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 Ksertoni. 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."