you worried that if you fully transform, you won’t be able to control yourself?"

I nodded.

"Kostya talks about the need to transform so often, but in practice, so little becomes clear."

"Want to share?" Smirnova asked evenly, as if she had never imagined I could harm anyone.

"I don’t even know," I started biting my lip unconsciously, searching for the right words. "Probably yes, more than no. You know that feeling when speaking your fears aloud makes them start coming true? And there’s no going back. On the other hand, I don’t really have anyone to talk to about it, except Kostya. I see Denis so rarely, though his explanations always make more sense. It’s like he lives in complete balance with his inner nature, perfectly suited to it, like a custom-tailored coat."

"Does Konstantin already know about your fears?"

I shook my head.

"Don’t you think Kostya is exactly the person who could understand you like no one else? Dispel your doubts, calm you down. He’s your father and would surely do anything to help you."

A smirk stretched across my lips. I doubted anyone could truly understand me, considering all the changes Kaandor had gone through due to Dr. Smirnov’s intervention at my mother’s behest. No one, not even I, could know for sure how my spirit-wolf differed from the others. Could it ever become what it was originally meant to be? I wanted to know, but no one could give guarantees, and that made it even harder to accept. Kaandor had always been different around me, silent with some companions on some days, warning of danger on others. He was playful and cheerful, yet teased when it wasn’t appropriate. I had never tried sitting down to talk with him face to face, and perhaps that was what I should have done earlier. Now, trying to maintain balance on a razor’s edge, it was too late.

It’s a shame that good ideas always come too late.

"Since that Halloween night, none of my conversations with Kostya have calmed me. Every time the topic comes up, we start arguing."

"At least your father tried," Diana said with a hint of sadness, and it seemed to me that Smirnova deeply missed conversations with her own father. I could only guess at the family issues hidden under the roof of the old house-museum. One thing I was certain of: Vladimir was strict with his household, and Diana was afraid to speak even a single word—let alone contradict him. Gentle and sensitive, she possessed an underrated twenty-first-century gift: to see the pain in people’s hearts and sweeten it with a spoonful of honey, just to make it hurt less, if only temporarily.

"And I understand that. Truly, I do. It’s just that for him, this whole werewolf thing is a phase long past. A mundane inconvenience he has long since accepted and learned to live with. Nothing is new to him. Everything has its recipe, its recommendation. Filtered, emotionless. Listening to him, it seems nothing could be simpler or more normal, yet inside me everything tears apart at the thought of revealing a new side of my inner self. This side feels like a time bomb implanted deep under the skin, and you had no idea. There’s a bitter taste of deception in it."

"Maybe that’s exactly what worries you?"

"What ‘that’?" The car climbed the entrance ramp to the highway.

"That your parents hid the family secret from you."

Yes, there was no doubt. I was angrier at Maria than at Kostya for this very reason. Yet it wasn’t only the withholding of truth that repelled me whenever I genuinely wanted to sit down and talk to my family. I searched for a reason and could not find it within myself. My inner voice babbled so quietly and incoherently it sounded more like white noise than a complete thought. Alongside the words grew an unpleasant sensation. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine it. In my mind, a vague image appeared: countless thin lines, twisting, striving toward the center of the canvas. The longer I watched the movement, the more clearly I discerned in the shifting lines the slender bodies of young snakes. In search of warmth, they coiled into clusters, creating intricate connections within, until it became impossible to tell where one began and another ended.

A pulsating knot of pain. My pain. How could I restore the fragile trust in this new, unfamiliar world?

"Everything is so confusing," I finally replied. "Can I open the window?"

"Yes, of course."

I pressed the button, and the glass slowly descended. The crisp winter air rushed into the car, cooling my mind. I closed my eyes and tried to dissolve into the moment, to merge with the flow of wind, to become just as light. But it didn’t work. There could be no peace until I faced the beast hidden deep inside, waiting for its time.

"I talked to my father this morning. Vladimir thinks you’re on the path to healing, like Mom and Nikita, but we can both see that isn’t the case," she said, glancing away from the road and giving a quick nod toward my claws. "If you want, I could…"

Diana bit her lip, as if the words had slipped out without thinking.

"Could what?"

"Give you my venom. Right now," Smirnova said sharply, and despite the dim lighting in the car, I could swear Diana had blushed.

"Do you think that’s a good idea?" A flicker of doubt crept into my mind. Until today, the venom sometimes helped dull the changes, to restrain the spirit inside, but I also knew it altered Kaandor.

"Honestly? I don’t know. But what other options do we have? I can take you as far as I can from crowds of people, but I am powerless against the transformation. Even though I stood confidently next to Viola, she’s right: I can’t oppose the essence inside you alone."

"Then why did you agree if you understood?" Diana’s frank words only made the tension thicker. The deceptive calm her presence brought dissolved without a trace, returning me to the thought that Smirnova herself was in danger while I was near her, trapped in this box of plastic and metal. I should have listened to Viola instead of getting into Diana’s car.

Diana gripped the wheel tighter and pressed the gas.

"Because I don’t want things to end badly. Viola can defend herself far better than I can. If necessary, she could, for the family’s safety, turn everything around into ruins with one spell. But that’s the problem: I can’t be a hundred percent sure she won’t accidentally hurt you, weighing the pros and cons. Viola might decide you’re too dangerous, and then I’d lose you."

"I’m glad you care about me, but that’s no reason to put your own head under the guillotine!" I snapped, realizing how readily Diana was willing to sacrifice herself if fate had a painful lesson waiting around the corner.

The tips of my fingers burned with a surge of energy. Under my skin, it itched, and I tried to straighten my fingers, tensing them fully—but it didn’t help. My claws grew longer, and I realized—this was a bad, very bad sign.

"I’m not putting my head under anything! What if the venom really helps? It’s the only way we have right now," Diana said before I could answer, opening her mouth to reveal sharp fangs. Vampire fangs. She pressed the pad of her thumb against one tooth and gave a quiet gasp. The pearlescent liquid glowed like neon and trickled down her skin, disappearing under the sleeve of her jacket.

"Let’s start small," Diana said, holding her hand out to me, offering me the liquid to lick. It didn’t look particularly aesthetic, but the shimmering venom drew me in. It called to me, demanding contact, and for the first time, I wondered what vampire venom might taste like. Before, it had been injected directly into my muscles; now, I had the chance to take it in a completely different way.

"Come on," Diana urged. "Stop hesitating, or it’ll seep under the skin."

I looked closely and did see how the thin lines, more like a web, spread out, breaking the outline and being absorbed under Diana’s skin. Fearing the venom might be limited, I carefully took her hand, gently clasping her wrist with my fingers, and with the tip of my tongue began to draw the viscous liquid. I noticed no flavor at first, just touching her cold skin, but once I swallowed the first portion and moistened my tongue with saliva, multicolored sparks flickered before my eyes, and a wave of new sensation washed over my consciousness.

It was so pleasurable that I wanted more immediately, to make sure the effect came from Diana’s venom and not something else, something unknown to me, unformulated in the halls of my mind. I couldn’t fully extend Diana’s palm, so I plunged my thumb into my mouth briefly, collecting the rest. The salty taste was so intense I wanted to wash it away with water, but alongside it came a thirst. My throat constricted, like a barbed wire scraping painfully across soft flesh, bringing both pain and pleasure. Breathing became difficult, and the lights before my eyes began a wild dance, making it impossible to focus on anything around me. With effort, I managed to inhale. Not even a second passed before my head was intoxicated by the metallic salty smell. Could it really smell like that in a car?

"Asya, what’s wrong? Do you feel worse?" I felt Diana ease off the gas and smack her lips, and the scent in the car grew even stronger.

"What…," I began slowly, words struggling to form, "does this… smell like?"

My neck stiffened. I wanted to turn to Diana, but I had lost control over my own body. Waves of power spread beneath my skin. My bones hummed, and then I fully realized that I was changing right here, in the car. Through the low hum, I heard Diana sniff loudly, trying to identify the source of the smell:

"Oh, that? I cut my finger by accident while squeezing the venom. Nothing, it’ll heal soon."

"Nothing," I muttered.

My breathing faltered. I tried to breathe as little as possible, just to avoid inhaling the intoxicating scent again. Damn Diana and her ideas. With each second, my anger at Smirnova grew, not understanding why she even agreed. My spine cracked like peanut shells, and I jerked in shock. My gaze slid over her smooth white skin, catching on the protruding veins on Diana’s neck. I could hear my blood quicken its pace, circulating through my body. Soon, another sound joined it, like a rapid tapping in the distance.

Knock-knock.

Knock-knock.

Only by forcing myself did I realize that it was the rhythm of Diana’s heart. It was calling me. Commanding me to touch it, like the neon liquid, wanting to merge with the creature inside me. Kaandor must have been rubbing his hands together in his cell, anticipating the feast, suspiciously silent. I was sure that any moment now, the dark companion would burst out and consume Diana completely. Devour the offense with the slightly sweet flesh of my best friend.

"Stop the car," I croaked as soon as I realized what was happening. "STOP THE CAR!"

It took an incredible effort to force myself to look away. I stretched my hands in front of me and lowered my head to my knees. I slammed my fingers into the dashboard with force. The plastic felt so soft that my fingertips sank deeper and deeper, as if there were no barrier at all.

Diana touched the switch, and the quiet clicks of the turn signal came. The car swerved to the right and gently stopped.

A scraping sound of skin against skin: Diana shifted the gear. Only then did I allow myself to spring into action. I had to get out of the car—and fast. Flustered, I unbuckled my seatbelt and, losing all sense of myself, pushed the car door open.

My legs carried me into the forest; I sank into the deep snow and broke its virgin smoothness—no human foot had stepped here. I had to get out of there. Far from Diana. Far from her blood. The life-giving liquid that filled Smirnova’s body was calling me, and even if only for a moment, the idea of giving in to the sweet promise didn’t seem so bad. Was that even possible? Did werewolves need blood too, or was it the venom I had been taking for the past month?

Suddenly, the forest opened, and I emerged onto a narrow patch before gray residential buildings. Along the edge of the snow-cleared sidewalk, cars were tightly parked. I couldn’t go back, so I continued in an unknown direction, not knowing when I would stop. Only one thing mattered: to get as far from Diana as possible until this damn feeling passed.

Knock-knock. Knock-knock.

No! Could she be chasing me?

Knock-knock. Knock-knock.

"Don’t come closer!" I shouted as loudly as I could, hoping Smirnova would obey.

I circled the nearest building, went into the inner courtyard, and caught sight of an illuminated street sign: Admiralteyskaya Street, building 23. The heavy iron door of the nearest entrance was invitingly open. Without slowing down, I headed there. Someone had wedged a piece of concrete slab in the gap between the metal frame and the ground, preventing the door from closing. Hurriedly, I kicked it away, denying Diana the chance to follow, and slipped inside. Behind me came a deafening crash.

Knock-knock. Knock-knock.

I ran up the stairs, skipping every other step, grabbing the railing to push myself upward. First floor, second, third. Faster, higher.

Knock-knock.

The sound seemed quieter. Reaching the top floor, I found a door made of thin metal bars. A heavy lock hung on it, threaded through a narrow ring near the handle. I pulled—it was locked. What now? I couldn’t let anyone see me. Not now. Not in this state.

Knock.

I gripped the lock with my palm and squeezed hard. The shiny silver loop snapped.

Run! Run up to the roof!

Two flights just like the rest of the building, followed by a steep, rusty staircase with narrow steps. When I finally overcame the last obstacle, I was on the roof. I closed the door behind me and pressed my back against it, ready to resist until the end, just to keep the uninvited guest away. No one could reach me from the roof, and the heavy metal door was a perfect barrier between predator and prey.

The air turned to steam with each breath, but I didn’t feel the cold. My body was so hot from the recent sprint that it could have warmed a room.

Only upon reaching the top could I catch my breath. Exhaustion overwhelmed me, and tears welled up, either from the wind or sheer despair.

A crunch sounded, and my legs buckled. I collapsed onto the cold surface, fingertips brushing a rough yet soft coating. It seemed that if I pressed harder, the surface would give way like sand, enveloping bone in the form of a thousand tiny spheres.

I lifted my head to the sky, letting the tears flow, and before a veil clouded my eyes, I saw the clouds part beautifully, revealing a full moon in the sky. Full moon. Of course.

Another crunch made my spine arch. Everything happened so suddenly that my head instinctively dropped toward the floor. I saw blackness of the roof beneath me and what had once been my hands—now extended from my shoulders were the paws of a beast. The gust of wind stirred my thick fur. Moonlight shimmered across it with every movement.

Crunch.

Father had warned me. I should have stayed home. At the doorstep, I hadn’t heard anything clearly, lost in thoughts about other problems. How ridiculous. And when did the important become so secondary? Tell me in the rector’s hall that I would never get into Kserton State—this wouldn’t have hurt as much as four short words in a message from Stas: "I don’t need anyone." Just like that. I wished I could say the same, but you can’t fool your heart. It was already full of pain from mistakes that followed one after another, leaving no respite.

"I’ll say it for you," Kaandor said, and the walls of the prison collapsed to the ground in a thousand shards, reflecting the perfect round disk of the Moon.

Chapter Text

It was strange to watch what was happening from my own body and not be able to stop it. Kaandor was charging full speed through the forest, occasionally brushing low branches of fluffy fir trees with his fur. It was lucky that we both had long, thick fur: the sharp needles slid off without touching the skin. His paws struck the icy crust, shattering it like delicate caramel on crème brûlée. The view jumped up and down, echoing the jumps that Kaandor needed to avoid sinking into the loose snow. The rush of wind carried the faint hum of cars, gradually fading, and I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that my dark companion was heading deeper into the forest.

Good. The further we got from people in this form, the better.

Suddenly, the trees parted. Kaandor climbed a hill in the heart of the forest and paused to listen. The city sounds in the distance reached us clearly, as if Kaandor could focus on and isolate only the ones he wanted. The spirit made me take a deep breath. He was searching for something, skillfully using all his senses to make it easier. One scent replaced another, as if Kaandor was sifting through thousands of familiar smells until he found the right one—and soon he did. I realized it by the way he surged forward on all fours.

We ran for a long time through the forest until we burst onto a road. A bright flash blinded my eyes. Tires screeched, followed by the sound of impact. But Kaandor didn’t care. He kept running toward a barely perceptible scent that meant nothing to me, unlike the spirit.

As long as Kaandor had control over our shared body, I could feel emotions inside me that weren’t mine and tried to recognize them. Inside, my dark companion didn’t speak with me using primitive words that he deemed too simple. Instead, he opened his soul and allowed me to touch what was eating him from the inside.

Kaandor knew how to hate. Not me, but something inside, a thread connecting us invisibly, which poisoned our bond and caused him pain. He had decided to end it. And he planned to do it today. Once and for all.

The landscape barely changed as we ran. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed several fallen trees. The fir forest gave way to bare trunks of tall pines. For some reason, I felt a strange sense of recognition here, a hint that we were close.

Without slowing down, Kaandor coiled, pushed off the ground with all his strength, and leapt over the edge of an ugly fence. Contrary to my expectations, his paws sank softly into the snow, cushioning the landing. It was already dark, but I could still make out the house we had reached. The Smirnov house. From this angle, Nikita and I had once looked at it in autumn. A soft taste of lemon candy touched my lips, tempting me to lick them, recalling a kiss, but Kaandor didn’t allow it. He offered something better: to taste revenge. To bring peace by inflicting pain on the one who set off the chain of events that had been spinning in my head, making life harder and more unbearable with each day.

I would never have thought that revenge could be so sweet. Kaandor loosened his grip, letting me move on my own, like a toddler learning to walk. His support was so tangible that I believed in myself and carefully started stepping onto the untouched snow. My fingertips were slightly numb from standing still for so long.

The victim Kaandor had chosen stood with their back to me, in a clearing inside the property, unaware. From my wolf’s-eye view, I watched the vampire through the sparse branches, almost completely hidden. In my head, my father’s voice repeated like a mantra:

"Stay hidden. Wait for the moment. Prepare yourself. Jump."

I wanted to do what Kaandor offered me. I wanted to inflict the same pain that had once been done to me. To pour out everything that had happened onto the guilty one and finally let it go. To allow myself to live on and accept the Asya I had become now.

Nik is here, in front of me. My new sense of smell catches every nuance of his scent, telling me where Karimov has been recently. The smell of gasoline cut through the brightness of wet black soil, forget-me-not pollen, and orange juice. I concentrated, trying to recognize the final aroma. It was him—lemon candy.

My heart clenched painfully, like a shard from the past stuck inside me, one that no doctor could ever pull out of my chest.

I loved him exactly as much as I hated him. And if the first had brought nothing good into my life, the second had a fair chance.

No matter how hard I tried to push thoughts of Nikita away, they always resurfaced during the day. I would never be able to forgive what he had done. Time might allow me to accept Maria’s mistakes, Kostya’s mistakes, but not his. Like a scab, he would always remind me of himself. I know it. Kaandor knows it. And it is he who gives me the chance to free myself, once and for all.

Summoning all my self-control, I prepared to leap, until doubt crept in. I aimed straight for the neck. My own thirst reminded me of itself once again. How sweet it was to know that I was about to quench it. One strike—and the story would end before it ever began, just like our romance. How easy and sweet it was to imagine my fangs sinking into the vampire’s firm skin. Somehow I knew this feeling, and I quickly realized that it wasn’t mine, but Kaandor’s.

He had killed vampires before. He knew how it went and saw an enemy in Nikita.

But what if Kaandor was wrong? What if the doctor had really managed to wrap the vampire’s nature in something simple, human?

My doubts only angered Kaandor more. He made me arch my back and shift my weight backward, giving our front paws more momentum for the leap. Once again, I did not control our body.

A moment later, we spring into the air. I leap over Nikita’s head and descend swiftly toward the target. Kaandor opens his jaws, ready to bite.

Nikita turns. My gaze meets his sky-blue eyes, and the last fragments of certainty about what I am doing crumble to dust. Instead of defending himself, Nik wraps me in both arms, and we fall to the ground. I end up on top.

The collar of Nikita’s shirt is open, exposing his neck. Even in the evening darkness, I see a prominent vein beneath the skin, and it beckons me. My throat goes instantly dry. More than anything, I want to sink my jaws into that vein. Tear it open. Let the blood flow. And I don’t know if these are my feelings or Kaandor’s. I don’t want to know.

Nik lies still. When I look at his face, I see neither fear nor worry. He is calm.

Slowly, so I can see, he raises his hand and shows me an open palm. Carefully, Nikita brings it closer, and soon his fingers sink into the fur, touching the skin.

"Everything’s okay," he says softly, smiling gently. "Do what you must."

The end of the second book

Chapter Text

Sometimes, all a person really needs — is for someone else to believe in them.

Vampires, werewolves, and witches in a small Siberian town. Supernatural love and endless tenderness.

Graduation night — a time to dream about the future. But for Asya and her classmates, it becomes a nightmare. Beneath the roof of a luxurious spa resort meant only for friends, the enemy finally reveals their true face.

Everyone is forced to take off their mask — but will Asya have the courage to face the truth? And can she survive the night to discover who will share her own happily ever after?

“Happily Ever After, Book 3” is the final part of a vampire trilogy about love, coming of age, and the clash of two opposites destined to be drawn to each other. Perfect for fans of Stephenie Meyer, Tracy Wolff, Anne Rice, and Richelle Mead.

Being a monster is simple. All it takes is surrendering to impulse.
To remain human—that’s an entirely different story.

Chapter 27. Prologue

I leaned my back against the wall and slid down, drained of strength, until I reached the floor. My palms met the blessedly cool, smooth parquet, grounding me in reality, slowly, step by step. Just a little longer, and the avalanche of tangled emotions would crash down on me, sweeping me off my feet. By sheer force of will, I tried to hold it back—allowing my feelings through in measured doses, struggling to preserve even a fragment of who I used to be. Of who I truly was.

My eyes stung—whether from my own sweat or the enemy’s salty blood, which seemed to be everywhere: splattered across the walls, the charred remnants of velvet curtains, even the high ceiling. How could one body have held so much blood?

A satisfied purr echoed within me—Kaandor. I felt power surging back into his spirit in waves. His inner calm should have washed over me, too, but it didn’t. My gaze clung to the horrifying scene, refusing to let go of the fear. It felt as though if I so much as relaxed for a moment, if I dared to look away, the enemy would rise again and strike the final blow when I least expected it—when I no longer had the strength to fight back.

But he remained motionless, sprawled in a pool of his own blood. Death’s veil had already clouded his gaze, turning his eyes into something lifeless, doll-like, glassy.

My hands began to tremble. I couldn’t believe what I had done.

This was it—the end of the story. I had become what I feared most—a killer. And yet, if I had to choose again, I would do it without hesitation. To save my friends, I would do it again.

A wave of dizziness hit me, and for the first time since the battle, a sickening cramp twisted my stomach, as if something inside me was being wrung out, forcing out the last remnants of humanity I still had left.

“Breathe. Deeper,” Kaandor’s voice echoed in my mind. I obeyed, tilting my head back. My eyes flickered over the scene of my work once more. Just for a moment. It only made things worse.

Focusing on my breath, I tried to pull my mind away, as far as possible from this cursed hall, where the air was thick with heat and salt. But this was nothing like the soothing scent of the sea I remembered from our last holiday together, my father and I. No—this familiar scent filling my lungs with every deep inhale only awakened a searing thirst that burned my throat.

I suppose we won’t be going anywhere together this year. Or the next. Or ever again.

A groan of frustration escaped me, and I squeezed my eyes shut. The sting in them grew sharper, and I instinctively rubbed them with my hand, only to make it worse.

Someone’s touch—gentle, hesitant—brushed my wrist, urging me to stop.

“Wait,” Stas said, his voice roughened, whether by exhaustion or emotion, I couldn’t tell. He carefully pulled my hand away. “You’ll only make it worse.”

I flinched at the unexpected contact, still too wound up from the fight to steady myself. With deliberate care, Stas dabbed at the skin around my eyes, then moved higher, wiping my forehead.

“All done.” He pulled back and sat beside me. Only then did I dare to open my eyes and blink a few times. It actually helped—at least as much as anything could, given the circumstances.

From the far end of the hall, soft footsteps echoed. Someone was approaching, slow and cautious.

My body tensed, instincts flaring, and I started to rise, but Stas’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.

“Easy,” he murmured, running his fingers lightly through my hair, as if afraid to brush against my skin again. “It’s your father.”

“How do you know?”

“Any sane person would have seen the blood from the doorway and run the other way, not come closer.”

Stas hadn’t even finished speaking when my father appeared in the doorway, scanning the room, his pistol raised and ready. His gaze swept over the scene before him, and with a heavy sigh, he lowered his weapon. Running a hand through his hair—now streaked with even more grey—he took it all in.

He looked puzzled, but the fear and alarm that had been so stark in his eyes when he first stepped in slowly faded. His posture eased. I think he was just relieved that I was alive. But that didn’t change the consequences we all now had to face.

My mother entered the hall behind him.

“I have no idea how we’re supposed to explain this to Tatyana’s father,” my father muttered, sliding his pistol back into its holster.

“Here’s an idea—let’s just light the fire again and burn this whole damn place to the ground,” came a voice from the side.

I turned toward it.

Max was sitting on the floor, just as bloodstained as I was. He snapped his fingers, and a flicker of flame danced to life above them.

“Just say the word.”

Chapter Text

My father sped down the narrow, winding road that snaked along the forest’s edge. The cold spring had finally given way to a late-blooming summer, breathing new life into Kserton and its surroundings. The soft caps of snow had long since vanished, along with the anxieties of final exams.

I should have been happy—or at least relieved—since my results had exceeded my modest expectations. But instead, I kept shifting in my seat, restless with unease over the graduation party.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Kostya glanced at me briefly, both hands steady on the wheel.

“I’m still not sure going to celebrate with everyone is a good idea.”

“You’re ready.”

“I’m not ready for anything.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, once again, Asya Chernaya underestimates herself!” Kaandor practically sang into my ear from the back seat, making me jump at the sudden sound of his voice.

“Shut up.”

My father shot me a sharp look, brimming with unspoken disapproval. I hurried to clarify.

“No, no, not you.”

Kostya glanced at the rearview mirror, though he knew full well the spirit wouldn’t show himself.

“Is he messing around again?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, at least someone’s in a good mood today,” my father smirked.

“That’s exactly what worries me,” I muttered, folding my arms and turning toward the window.

The landscape rushing past was oddly soothing. I had always loved how the forest transformed at sunset. In the twilight, colours softened, and the atmosphere turned more mysterious. Birds fell silent, the air shed the chaos of the day, and with every breath, it filled my lungs with tranquility—lulling the world of the living to sleep.

But in truth, peace had long since abandoned these lands.

“What if you and Denis can’t handle things without me?”

“For starters, there’s more than just the two of us on patrol tonight. And besides, we were doing just fine long before you even knew vampires existed—or what you were.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Kserton wasn’t always a contested territory, with multiple ancient clans trying to carve out a piece for themselves.”

My father shrugged.

“It’s a shame, really. Stas’s mother left this world before she could truly experience a simple human life. She was the only one who could keep the other vampire clans at bay. No one would have dared lay a hand on the territory of a true pureblood if she were still alive. Strange, the vampire code of honor, isn’t it?”

He paused for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.

“Olga was a grown woman. She had seen much in her time. It was her family that owned the lumber mill and welcomed the first wanderers here. Kserton was as much her child as any of the Smirnovs. She knew exactly what risks she was taking. I suppose she decided her wards had grown enough, and it was finally time to live for herself. As for Vladimir, I believe that, out of love, the doctor gave his wife a true gift.”

“Gifting your wife a slow, agonizing death with no chance of salvation is a pretty questionable present, don’t you think?”

“I do,” he admitted. “But I also respect Olga’s wishes. Speak well of the dead, or not at all.” His hand brushed over the steering wheel. “Remember that.”

“So, does that mean you’re willing to say something good about Galina just because she’s dead? Need I remind you how she and Gleb kidnapped me, tried to kill me, and came after you?”

My father shot me a disapproving look, gripping the wheel a little tighter.

“Speak well or not at all. In Galina’s case, ‘not at all’ will do just fine.”

I had nothing to say to that, so silence settled over us again. Only my growing unease remained, gnawing at me from the inside. I worried for my father and for Denis, who had become a good friend after six grueling months of training together. If anything happened to either of them while I was off dancing at prom or soaking in the spa complex owned by Rostova’s father, I would never forgive myself.

The car slowed as we turned past a hedge of tall shrubs, their dense greenery stretching inward to shield the hotel grounds from prying eyes. The construction of Tatyana’s father’s spa complex had only recently been completed, and the Rostovs were ready to welcome their first guests—us.

I had been skeptical when the principal first announced that our graduation celebration would take place there. I just couldn’t picture us in fancy dresses with traditional graduate sashes, awkwardly loitering around a hammam or standing like mannequins around a pool. The idea of prom in a spa resort baffled me—not just me, actually. But most of my classmates and their parents quickly set aside their doubts the moment the principal mentioned that the spa was more of a hotel complex, where we’d get to spend almost a whole week, fully paid for by a very generous, anonymous benefactor.

Of course, no one had the slightest clue whose father had actually sponsored the whole thing, given that the principal had carefully kept the name secret. Right. Sure. Tatyana just miraculously avoided expulsion after spreading rumors about me. The scandal quietly died down, and she even delivered a public apology over the school PA system—reading off a script in the driest, most detached voice possible, as if someone had handed her a pre-approved statement designed to satisfy my thirst for justice while saving Rostova’s ass.

After everything that happened on open house day, I already had more than enough problems and barely any energy left to deal with them. Waging war against the school’s self-proclaimed queen just seemed… boring.

Had I forgiven Tanya? No. But over the past few months, we’d at least learned to ignore each other, keeping up appearances for the sake of our mutual friend—Dasha.

“Did you pack a swimsuit?” my father changed the subject.

“Of course.”

“And a dress for the graduation ball?”

I hesitated for a moment.

When I first considered moving to Kserton, this day had been one of the deciding factors on my list of pros. I had dreamed of spending my final year in school differently, of experiencing prom without the pressure of classmates mocking my values just because they didn’t align with theirs. But my plan to shed the “black sheep” label had failed spectacularly.

Yes, I had made friends. Kserton had brought me closer to my roots, revealing long-buried family secrets. And, unexpectedly, it had reunited my parents in the same town, so I no longer had to split myself between two places, searching for a home.

But every happy memory I had was tainted by the dark underbelly of the magical world. And my heart bore wounds that would likely never fully heal.

“I packed it, but I’m not sure I’ll actually need it.”

“Let yourself have fun for once. Just for a day! You’re still so young.” My father shook his head in frustration.

“If I let my guard down, even for a moment, Kaandor will start enjoying himself too.”

"You are mistaken if you think I could ever do anything your soul does not already crave," my dark passenger whispered.

I didn’t answer.

The debate over who was in control of this body had been going on for so long that it now felt as eternal as the world itself. My life had split into a before and after the day my father’s legacy was unleashed, when the seal binding it had been broken, and I had met the spirit of the beast inside me.

Kaandor often liked to compare himself to a mirror during our late-night conversations. He claimed there was no real difference between us—except for how he made decisions in an instant, mistaking my fleeting impulses for the true desires of my heart and rushing to fulfill them. That was where my problems began.

I felt things too deeply, too vividly. And sometimes, my emotions burned so hot that they conjured living, moving images before my eyes. In those visions, not all the characters were kind to one another.

Because just as light and warmth lived within me, so did darkness.

Maybe other people experienced something similar. But in my case, my dark side had a dangerous flaw—it took any fleeting, violent thought as a direct order, like a student following a lab manual to the letter.

“And anyway,” I continued, narrowing my eyes at my father, “where does your sudden sense of calm come from? You’re really not worried I might attack Diana again? Or Arthur? Or worse, what if I lose control around a human this time?”

For a split second, Kostya’s expression turned serious. A shadow of worry flickered in his eyes—brief, but I caught it. Still, he brushed the concern aside, doing his best to project confidence.

Oh, Dad. If only I could believe in myself the way you do.

“You’ve learned a lot in the past six months,” he tried to reassure me. “If I thought you weren’t ready, that you couldn’t handle it, someone else would be patrolling with Denis instead. You’ve trained hard, strengthened your bond with your spirit. And there hasn’t been a single incident at school all year—that alone says a lot.”

I let out a short, dry laugh.

“There haven’t been any incidents because I barely interact with anyone.” I folded my arms. “I doubt anyone’s even expecting me at prom.”

“Well, you do talk to Diana and Dasha.”

“Yeah, but only a little, and only at school. Most of the time, they only visit when you’re around. That’s not the same.”

“And whose choice is that?” he asked. “No one’s stopping you from leading a double life, Asya.”

“You know exactly what’s stopping me.”

Blood.

A single drop was enough to drive me mad. Enough to shatter the fragile balance between my human heart and the beast’s hunger.

“Don’t tell me you stuffed your suitcase with books and plan to spend the entire week locked in your room.”

“I Kostya tore his gaze away from the road and cast me a sidelong glance, one that clearly conveyed a single word: seriously?

"Two books for Dasha, I swear. And only one—for me."

"With your appetite for reading, one book for a whole week is hardly enough. Alright, I’m reassured."

Since my father seemed satisfied with this answer, I decided not to clarify that Dasha and I had agreed to exchange a few novels from our personal collections, and she had promised to bring something for me to the spa retreat as well. I had long wanted to read a fantasy novel about the fae, while Dasha was eager to explore the works of Emily Brontë. I could have simply picked up something suitable at a bookshop, but there was no guarantee that Dasha hadn’t already read it—meaning we wouldn’t be able to discuss the story afterwards.

The pages of novels carried me far beyond the boundaries of reality, granting me at least a brief respite from my troubles. Sometimes, however, even during reading, reality would peer over my shoulder, making loud comments on a particular passage, forcing me to pause and mutter, ‘Kaandor, shut up.’

My dark companion took a keen interest in everything that captivated me, though I wasn’t sure whether his curiosity was genuine or simply a consequence of our inescapable bond—one that severely limited his ability to seek out his own diversions. Without me, his anchor, he could not roam freely across the earth. Not that it seemed to bother him much.

We drove a little further before my father turned onto a long, paved road, guiding the car slowly forward until we were met by an ornate wrought-iron gate, its intricate lines forming an elaborate design. Looking closer, I realised that the bars had been shaped into flowers with pointed leaves and clustered petals—one large bloom in the centre encircled by five smaller ones, giving the impression of a star-shaped core.

Above the gates, a bright woven banner fluttered in the breeze, its inscription reading:

WELCOME TO THE EDELWEISS GARDEN

My father gave two short beeps of the horn and waited. The gates obediently swung open, allowing us to enter.

A little further on, the living fence gave way to an open view of the resort grounds, and the sight before me took my breath away. To the left of the road stretched an endless meadow, wildflowers swaying in the golden glow of the setting sun. It was a mesmerising riot of colour, yet at the same time, it served as a quiet reminder of how quickly the sun could burn if one strayed too close.

"Here we are," Kostya declared in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone, as if trying to lift my spirits. "Just one more week, and school will be nothing but a memory."

"Yeah…" was all I managed to say, as anxiety crept through me like a slow, spreading tide.

There was no way this trip was going to end well.

Chapter Text

We spent what felt like an eternity winding through the resort grounds, constantly taking wrong turns, which drove my father absolutely mad. Just like in the old days, he started muttering curses under his breath whenever the car ended up in yet another dead end. Then, with an exaggerated huff, he would slam the gear shift into reverse, trying to navigate us back to the main road.

‘The layout here is a disaster. They could’ve at least put up some signs,’ he grumbled louder this time as he turned to check the rear view. ‘Oh, for—damn it!’

He hit the brakes hard, jolting me forward in my seat. If not for my seatbelt, I would’ve definitely smacked my forehead against the dashboard. A bruise right before graduation—how delightful.

A car horn blared behind us. Annoyed, I twisted around, fully prepared to glare at the cause of all this trouble—only to lock eyes with a painfully familiar gaze.

My stomach dropped.

Stan didn’t waste any time—he was already standing right by my father’s car. I hurriedly glanced around, checking to see if there were any witnesses who might find it odd that the driver of a luxury sedan had, in the blink of an eye, somehow moved from behind the wheel to our car. Satisfied that we were alone, I shot him a look he very much deserved.

Stan, however, merely stretched his lips into a soft smile—an unspoken apology for his little mishap. Then he gestured for me to roll down the window.

Fine. If he wanted to hear a few choice words, I was more than happy to oblige.

‘Have all the Smirnovs lost their minds lately?’ I snapped, making my irritation clear. ‘Someone could’ve seen you.’

Stan rested his hands on the door and leaned in, bringing our faces dangerously close.

‘Violetta uses telekinesis on people all the time,’ he said, his breath warm against my skin. ‘I don’t recall you ever scolding her for it.’

‘Viola is a lost cause,’ I retorted.

Stan smirked. ‘Lucky for you she took a different car and didn’t hear that.’

‘Oh, and what would she do? Open a door for me with telekinesis? Because heaven forbid she use her actual hands like a normal person?’

His smile faded. He studied me with a furrowed brow, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

‘You’ve changed.’

I opened my mouth, ready to remind him of the wall I had built between us ever since Kaandor first showed me what it truly meant to be a she-wolf.

But Kostya had run out of patience.

‘Alright, lovebirds, you’ve got a whole week to chat,’ my father cut in.

I cringed.

He noticed and rolled his eyes, as if he had to endure scenes like this ten times a day. The reality, though, was that Stan and I had barely spoken since the open day at school.

What was the point in pretending to be friends when my heart had always wanted more?

Once, I had already been burned. Sure, that love had been little more than an illusion, forced upon me by someone else’s will, but the betrayal had stung all the same.

I knew Stan wasn’t looking for anything serious—he never had been, not with me, not with anyone. So why torment myself by playing at friendship when deep down, I would always long for something more?

I didn’t want to rob myself of the chance to meet someone else—to truly fall in love with a person who was actually capable of returning it.

And if my mind and heart remained locked in orbit around Stan, like the moon around the earth, my chances of that ever happening would soon shrink to nothing.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I mustn’t love him, no matter how much I wanted to.

With him, I could be my true self—no masks, no pretending. I didn’t have to hide Kaandor.

My father liked Stan, and for some reason beyond my understanding, Kostya had trusted him from day one, as if he had figured everything out before I had.

But we couldn’t be together.

At least not now, not while we were still so young, with our whole lives ahead of us.

In Stan’s case, perhaps even an eternity.

‘Stan, have you figured out how to get to that bloody main building yet?’

‘Yeah, of course. I’ve already been home twice to grab my things,’ he sighed, running a hand through his overgrown fringe to push it back from his face. ‘Diana still can’t decide which dress to wear to the dance. Looks like she’s bringing them all. Just follow me.’

Before leaving, he suddenly reached out and flicked my nose.

I could swear I had never wanted to rip his head off more than in that moment.

‘See? I still remember how to walk like a normal person,’ he said with a wink, before strolling leisurely back to his car.

I glared after him, already picturing the satisfying moment when I’d give him a good smack upside the head at the hotel—or maybe even bite his head off entirely.

‘That can be arranged,’ a growl echoed in my mind.

‘Kaandor, no!’ I blurted out instinctively.

The spirit only laughed.

He was clearly in a good mood, thoroughly enjoying himself. The real issue was that I could never tell whether his threats were genuine or if he was just messing with me until it was too late.

Not the time for jokes, you idiot.

As if I wasn’t already worried that my emotions might get the best of him and lead to the complete destruction of the spa complex.

I watched Stan carefully, making sure he wouldn’t pull any more tricks.

Once he was in his car, he started off slowly, manoeuvring carefully around my father’s vehicle.

As soon as the road cleared, Dad wasted no time in following him, keeping enough distance to avoid losing sight of him.

After a few more minutes of winding along the resort’s maze-like roads—where I hadn’t spotted a single soul—we finally caught sight of the building we were looking for.

I recognised it immediately—not from any signage, but from the crowd gathered beneath the entrance canopy.

A mix of students stood there, some with suitcases, others with duffel bags, clustered together with their parents.

As we pulled closer, I realised there were too many people.

And worse—some of the faces were unfamiliar.

That struck me as odd.

‘I thought the resort hadn’t officially opened yet? Wasn’t our class supposed to be the first to stay here?’

‘The headmaster never could keep his mouth shut when it came to showing off,’ Dad muttered, eyeing the crowd with evident displeasure. ‘Maria mentioned after the parents’ meeting that a volleyball team from Novosibirsk and a martial arts club are also having their training camps here at the same time as you lot.’

After what had happened in autumn, Mum had decided to stay in Kserton with us.

At first, she stayed with a friend—someone whose name she never mentioned, no matter how subtly I tried to ask.

But by the second month, Kostya had started offering more and more often for her to move in with us.

There was a spare room in the flat, though at the time it was mostly used for Dad’s hobbies—fishing gear, football memorabilia, that kind of thing.

Mum refused for a long while, preferring instead to show up at our door in the mornings, ringing the bell as if it were completely normal to wake everyone up and then waltz into the kitchen to make breakfast.

One morning, she made the mistake of showing up after Kostya had finished a night shift.

He was in no mood for games.

Without a word, he shoved a set of keys into her hand, muttering that she could come and go whenever she pleased—but only if she let him have his rare moments of sleep in peace.

I remained the only person in the family who could cook something decent, but Maria didn’t give up trying, and over time, she even managed to make a fluffy omelet and pancakes for breakfast. It was clear she was trying to do something, since she couldn’t save me from my father’s fate, but none of us could oppose destiny or change the decisions that had already been made. All we could do was play the family game, hoping that the mistakes of the past would leave the future in peace.

“And how is this related to the director's bragging?”

“Very simple: the volleyball coach is her husband, and her son is in the martial arts club. You should understand that Tanya almost got expelled from school in her final year because of her mischief. She wouldn’t have been needed at any other school after that, let alone university! Her father did everything to make the director back off and let his daughter live in peace.”

“Do you feel sorry for her? Do I need to remind you that Tanya spread rumors about me?”

Finding a suitable spot, my father began parking the car.

“And not a word she said was true,” he muttered, focusing on the side mirror, “she’s still young, foolish. Hormones are playing tricks on her.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, not believing my ears. Oh, of course, let’s excuse Rostova’s antics. Maybe we should feel sorry for her and forget everything?

“Do you have any idea what I’ve had to go through because of her?”

Kostya frowned.

“But you still talk to her, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I hesitated for a second, not wanting to explain the thousand and one reasons why I still tolerated Rostova’s presence in my life. “But it’s out of necessity. It’s different.”

“The longer you compromise and keep doing things you don’t want to do, the harder it will be to make peace with your conscience later.”

Dad shifted the gear into neutral, pulled up the handbrake, turned off the engine, and unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Let’s go slowly.” He glanced around at the people standing under the canopy. “And why is everyone still outside?”

I didn’t have an answer to Kostya’s question. I got out of the car and walked under the canopy, quickly zipping up my coat to keep warm. The evening weather, for the end of June, was surprisingly cool. The sunset was tinged with red on the horizon, preparing to hand the world over to the night. The feathery clouds grew more transparent, as if a playful boy with a kite was scattering them like a flock of birds far above. The quiet, calm area away from the city tried to immediately inspire trust in the visitors, luring them with atmospheric views, but something inside me resisted being here. Over the past few months, I had become so used to expecting a catch from life that I had forgotten what it was like to just live in the moment.

Dad was walking behind me, rolling a suitcase with the handle extended all the way out. Kostya was almost catching up, scanning the area, as though looking for someone. Suddenly, his surprised gaze stopped to my left, and I quickly turned around: Stas was approaching, holding at least ten garment bags over his arm. Well, Diana really went all out!

“Don’t say anything,” Stas warned before we could shake off the shock and find the right words.

“Oh my God, how much does she need?” I couldn’t help it, and Smirnov glanced cautiously toward the entrance. He could’ve at least hidden it all in the suitcase. “Everyone will see, and they’ll probably be gossiping about it all evening.”

“Is it really so hard, if I ask you to keep quiet, to leave your comments to yourself?” He squinted, still searching for someone among the others waiting, and leaned toward me, speaking more quietly. “If something can cheer up my sister, I don’t care what she asks for: even if she wants me to climb Mount Everest and grow a ton of green apples there. I’ll do it for her. And I don’t care how it looks to anyone else.”

“An apple tree is unlikely to survive that kind of cold,” I said, smiling awkwardly, trying to turn the conversation into a joke, remembering how harsh Stas could get when it came to his family.

“Asya! Stas!” Kostya called to us, already halfway to the entrance. “Are you coming?”

Stas moved toward the others, leaving my last remark uncommented. He didn’t even bother to act like carrying all of Diana’s dresses was heavy, which any regular person probably couldn’t manage, and still walk with such a light stride. But Stas didn’t know this because he had never been human. So many strange things people don’t notice when observing the Smirnov family from the outside: a vampire family, time and again, easily disrupted the normal order of things just by their presence in reality. As the saying goes: if you want to hide something, leave it in plain sight. Perhaps I was being too harsh on the guys, noticing every imperfection in their story, but people really didn’t pick up on the oddities breaking through the fabric of existence. They jumped out at me as a challenge, because now I felt a responsibility to preserve the shared secret: if the world found out about vampires, werewolves and witches would be in danger, and therefore — my entire family. I couldn’t let that happen.

Among the other kids, I immediately spotted Diana under the canopy. She was sitting on a suitcase with a bored look, propping up her chin with one hand, and gazing sadly at the mosaic of small colorful tiles covering the small square beneath the canopy. It was good that there was no rain today.

"Hi," I greeted briefly, and my friend gave a lazy smile. "Why is everyone still outside?"

"Some mix-up with the room numbers. They're trying to figure out how to keep the boys and girls apart without mixing us with the sports teams."

"And is it working?"

"Judging by the fact that I’ve been standing here for about forty minutes — not really," she replied glumly, not even trying to cheer up.

Kostya placed the suitcase next to me and touched my shoulder.

"I’m going inside," my dad nodded toward the automatic doors. "I’ll find out what’s going on. Maybe I can help somehow."

"Okay," I agreed and cautiously sat down on my suitcase, not entirely sure of its stability. Unlike mine, Diana's suitcase looked more like a portable safe on wheels, with shiny material that could easily be mistaken for metal. However, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out to be made of aluminum or something similar, but I didn’t ask her.

"Didn’t sleep well?" I started, and Diana looked at me in surprise.

"I don’t really need sleep, remember?" She leaned forward and whispered. "It’s more of a pleasure, or when you want to clear your head."

"Then you have no excuse for the dark circles under your eyes," I joked, but to my misfortune, Diana took it seriously and started digging through her bag for a compact mirror.

"Damn," she muttered, examining her reflection. "I should’ve eaten with the others yesterday."

"What, didn’t you drink blood before the trip?" I exclaimed louder than I intended, and Diana shushed me, anxiously scanning the crowd.

When she was sure no one had paid attention to my outburst, she spoke again.

"No, I didn’t have time. The guys were in such a rush yesterday! The siblings didn’t even seem to care about graduation. Viola, I think, just grabbed the first dress she found in her closet and tossed it in her suitcase without even bothering to iron it or at least put it in a garment bag to keep it safe. As for the guys, I won’t even go into that: it’s a disgrace. She waved her hand dismissively, but I easily understood from the pouting lips and furrowed brows just how upset Diana was with her family. "I spent all night making sure these idiots didn’t dress like rainbow-colored parrots for graduation. Who wears black sneakers with gray pants and a brown belt? It’s just an eyesore and a disgrace. In the end, I spent so much time on them that I didn’t have any left for myself. I couldn’t decide what to wear until the last minute."

"I figured that out," my hand shot up in a momentary urge to pat Diana on the shoulder, but as soon as my fingers neared her skin, she froze, like stone. Hesitating, I stood still, not touching her.

Our gazes met, and I quickly turned away, trying to focus on anything but her, not wanting to see the fear in her brown eyes, as I had so often in recent months. We couldn’t forget what had happened last winter: she, because she had to remember the danger coming from me and never let her guard down, while I held onto the memory of wanting to attack Diana, just to make sure something like that wouldn’t happen again.

Kaandor could have killed her. I could have killed her.

We almost killed her.

"Did you buy that sandy dress we found together in the mall?" Diana broke the silence first, and I felt a little relieved.

I smiled and shook my head. The dress had been the last thing on my mind since I was first turned.

"Nope. Dad and Mom said it was too expensive."

"But it’s graduation!" Diana threw her arms up in frustration. "Your dad seems to make a decent income: four-bedroom apartment, expensive hobbies, trips to football matches in other cities. Maybe he’s just being stingy?"

What Diana said left me confused. Didn’t she know...?

"If only," I began carefully, and after a short pause, continued. "You know that no other police officer, like my dad, or any doctor, like yours, earns as much as Kostya and Vladimir?"

Diana looked at me with wide eyes and stopped blinking, as if she had never thought about where the money in their family came from. Had she ever met any truly grown-up mortals to understand how they live, and realize how different the reality of an average city dweller is from those chosen by the protection of another world, where magic, vampires, and wolves existed, rather than ordinary colds, debts, and unpaid bills? Maybe her rose-colored glasses distorted reality far more than mine had only recently.

"You’re trying to say that any other family of a chief doctor at a hospital can’t afford to live like we do?"

I shook my head, trying to suppress a grin. There was nothing to laugh about here.

"That’s very unlikely. Maybe in Moscow—after all, it’s the capital—or in other big cities where budgets are very different."

"Moscow isn’t Russia," she blurted out.

She must have picked up that phrase from other classmates who had been to the capital, although I doubted there were many of them in our grade. Just because their parents frequently traveled to different cities and countries for work trips didn’t mean they took their kids with them everywhere. My mom rarely took me when she went to Moscow for a book festival, leaving me with my grandmother and saying how difficult it would be to keep an eye on me at the event since she had to work.

"Anyway," I continued cautiously, not sure how to explain to Diana the true state of affairs: "Our fathers did business together until recently. You know, until all those research findings of Vladimir’s and his collaboration with my mother came to light. The doctor made medicines and attracted wealthy people to Kserton: to some, he promised to cure their addictions with hypnosis, to others—help children whose diseases could no longer be treated by traditional medicine—in exchange for investments. Gradually, those whose families needed constant care began moving here and investing in the development of our town. If it weren’t for your father’s abilities, Kserton would have long been made of sawdust, because there was no other production or demand for his goods. Kostya kept order and cleaned up Vladimir’s mistakes, finding common ground with the dissenters, especially the talkative ones, who put the town’s fragile balance and artificial prosperity at risk."

The longer I spoke, the more I felt a lump in my throat. The truth had only been revealed to me recently, and it was still hard to accept. Seeing my father in a new, dark light, and not turning away, was easier said than done. I knew Kostya had done everything he thought was right to protect the simple townspeople of Kserton and the prosperity of the town, but thinking about the long list of things my father must have done made me feel sick. Our entire life had been tainted by years of joint service between my father and Vladimir and the machinations they had carried out year after year just to keep our secrets.

Diana turned away and began studying the tips of her immaculate shoes as though they had just come straight from the factory and onto her feet.

Perhaps Diana had already suspected everything but turned a blind eye to it, not wanting to delve into the details.

"Only money can buy silence," Diana said. "Big money."

"If you already suspected, then why pretend like you don’t understand how much and why your father makes?"

"Look around," she gestured toward the classmates who were annoyed by the long wait. "Look at their clothes, the brands. Tanya’s father even gave her a new foreign car for graduation, despite the trouble she’s gotten herself into. What do you think, where do their parents get this money from?"

"What are you hinting at?"

She looked straight ahead with a blank stare. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of thoughts that had likely been troubling her for a long time.

"I think it’s impossible to be both good and rich at the same time."

I snorted, not expecting to hear something like that from my friend.

"Yeah, let’s now label anyone who earns a decent living to support their family as villains. Why not? The innovators, who are always inventing something and developing their fields, doing research—they must be thinking of nothing but how to trick everyone and bring about the end of the world."

"Why are you so angry?"

"Because you’re just talking nonsense to justify your dad. Like, he’s not evil, it’s just that everyone around him is."

"Asya," Diana’s voice trembled. "Don’t."

"Don’t what?" I looked her in the eyes and saw the tension on her face. "Stop defending him! Vladimir wipes his feet on you every time I see you two together, and you keep trying to paint him as a hero who has to do what he does for the greater good."

My voice grew louder, and Diana began looking around nervously.

"I didn’t say anything like that," she replied in a cold tone. "Could you lower your voice? People are starting to notice."

"Let them."

Diana smirked.

"What happened to your usual ‘be careful, or others will notice you’re different’?"

I stared at her, trying to fully comprehend what she had just said. The question stung like a sharp pin. I wanted to bite my tongue, to make it stop sending words into the world so quickly, thoughtlessly, and emotionally.

"Hey," Stas spoke up, and if it weren’t for him, I probably would have said even more to Diana, unable to stop myself. "What’s all the noise about?"

"Never mind," I leaned forward and folded my arms in front of me, rubbing my palm with my thumb. "So, what about the rooms? Has it been resolved?"

Diana didn’t try to explain anything to her brother and forced a smile, as though nothing had happened, but I could feel another brick being firmly added to the fresh wall between us. The construction of a barrier had resumed, and soon we would be on opposite sides of the playing field. Whether we could maintain our friendship as the shared history of the Smirnovs and Chernykh families grew more complicated with every meeting, I didn’t know, but I understood very well—one can’t balance forever somewhere in between, cautiously choosing words or tearing apart the delicate threads that had bound our souls together, pulling them closer to each other.

Yes, Vladimir and Konstantin ensured the safety of the local magical creatures. This had to be respected, and at the same time, I understood that probably every vacation and the four-room apartment we had were paid for by funds that should have gone toward the benefit of others, not for personal comfort and entertainment. But it’s easy to talk about justice when your plate is full and your heart is light. Growing up, perhaps, meant finally learning to make tough decisions, testing your moral compass for accuracy again and again. I’d bet Vladimir’s needle had long pointed straight to hell. No matter what benefits he used to brainwash his children, in my memory are the burned-in names of those who suffered from his feigned virtue.

"It seems Konstantin helped solve the housing issue so that the sports teams and our grade were more or less evenly distributed: they decided to send the guys to the top floor and the girls closer to the reception, on the second. The teachers and coaches got rooms closer to the stairs, to make sure they could hear if anyone tried sneaking from the boys’ rooms to the girls’ or vice versa."

Diana raised her hands in annoyance.

"Great! I can barely see Max because he’s always helping his dad. I thought at least here we could spend some time alone," she pouted, and I couldn’t help but smile at her naivety.

"Did you really think the principal would let you two stay in the same room?" I couldn’t suppress a smirk and glanced at Stas briefly. A sly smile played across his face, the look of someone who was delighting in how he would ruin the teachers’ brilliant plan.

"It doesn’t concern us." He said self-assuredly, tilting his head to his shoulder, pleased with himself. "No teacher will hear us moving if we make the slightest effort."

"Personally, I’ll hear just fine," I reminded him challengingly, trying to bring both of them back to reality. Stas’s smile became less satisfied, though it didn’t entirely fade. He slid a strange, studying gaze over my face, then down and back up again, before sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans and leaning so close to me that I felt his deep breath on my skin, as though it took a lot of effort for him to remain calm. Slowly, he leaned toward my ear and whispered:

"What, would you love to teach me biology, Black? I thought I was the one leading the labs in our pair."

The familiar scent of Stas hit my nose, perfectly blending with the summer evening and the setting sun on the horizon. The scent seemed to cover my soul with a satin blanket. Playfully, it slid softly across my skin, making everything inside me tremble, then slipped away from the tips of my fingers, leaving only memories of what had been. Elusive, alluring, and so desirable. I definitely didn’t like how Stas affected me.

To break free from the wave of emotions that rushed over me, I pushed Stas away, trying to do it as gently as possible. Calculating strength was never easy, but lately, I had been making progress in pretending to be ordinary more convincingly.

Finally, the room key cards were handed out. Most of the guys were paired up. I don’t know what Kostya said to the principal, but I got a single room, and maybe that was for the best, considering the circumstances: it was one thing to be in an apartment with mom and dad, who Kaandor wouldn’t touch, and quite another to live in the same room with Diana or Dasha. I’ll admit, I wanted to spend more time with my friends before graduation, but I knew perfectly well that Diana and Viola would most likely be sneaking to their boyfriends' rooms at night, while Dasha, torn between me and Tatyana, stuck with her old friend. It always hurt a little, though I understood in my head that you can’t erase years of friendship just because someone new entered your life.

Dad suggested walking me to my room and carrying my suitcase, and I didn’t argue, even though I didn’t need the help. I appreciated his concern, and honestly, I was delaying as much as I could the moment when my father would leave. This trip promised to be some kind of test. It would show me if Kaandor and I had truly managed to establish a connection, but I swear, I would have preferred to test my self-control in a crowd of strangers rather than among the people I cared about. Kostya thought the stakes should be raised; otherwise, the experiment wouldn’t make sense. Dad believed in me, and how I wished I could feel the same way.

The hallway on the girls' floor was crowded. Almost every door was wide open, and everyone was trying to settle in and rest as quickly as possible. The journey had exhausted many of them, and the issues with accommodation had taken so long to resolve! Surely tonight would be the only truly quiet night of the entire week.

"Seems like this one’s yours," Kostya stopped by the closed door at the end of the hallway, and I swiped the key card at the lock. The indicator lit up green and beeped, after which the handle turned easily. I let Dad go in first, and he rolled the suitcase inside, placing it against the wall by the window.

There was a smell of freshly laundered linens and a soft scent of lavender. The room was small: a tiny hallway, with a bathroom on one side of the entrance, featuring a glass shower, and the bedroom right after the hallway. The furniture was sparse: near the entrance, opposite the bathroom, was a chest of drawers for clothes, and in the room, a double bed with nightstands on either side, and a desk opposite the bed.

There was a small fridge under the desk. Kostya noticed it too and hurried to look inside. When he opened the door, I saw that the shelves were nearly completely filled with various carbonated drinks, while the door was stocked with packets of nuts and chips. Dad studied the labels on the cans with a stern look:

"No alcohol," he nodded approvingly. "Thoughtful. That's good."

I laughed when I realized that Kostya was far more concerned about the alcohol in my blood than about the possibility of me staining all the hotel walls red.

"Dad," I started nervously laughing, "you know, I’m really not interested in beer or anything else. All alcohol tastes like solvent to me."

"And when did you manage to try every kind of alcohol and, especially, solvent, to make such conclusions?"

"Okay," I rolled my eyes and noted to myself that being a buzzkill was a family trait. "All the alcohol you and mom let me try didn’t leave an impression."

"Oh really? So, you won’t drink anything at graduation, even if your classmates offer?"

I lowered my gaze.

"Well, there won’t be any alcohol."

Dad raised an eyebrow and looked at me with interest, as though expecting a follow-up. At some point, the pause became uncomfortable, and I shrugged.

"What?"

"No alcohol?" he asked with a smirk. "None? At graduation?"

"Well, yeah. Mom's on the parent committee and even mentioned it at home when you were there."

Kostya blinked several times, as if not believing what he had heard, then burst out laughing.

"Aha, ahem," Dad cleared his throat and tried to put on a less cheerful expression. "There won’t be any alcohol at graduation. And, of course, no students secretly brought any with them. Of course, yes."

Dad brought his fist to his mouth and started clearing his throat again, still struggling to suppress his laughter. Of course, Dad probably saw every year how graduation at Kserton ended and knew perfectly well that some students would celebrate in their own way, but I had nothing to hide from Kostya. If the others had plans to sneak alcohol into the hotel, no one had shared them with me.

My phone vibrated in my back pocket, and I hurried to see who the message was from. While reading the popup from Denis, I missed the rest of Dad’s comments, as he still couldn’t let go of the alcohol topic at graduation.

"I need to go," I interrupted Dad. "Denis is done."

Dad looked at me in surprise.

"And what’s he doing here?"

"Didn’t Uncle tell you?" When Dad shook his head, I continued, "Denis and his mom are doing the floral decorations in the hall for graduation."

"But that’s still a week away. What could they have come up with? The flowers will surely wilt by the big day."

I shrugged, giving Dad the impression that I probably knew no more than he did.

"I doubt it will be without magic," I threw the suitcase onto the floor and hurriedly opened it to get my running leggings, sports top, and t-shirt. "There are some works with the local garden too. Mom’s involved as well."

"I see," Dad said and rubbed his neck with his palm, as he often did lately when I mentioned Mom. "Are you still on bad terms with her?"

"She’s the one on bad terms with me."

"Asya," Dad stretched out, "maybe enough already?"

I shrugged. It was hard to imagine what could happen between me and Maria to warm our relationship even slightly. The Maria who had raised me with my grandmother in Rostov was long gone. In her place was an unpleasant stranger. By the way—an irresponsible witch with no more understanding of morality than Doctor Vladimir.

"Maybe enough. I don’t know. Time will tell." I packed the clothes I needed and headed to the bathroom. "I think it’s time for you to go."

Dad loudly inhaled through his nostrils and exhaled slowly.

"Alright," he finally said, "that’s between you two."

Dad fastened his jacket and aligned himself with me by the door. It was at that moment that I saw Kaandor behind him. The dark spirit's black muzzle almost blended into the darkness of the hallway. His presence was more clearly revealed by his amber eyes, which in the dim light seemed to shimmer with golden particles.

"You’ll call if something goes wrong, won’t you?" Dad said, and a chilling smile that resembled a grimace spread across the spirit’s face.

"Of course," I tried to sound as confident as possible, but I already knew that even if the worst happened, Kaandor would do everything to make sure I was left without help.

Chapter Text

The colors swam before my eyes. The faster I sped up, the more the strange shades of the local forest blended into a single emerald canvas. The evening’s cold tones hadn’t fully taken over yet, but by the time Denis and I returned to the hotel grounds, the sun would have set completely.

“Come on,” Denis huffed, “slow down. We’re not running a sprint.”

“Why not?” I winked at my friend, who was falling behind, and sped up even more, even though the gravel underfoot was already making my soles hum, and my calves were starting to cramp. I wanted to get the most out of my last training session before the temporary lull. I aimed to push myself to the limit and find out where my boundaries were. It seemed like just recently I could barely keep up with Denis while running, and now I was enjoying realizing how much more stamina I had gained.

When the main road that led directly to our building appeared, I noticed a narrow forest path to the side and veered onto it. Behind me, I heard a groan:

“Oh, Asya,” Denis stretched out, but I was already too far ahead.

I silently counted from one to eight and kept running. The branches of the trees hit my skin painfully, forcing me to slow down, but this small obstacle only fueled my excitement even more. The trail was becoming wilder, and the terrain underfoot was far more pleasant than the gravel. I felt every root and every crushed pine cone beneath my feet and savored the brief sensations that chased away my anxious thoughts about the upcoming week at the spa complex. The trail wound around, taking me further into the thicket. It led me past meadows overgrown with damp ferns and bushes with dark, elongated berries, which I could have sworn were best left untouched.

Through the forest’s thicket, I saw the familiar gap—a way out to the road. I sped up again, not looking at the ground, and unfortunately tripped over a root sticking out of the ground, but I managed to react quickly and fell onto my outstretched hands.

“Phew,” I exhaled loudly, and my lips spread into a satisfied smile. “Look, Denis! I did it!” I exclaimed proudly, but in response, there was silence.

“Denis?”

“He didn’t follow you on the trail,” Kaandor answered instead of my friend, casually leaning against a nearby pine tree and looking down at me with an evaluating gaze.

“Couldn’t you have said that earlier?” I got up and started brushing my hands off, wiping away the dirt and pine needles.

“You didn’t ask,” the spirit said nonchalantly, as if we had an unspoken rule to only share information upon request.

“I don’t ask about many things, yet you never hesitated to comment on my choice of clothing or a phrase or two overheard by chance.”

“Being attentive to your surroundings is a useful skill for a young werewolf.”

“I already have it.”

“Oh, really?”

I started deliberately inspecting my hands, avoiding making eye contact with Kaandor.

“Yes!” I blurted out, trying to suppress my irritation.

“In that case, tell me: what does it smell like here?”

“The forest.”

“More specifically?”

We had played this game with Kaandor before. Knowing perfectly well that ignoring the spirit would be a costly mistake, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath through my nostrils, then tried to mentally separate the notes and undertones of the smells that filled the forest.

Each plant had its own scent. Some naturally smelled strong, while others could only be detected by getting closer. Kaandor was clearly hoping to hear something specific, unusual, or noteworthy, something that I should have paid attention to, but I didn’t notice anything. The fresh pine scent mixed with the sharpness of wildflower pollen, with a bitter aroma of cedar seeds still far from harvest. There was nothing that stood out, so I began listing what I could detect, hoping to please my dark companion:

“Pine, cedar, and all kinds of wildflowers.”

Kaandor raised an eyebrow.
"You say wildflowers?"
There was the hint. I began to sift through the aromas, trying to find a needle in a haystack. To find something that would satisfy Kaandor. To find that one flower among all the smells.

The problem was that I knew very little about plants and had more of a general idea of how a forest meadow smelled. I didn’t pick out specific components, nor had I ever thought about what scents filled the air in, say, flower shops. I knew well how roses or wild roses smelled, the kind that grew in abundance in Kserton’s courtyards. Finding a particular scent in the sea of aromas—one that should stand out even though you don’t really know it—was an impossible task, even when your sense of smell is particularly sharp and developed. And besides, to me, the real skill was in ignoring scents and switching to other senses. After all, I loved to cook, but in the early days after my transformation, Kostya took care of the house chores because I simply couldn’t get close to spices, let alone meat products. If the scent of spices made my nostrils tingle uncomfortably and made me sneeze, then sausages and all kinds of fillets smelled like decay and death, causing my stomach to tighten into a hard knot, which didn’t exactly help my appetite.

"I understand what you’re expecting from me, but unfortunately, to spot the differences, you first have to know them in general. You need to sniff around, understand what each flower smells like, and especially—what it’s called."

Kaandor sighed wearily and rolled his eyes.
"How do you think knowledge and skills were acquired in the past? Did they look it up in a guidebook?"

"That would have been nice."

"I’m not going to hold your hand and introduce you to each flower with a bow."

"You should," I leaned down and started massaging my calves to release the muscle tension. "It would be worth it."

Kaandor remained silent for a moment, ignoring what I said. I could have assumed he was picking out more convincing words to persuade me to study in the way that suited him best, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few months, it’s that Kaandor always does things his own way and expects the same worldview from others, and also—he never holds back on his expressions.

"It’s so easy to catch you off guard," the spirit remarked, and before I could even frown, someone suddenly grabbed me around the waist from behind and threw me into the air, lifting my feet off the ground.

"Aah!" A shout rang out near my ear, and to my shame, I screamed instead of defending myself. The edge of a red plaid shirt flashed before my eyes, and my heart dropped in fear.

No, this couldn’t be. Both Galina and her accomplice were dead.

The worst thing I could do was let fear take over and prevent me from acting. Inside, a power was simmering. All I needed to do was pull on the right string.

I grew angry at myself for the seconds of hesitation, and that spark of rage helped ignite the saving fire within me. Clasping my palms together, I helped myself by thrusting my elbow into the attacker’s face with a twist. His grip immediately loosened, and a ringing, bell-like laughter followed.

"Not bad, Asya," Arthur said, rubbing his fingers under his lip, checking for any blood.

"Not bad," Max echoed, stepping onto the trail with Viola. The twins' blonde hair shimmered with a blue tint in the twilight shadows.

"You’re still far from the hunters’ reaction speed," Violet said, her tone stricter than usual, and unlike the brothers, she didn’t come closer to me.

If anything had changed over the last six months, it was our relationship with the blonde witch. Since my first transformation, Viola had begun to see me as a ticking bomb, ready to explode at any moment. At first, I was even glad that she urged others to stay away from me, but lately, I began noticing aggression directed at me instead of the usual cautiousness, and I didn’t particularly like this turn of events.

"Arthur, what the hell?" was all I could say, putting on an offended face. "What if you’d started bleeding?"

The big guy smiled, and his full row of snow-white teeth flashed under his plump upper lip, and dimples appeared on his cheeks, softening his friend's look.

"But I didn’t," he replied, and Viola snorted, clearly displeased with his antics. "What are you doing here? Training?"

"Training to completely ignore others' advice," Kaandor replied instead of me, and Max, one of the few who could hear the spirit, looked in his direction.

"Yep," I nodded.

I quickly looked over the group and realized that they were dressed pretty much the same as usual for school. When Max and Violet went out at night with me and my dad, the twins preferred tight-fitting clothes that stretched well. In everyday life, though, they dressed quite simply, preferring outfits made up of basic items in neutral tones.
"Why are you here?"
"We’re exploring the area," Max replied, enjoying the view through the tree trunks, admiring the aesthetic of the evening forest. "Just in case of uninvited guests."
"Just don’t mistake Denis for a potential threat. He’s still running around somewhere nearby."
"More like crawling," came Denis’s voice, and he appeared from the gap, dripping with sweat and struggling to catch his breath. "Where the hell are you rushing off to? We’d be done by now if you just slowed down."
"Oh, look who’s all delicate," Violet said, her eyes widening theatrically as she fluttered her eyelashes. "Little wolf is scared to step off the safe trail."
Arthur and Max giggled carelessly, but Denis didn’t appreciate their fun. His face changed, and he became more composed. I could see him trying to bend over to catch his breath, but his pride wouldn’t allow it.
"Go to hell, vampire."
"You go to hell," Violet retorted, a smile on her face that was more of a grimace.
"Don’t forget yourself, wolf," Arthur interjected, standing up for his girlfriend and straightening his shoulders. "Just because you’re Asya’s friend doesn’t mean I won’t snap your neck."
"Your arms are too short to be snapping anyone’s neck." Denis lifted his chin and stepped forward to meet Arthur.
The distance between them became so small that if either of them raised a hand, it would be trouble. I hurried to step between the guys and started pushing Denis aside.
"Denis," I looked into his eyes, pleading, "they’re not our enemies."
"Oh, really?" he replied with a bitter smirk. "What’s the difference between those bloodsuckers and these ones?"
"I see a difference. Besides, you don’t talk like that to Stas."
"Stas doesn’t provoke me."
"Oh, really?" Kaandor’s voice spoke up, and out of habit, I shifted my focus to him and threatened with my finger:
"Stay out of it."
"Was that aimed at me? Me?" Violet suddenly straightened up, and Max rolled his eyes.
"If you spent a little more time on magic and less on movie dates with Arthur, you would have learned to see and hear Kaandor by now," he reprimanded his twin sister, but Violet wasn’t the type of girl who would blush and mutter excuses after hearing such remarks. Instead, she swiftly dropped to the ground, stretched out her right leg, and spun around on her axis. Max didn’t react in time; the sweep caught him by surprise. He fell on his back and pretended to groan.
"What the hell? That hit right under my shoulder blade!" Max exclaimed, and Denis, enjoying the sibling bickering, laughed.
"You’re absolutely right, Asya," he began with feigned cheer, "these idiots are definitely not our enemies. They’ll probably end up killing each other before..."
A loud thud echoed, and Denis was spun like a puppet from a punch to his jaw, but he managed to stay on his feet. Even Arthur’s patience had its limits, and I felt horribly embarrassed by Denis’s behavior. However, there was little I could do: I couldn’t force them to get along. And it was a damn shame.
In Denis’s eyes, I saw a flash of animalistic excitement, as if both he and the wolf spirit inside him were just waiting for the vampires to strike first. Satisfied with himself, he pulled his elbow back, tightening his fist, but I quickly snapped into action and caught my friend in a hold. My hand easily slipped between his shoulder blades, and I pulled him upward. He immediately bent toward the ground and muttered several curses. Arthur took a step forward, clearly intending to continue the fight, and that’s when I shouted:
"Enough! Stop!" I forcibly spun Denis around and made him step toward the roadside clearing. "This is going too far. We’re leaving, and you guys can keep doing whatever you were doing."
"Denis and I haven’t finished our conversation," Arthur said, his jaw tightening.
"I said: you’re done for today," I cut him off, and a guttural growl escaped from my chest. Energy sparked at my fingertips. Damn it.
Hastily, I dragged Denis forward, trying to take him as far away from the others as possible. The problem was that I knew well how quickly they could move if they wanted to, so we still had quite a way to go before we reached a safe distance. All I could do was hope that Arthur or Viola wouldn’t follow us.

I didn’t understand why they kept provoking Denis. It was even harder for me to understand why he kept falling for their bait every time.

When we finally reached the main road and hid behind the corner of the nearest building, Denis spoke again:

"Maybe you can let go now?"

"Oh?" A nervous laugh escaped my lips. "Is it okay now, do you think?"

"Yeah," he replied, dejected, "I’ve calmed down. And besides, someone might see us."

It had gotten completely dark outside, and only the yellow street lamps illuminated the path to our building. I looked around and breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that there wasn’t a soul in sight. The other graduates were long asleep, resting after the long journey, and only classmates with particularly dark secrets, like ours, were still wandering among the tree trunks, guarding their mysteries from unwanted eyes.

Carefully loosening my grip, I let Denis go, and he started to massage his wrist, rotating it clockwise and then counterclockwise. Giving me a sideways glance and pressing his lips tightly together, Denis seemed about to unload the accusations that were on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason, he didn’t. Instead, he grimly sat down on the nearest curb and leaned against his knees.

Denis looked irritated and damn tired. He tugged the edge of his t-shirt up and wiped his face with the fabric.

"Arthur really hit me hard," Denis remarked, with a tone of barely concealed admiration, and I sat down next to him.

"You asked for it, admit it."

"They started it."

"So what?" I used my favorite counterargument. "You could have stayed quiet."

"Yeah. Stay quiet and be a quiet little mouse when they mock me."

"Did anyone feel better because you responded? Not just responded, but responded rudely."

"Yeah. I did. Are you suggesting I fold my arms and wait for the vampires to wipe out the whole population here?"

"I didn’t say that," I corrected him, noticing how Denis twisted what I meant. "We’re on the same side as the Smirnovs, if you’ve forgotten. They’re working on the protection of Kserthon just like our families."

"Only, unlike them, we don’t thirst for other people’s blood."

I pulled my knees up and rested my head on them, staring aimlessly into the dark forest, which seemed even gloomier under the bright light of the roadside lantern. Denis knew that the bond between each werewolf and their spirit was different. But he didn’t know that the blood affected me perhaps even more than it did the vampires, whom Denis hated, not seeing any difference between the special beings born against their will and the madmen who danced to the tune of their creators if they were lucky enough to survive the transformation.

"Will they all come to the graduation too?"

"Of course. It’s their celebration just as much as mine."

"Then I should come too."

I turned to him in surprise:

"For what?"

"To keep an eye on you," Denis frowned for emphasis and quickly added, "and on the other guys. So, what do you think, can I come with you?"

I would have believed him if I hadn’t known why he was trying to sneak his way into the dance again. You could only attend the ball if you were paired with one of the graduates as an invited guest. Many parents, of course, would be there too, but they were part of the celebration for their children, while Denis was a sixteen-year-old guy from another school. They wouldn’t let him through the hall’s door alone.

"If you’re planning to hit on Dasha there, it’s not going to work."

"Oh, really? I saw the way she looked at me in your dad’s store!"

"That was ages ago. She’s probably forgotten all about you."

"Well, I’ll remind her."

He playfully raised one eyebrow and gently nudged me with his shoulder, signaling me to give in, but his tricks no longer had any effect on me. It was hard to take him seriously, considering that his father had looked after me every summer when I was a child, while my parents were busy with work or dealing with household and, as I now understand, magical matters. I saw him more as a younger, incredibly spoiled brother who, to everyone’s misfortune, had developed a crush on one of my friends and, like a stubborn leaf, clung to any opportunity to get into Dasha's line of sight. The only good thing was that he hadn’t thought to find her online, otherwise, he’d probably be sending ridiculous late-night messages like "Are you asleep?" not knowing how to start a conversation.

I winced at the thought and for a moment even felt sorry for Denis. What if the idea of all of us hanging out at the ball wasn’t such a bad one? At least I’d be able to stop him before he says something stupid, or at least drag him away like I did today when he clashed with Arthur.

Deciding that my friend would probably do the same for me, I decided to take a chance. After all, having another werewolf around might help lighten the evening for Kaandor. I once tried asking him if he could communicate with other spirit guardians, but, as usual, he made me find the answer myself through experience. Well, let’s test it out.

"Alright," I finally replied, pointing my finger at him, "You’re coming with me, but under one condition."

"Hooray!" He jumped up, raising his hands in the air, and started dancing around, grinning from ear to ear. "Ask for anything."

"No more clashes with Arthur."