Savva sat slumped in the same chair that had housed him for countless hours, watching Sofiya sleep. All he could do at this point was wait, and it was wreaking havoc with his mind. He fidgeted, imagining all the things that could go wrong, each one more horrible than its predecessor.

Wiping his sweaty palms on the dark denim covering his legs, he glanced at his watch. Worry gnawed at his gut—time was limited, and Ibrahim's man should have arrived ten minutes prior. The fact he hadn't filled Savva with a dreadful certainty that at any moment a pack of guardians would appear in the doorway, ready to drag him off in handcuffs.

It had been the simplest of plans—in hindsight, maybe too simple. Having spent over half his life at Saint Basil's as a student and the last year and a half patrolling the grounds as a guardian, Savva knew all the best spots for entering and exiting the campus without being seen. He knew all the ins and outs of each and every building on the campus—and the easiest ways to enter those buildings while remaining completely unnoticed. He'd never stopped to consider that the other guardians had the same knowledge, and might make a habit of doing regular checks on the noticeable weak spots in security.

Sitting in Sofiya's room and absentmindedly fiddling with his watch, he realized how naïve he had been. Bowing his head he offered up a silent prayer that everything would go accordingly without complications. The fact he had been feeling brief tugs of remorse for using the clinic to stage his cover was just making him even more anxious. The staff had spoken out on his behalf, convinced of his innocence, and that weighed heavily on his conscious. As grateful as he was for their intercession, he almost wished they had stayed out of the situation. Now, if he were caught—if Boreyev decide to check on his whereabouts—they would be named as accomplices, even though they were completely innocent of involvement in the sordid affair.

The door behind him opened suddenly, startling him out of his reverie. A dark haired man entered the room, nodding a greeting as he quietly shut the door. The man was approximately the same size as Savva, with hair that was almost a perfect match—necessary things, since he was meant to be a stand in, his face hidden in his arms as he slept beside Sofiya's bed.

"Mr. Mazur sent me—I am Yakov."

Savva clasped his outstretched hand, squeezing it. "Thank you for helping me."

Yakov shrugged. "It is my job. He tells me what to do, and I do it."

"Did you have any problems I should know about?"

"No. I apologize for the delay, we were waiting to hear from our contact at Pohot'." Reading the confusion on Savva's face, the man continued. "It is the club where the meeting will take place."

"With a name like Lust I assume it is a…" He blushed, not wanting to say the words aloud.

"Whorehouse." Yakov smirked at his discomfort. "It was the best place we could find on such short notice—it had to be a place where the transaction would go unnoticed. The man you are meeting is named Kintsel. Mr. Mazur told you what to look for, correct? How to spot him?"

"Yes. I know what they look like."

Yakov nodded. "The bike is hidden here—" he produced a map, pointing out the location in question, "and Pohot' is here."

Once again the door jerked open, causing both men to glance up at the same time. Yakov's hand slid beneath his jacket and Savva saw the handgun an instant before the man pulled it. Batting his hand aside, he stepped in front of the doorway assuming a protective stance before the woman who had entered the room uninvited.

"No. She is an innocent." He turned to face Nurse Zhabin, his head drooping in shame. They had been caught before even executing the switch. "Madam, I can explain—"

"Change jackets."

Savva's head shot up at her hushed words, his eyes wide. "Pardon?"

"You've never worn a jacket that color—you need to switch jackets with him. Anyone looking into the room would notice the difference."

"Mrs. Zhabin—"

"There's no time for explanations now, Savva. I'm not stupid, I know what you're doing. Just promise me that I'll never have to see another woman beaten and raped by those bastards. Promise me I'll never have to hear girls crying their hearts out in the night while Boreyev and the council look the other way." Her eyes filled with tears as she grabbed his arm, shaking him. "Do whatever you have to, but stop them from doing this again."

Nodding, he quickly stripped off his jacket, handing it to the other man. "You have my word, madam. I will end them. For Sofiya and all the others they have harmed."

She pressed her lips to his cheek before turning to the newcomer. "Sit there with your face buried in your arms. I'll keep everyone away as long as I can. They'll think she's having a rough night." She turned to Savva, offering him a ghost of a smile. "Now let's get you out of here before someone sees you."

Grabbing the map and a set of keys from Yakov, he followed her down the corridor and into an abandoned wing. As he entered a room, preparing to sneak out the window, her hand on his arm stopped him.

"When you get back, wait here and I'll help you get back to her room."

"I have no idea how long it will be, madam."

"I'll check every two hours. Be safe Savva, for Sofiya's sake."

"Why are you risking yourself like this? If we are caught—"

She silenced him with a wave of her hand. "Sometimes in order for the right thing to happen, we have to do the wrong thing. Boreyev knows what my cousin and his friends have been doing, and he doesn't care enough to stop them. I want them punished. I want them to feel the same fear that the dozens of women they've violated have felt."

He nodded at her as he captured her hand, placing a soft kiss on the back before sliding out the window and vanishing into the darkness.

The motorcycle had been hidden from sight in a dense thicket, a few hundred feet from the main road. Savva's heart raced as he started the engine, convinced that the noise from the powerful machine would draw unwanted attention. After a few moments, when no one appeared, he made his way to the road and within fifteen minutes he found himself at the small town marked on Yakov's map.

Pohot' was easy to find, the raucous music from inside echoing down the otherwise quiet, deserted street. Upon entering he found the patrons were mostly non-royal Moroi men, the type that—if they were to disappear—would most likely not be reported as missing, thus garnering no unwanted attention. Their loved ones—if they had any—would know about their unscrupulous habits and would thereby assume the worst.

A filmy haze of smoke from innumerable cigarettes and hookahs coated the room, the foul smelling smoke making the dimly lit room seem even darker and dingier. The barmaids were almost as drunken as the guests they served, their makeup garish and overdone, the hair they had so carefully teased and coiffed before their shift starting to wilt in the heat generated by too many bodies packed into the rather small establishment.

Savva seated himself in the corner, ordering a glass of vodka that would remain untouched. He was by no means an expert on blood whore dens—this being the first he'd ever entered—but even with his limited knowledge he could tell that this one was the lowest of low. The women were bottom of the barrel, as seedy looking as the room around them. Emaciated and middle aged, their exposed skin was covered with knobby, raised scar tissue from years of receiving bites from their Moroi clients. For the most part the women ignored him, recognizing him instantly as a fellow dhampir. Since he could not provide the endorphin laced bites that they craved, he simply didn't exist in their eyes.

The waitress reappeared, staggering towards him on ridiculously high heels. Standing, he took the vodka from her outstretched hand before she lost her balance and spilled it on him. Thanking her and sending her off with a generous tip, he studied the contents of the glass intently. From the corner of his eye he spotted a scrawny, nervous looking man slowly edging towards his table. Feigning disinterest, he tilted the glass back, pretending to take a sip. Apparently that was what the man had been waiting for—he slid into the chair across the table, studying Savva with rheumy, feverish looking eyes.

Raising an eyebrow, Savva pushed the glass across the table. "Mr. Kintsel?"

"I am." The man downed the vodka, wincing slightly as it burned its way towards his stomach.

Kintsel was pale and thin, resembling someone strung out on strong narcotics. It was a look that was common among humans who lusted after immortality. Unlike the blood whores who were always hungering for their next endorphin fix, men like Kintsel were always hungering for power. It was what, according to Ibrahim, identified them as pets—the employees that belonged to the Strigoi they served.

"You are aware of what I require?" Savva asked.

"Yes. He'll meet with you in the alley. Alone." Kintsel nodded his head towards a small door half hidden behind a curtain. "I'll be here when you get back to… finalize the details."

Nodding, Savva made his way to the door, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for what lay outside. Everything in him was screaming, begging him to turn back now, before he committed the most abhorrent act imaginable to a guardian . This was his last chance to stop this madness before it reached the point of no return. To turn around before he lost a piece—however small—of his soul.

Perhaps if he were a different kind of man, he could call it off. He could forget about Sofiya and her problems, finding himself a new woman to love—one without all the baggage and trauma. One without the insanity. He could forget about vengeance and punishing the wicked, instead focusing solely on what new pleasures each day could bring him.

Savva Luzhkov wasn't that man, and he never would be.

Sofiya was his life, and her emotions were his, for better or worse. The rage within him at her abasement demanded action—and it was at hand. All he had to do was walk through the door in front of him, and the wheels would be in motion. It would be done, and in the most depraved way possible.

He stepped out into the darkness, his calloused hand resting on the hilt of his silver stake. His mind was still screaming at him, but he ignored it, striding purposefully towards the middle of the alley. Never in his life had he thought he would be in willing to barter with a Strigoi—but then, he'd never imagined anyone harming the woman who's life he cherished above all others.

"I didn't believe Kintsel, but here you are—a guardian, waiting to meet with me—to do business with me. It feels a bit chilly tonight—I wonder if that means hell is freezing over?"

The voice was cold and emotionless, bringing to mind a moldy, dark cavern filled with mushrooms, the ground underfoot crawling with centipedes. The hair on the back of Savva's neck prickled with unease. He studied the shadows in the direction the voice had come from, but even his dhampir enhanced eyes couldn't separate the speaker's form from the enshrouding darkness.

"Did your… pet tell you what I require?"

A dry chuckle answered him, the sound seeming nearer than it had been a moment before. "You need one of the awakened to play the part of your private torturer to three royal Moroi."

Taking a deep breath, he nodded, his hand tensing around the stake. "Yes. When I am finished with them, you will be allowed to drain them. Not change them, mind you. If you comply, I will have three more for you in a few weeks time."

"Why?" The voice was no longer coming from somewhere in front of him, it was whispered directly in his ear. Spinning, his brown eyes widened with panic, Savva jerked backwards, pulling his stake and holding it between their bodies. "Calm yourself, boy. Why would I drain you when you promise me such a delightful treat?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want them tortured? What did the naughty little royals do to make you turn to the dark side?" Its—his—voice was caustic and mocking as he slowly paced from one side of the alley to another. He was tall, leading Savva to believe it had been a Moroi before its corruption.

"They raped my woman and killed our unborn child. It is not the first time they have defiled a lady."

The Strigoi cocked its head, looking like a giant bird of prey. "Hmmm… naughty boys indeed. What is her name—your lady love? The one who's honor you so gallantly seek to avenge."

"Lady Sofiya Badica."

The Strigoi stilled its frenzied movement, it's eyes narrowing. "Did you say Badica?"

"Yes. She is the only child of the current Badica Prince." Savva shifted his grip on the stake, his fingers slowly beginning to throb from the tightness of his grip around the hilt.

"Then she is… was… a member of my own family. I will gladly make them pray for death for daring to touch such a prize. Perhaps you should consider letting me change them. If you were to bind them in silver beforehand, you could spend years torturing them with your little stake. Starving them. Exposing them to the sun, one limb at a time. Then when you grew weary of the game, you could let your lovely Sofiya have the pleasure of staking them. A poke for a poke, so to speak." It laughed, pleased with either the idea or its crude humor. "Tell me dhampir, what houses do they represent?"

"Ozera, Dashkov and Ivashkov. Two of the others are Voda and Szelsky—I will need the name of the remaining assailant, that is part of our bargain—for you to make them talk."

"I haven't had an Ivashkov in years." The Strigoi ran its pale tongue over equally pale lips, as if savoring the thought of his upcoming meal. The malicious expression on its chalky, white face chilled Savva to the bone.

He stared at the creature, avoiding direct eye contact so as not to be ensnared in its web of compulsion. The eyes themselves were a deep brown, so dark that without the red telltale ring around the pupil it would be impossible to differentiate it from the iris. His black hair swung freely about his shoulders, slightly covering one eye. As Savva studied the Strigoi, taking in every detail of its appearance and committing it to memory, it stood waiting patiently, looking almost amused by his close scrutiny.

"Well? Do I pass inspection? Did you want to check my teeth as well?" It bared its fangs as it chuckled, amused again by its own inane attempt at wittiness.

"Do we have a deal?" Savva asked, ignoring its chiding.

"Yes. Give Kintsel the details. I look forward to doing business with you Mr…" The creature trailed off, waiting for him to fill in the blank.

"I am Savva."

"And I am Isaiah." The Strigoi bowed its head as it moved back into the shadows. "It has been my pleasure—I simply cannot wait to begin the hunt."

Savva copied its movement, backing towards the door himself, ever vigilant of the shadows around him. "They are trussed up and waiting, sir. You will not have to hunt them."

Isaiah's laughter made a chill race down Savva's spine. "Ah, my friend, but you forget. We will have to hunt for the name of the sixth. And I can promise you, my methods of obtaining information are very thorough."

The door hit Savva's back and he fumbled for the knob for a moment, before simply giving into his rising panic and kicking backwards. With one powerful blow the door swung inward, the dim light from the barroom lighting up an expanse of the ally. He was alone—the Strigoi had fled into the night, off to undoubtedly slaughter some innocent. Sliding his stake back into its holster, Savva stumbled to the bar, ordering and downing a shot of vodka before returning to the table where Kintsel waited. Sinking down in the wooden chair he crossed himself, feeling for all the world as if he had just made a deal with the devil himself.