A/N: I have tried not to post many authors notes on this story, but this one is necessary. First, to answer the many questions I have received via PM and the reviews—yes, the Strigoi is the Isaiah from Frostbite.
Second, I need to say a big, heartfelt tanks you to Braveatheart1996. Not only did she provide me with a massive amount of information on mental illness/depression, she also brought the music box version of lilium from the show elfen lied to my attention.
In her review she wrote, "throughout this entire story, in my mind I've been replaying the music box version of lilium from the show elfen lied. I just feel like it captures the complexity and sadness of the situation here."
I Googled the song and immediately fell in love with it, because she was absolutely right. It has an old world feeling that perfectly represents Savva's story. If you haven't heard it, I encourage you to look it up—I now listen to it whenever I'm working on this story. So thank you Braveatheart1996, your input has really helped with the shaping of Savva's tale.
Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoy it.
~Samwysesr
Upon returning to the academy, he was surprised to find Nurse Zhabin waiting for him in the tiny room. She sat on the dirty floor, leaning against the wall with her eyes closed. The door was ajar, allowing a dim steam of light into the room, falling across her lovely face and illuminating it like a work of art. Savva was distressed to see that even in sleep, her pale brow was furrowed with worry. As he crossed the room to her side she stirred, her hands flying up in a protective gesture—almost as if she intended to ward off an attack.
"Shhh—it is me, madam. Savva. Are you alright?" He crouched down beside the frightened woman, realizing a moment too late that having a man tower over her would increase her obvious panic.
Sighing, she clasped a hand to her breast, letting out a small burst of breathless laughter. "I'm fine… You startled me."
"I apologize, I did not know you would be in the room."
"It's my lunch break. I didn't want to leave the building." She took a deep breath, her eyes searching his face. "Is it done?"
"Not yet. This was merely a meeting with the… person who is going to aide me."
Something about his face must have conveyed the inner turmoil he was feeling. "Why do you look so… haunted?"
"It is complicated. The less you know about the details involved, the better it will be for you should something happen." He studied the floor, not wanting to meet her eyes. "You put yourself in great danger by helping me. If Boreyev ever found out—"
"Savva, look at me." She tapped his chin with a long, slender finger, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I'm your friend—that's one of the reasons I'm doing this. I appreciate your concern, but I know that's not the only thing troubling you. Whatever it is, you can tell me."
"Not this. This is something I will carry to my grave, Madam. This is something I cannot even share with my Sofiya."
"Sometimes it's easier to talk to someone who isn't…involved. Someone who…" she broke off, gently biting down on her full lower lip. "Sometimes you have to share the burden, or else it will eat away at you like a cancer."
"You say that as if you know from experience." He waited for her answer. After several moments of silence, her jaw tightened, then she began speaking in a voice so soft he could barely hear it.
"I do—I have something that's been… tormenting me for a very long time. I've never told anyone—but I'll trust you with it. Two years ago at a family outing, my cousin… he forced himself on me. When I told…" She sighed, closing her eyes before continuing. "Oleg's parent tried to play it off on the fact he was drunk. He wasn't. He knew exactly what he was doing."
"I'm sorry. No woman should be subjected to such treatment." Savva patted her arm awkwardly. "He will pay for his actions."
"How. Tell me what it is you're planning—what is it that puts such terror in your eyes Savva Luzhkov?"
"You will think I am a monster, madam. You will think I am the most wicked man in existence."
"No—Oleg Ivashkov holds that title. I think you're a good man. One who's been put in a situation that he can't win by following the rules. I think you are doing your best to right the wrongs that were done against someone you love. I think—"
"I have employed a Strigoi to torture them." He cut her off, his words a husky whisper. His tone betrayed the shame he felt at his actions.
Her laughter surprised him. He had expected many reactions. Horror, disgust, anger—but not mirth. He stared at her, confused as he saw a single tear slide down her pale cheek, completely at odds with the happy sound that bubbled from her lips.
"You are the most brilliant, brave man I have ever met. If I weren't married, and you weren't so desperately in love with your Sofiya, I think I'd kiss you."
"Madam? I… I don't understand—"
"Promise that you'll tell me everything—I want to know every single detail of what the Strigoi does to that bastard. I want your words to paint a picture so vivid that I'll be able to see it every time I close my eyes. Maybe then I can chase away the nightmares of what he did to me, once and for all."
Savva studied her upturned face. Her green eyes bored into him like lasers, demanding he comply. "Never. A lady should not hear such things—it would give you different nightmares altogether."
"Nevertheless, you will tell me, won't you?" She smiled at him, and it was such a happy, trusting smile that it weakened his steadfast resolve. She was gazing at him as if he were a chivalrous knight, on the verge of slaying the dragon that hunted her.
He sighed, pushing back a lock of hair that had somehow escaped its binding and was hanging in his eyes. "Yes madam. If that is what you wish." Standing up, Savva reached down to assist her, alarmed when she kept hold of his hand and pulled him into a quick embrace.
"We're friends now, Savva. Call me Eva." Noticing his stiff posture and undeniable discomfort, she released him, exiting the room without another word.
Savva followed her down the hallway, back to the room that had become his home. It was small and uncomfortable, but it housed the sole purpose for his existence. The mere thought put a spring in his step—soon he would be back where he belonged, protecting his Sofiya.
Over the next few days, Savva slowly began to regret sharing his plan with Eva. Not because he was afraid the woman couldn't keep a secret—instead it was because her constant questions were slowly driving him mad. She was frustrated that Oleg still lived, and she couldn't comprehend what could be gained by delaying the inevitable. No matter how many times he tried to explain that it was necessary, still she badgered him. Their last conversation had left him strangely… dazed. One minute he had been in the hall, reiterating in a hushed whisper that he had no control over the timing of the event—the next thing he knew he was sitting in his usual spot, shaking his head in confusion. He assumed that woman had him so distraught that he'd spaced out, losing himself for the remainder of the argument. Since he had barely been sleeping, his lapse was easily dismissible—he was exhausted, mentally and physically.
Even more frustrating was that he understood Eva's position—he felt the exact same irritation. He wanted the whole sordid affair over and done with. He wanted the name of the man that had killed his unborn child. It was inconceivable to him that it was the Strigoi delaying the matter; when he'd returned to the table on the night of their meeting, the human had insisted they wait four days, claiming his 'master' had prior engagements. Savva didn't dare speculate as to what type of activities the Strigoi might be partaking in during the interim, he simply accepted the inevitable, agreeing to the wait.
Needless to say, he was greatly relieved when the appointed time finally drew near. Yakov slipped into the room unnoticed, once again taking his place at Sofiya's bedside while Eva escorted him to the same small room he'd previously used to make his escape. She barely spoke to him, but he refused to worry about her sullenness. He needed all his wits about him while sneaking across the grounds.
The dark seemed to press down on him as the motorcycle hugged the curves of the twisting, narrow road. The farmhouse was one Ibrahim had located, abandoned for years and set on a parcel of land so large that there were no nearby neighbors to bear witness to any comings and goings. Anxiety ate at him as he made his way up the rutted, overgrown dirt drive—throughout his journey he'd been plagued by the nagging feeling that someone was following him. He'd spent most of the trip looking over his shoulder every few minutes, his eyes searching the road behind him for any sign he might have a tail. It was ridiculous, of course—only a case of nerves.
As the house came into view he spotted Radu Iorga—another of Ibrahim's hired men—standing on the dilapidated front porch, leaning against one of the posts that supported the sagging roof, smoking a cigarette. The tall blonde man seemed out of place in such shabby surroundings—his suit was expensive, his grooming impeccable. Smiling as Savva approached, he quickly flicked the glowing cigarette off into the darkness.
"Your… guest thought you might not show."
"And yet here I am." Savva climbed the creaking steps, stopping a few feet away from the Romanian.
"I didn't doubt you. It did." Radu pulled out another cigarette, offering him the pack. When he declined politely, the man continued. "They're waiting for you. It hasn't gone near the cellar—I think it wants to make a dramatic entrance."
Nodding, Savva started for the door, only to be stopped by the feel of the taller man's hand on his shoulder. Cocking an eyebrow, he stared at the hand, then at the man who owned it.
"Be careful with that thing. Watch your back—I don't trust him not to attack us as soon as the Moroi are dead."
"Of course. I won't forget what he is, or what his kind are capable of." With that, Savva entered the house, steeling himself for the long night ahead.
He ignored the closed doors on both sides of the foyer, following the narrow corridor to the back of the house where the kitchen was located. He could hear muffled sounds coming from what must have once been the front parlor. From the faint feminine laughter, he assumed it came from either one of the feeders that Ibrahim had procured or one of the blood whores that Isaiah had required. The Strigoi demanded that the Moroi be well fed before he… entertained them, and had insisted on the use of three women employed at Pohot.
The door to the pantry stood open, revealing a large hole in the wooden floorboards. Someone—Kintsel, he supposed—had already removed the hidden trap door and entered the underground chamber. Carefully he lowered himself down, his feet finding purchase on the rickety ladder. Dim light from the depths below indicated that the lanterns were already lit; their flames cast flickering, eerie shadows on the walls as he descended, making him hyper-aware of the fact that he would soon be joined in the dreary space below by a nightmarish creature.
"Luzhkov," a raspy voice croaked as he turned, "we should have known you were behind this."
He didn't acknowledge the three Moroi that were strapped to folding metal chairs in the center of the room. Instead, he examined his surroundings. He'd never actually entered the cellar before—or even the house, for that matter. Ibrahim had sent him a rough sketch of the layout, the cellar represented by a small square representing the concealed trap door.
The room was large and damp; sporadic patches of some mold like mossy growth decorated the gray field stone walls, making the large open space seem even more dismal. The floor was comprised of hard packed earth, and water could be heard dripping somewhere in the darkness. The lanterns that provided the rooms source of light hung from large metal hooks that were anchored into wooden beams overhead—Savva noticed that two of said lanterns had been removed and placed on the floor, their hooks bare, chains laying on the dirt below them.
Kintsel sat perched on a large stone topped table that had been shoved into the farthest corner of the room. Nodding respectfully at Savva, he rose and walked past the Moroi, silently ascending the ladder. Savva leaned against the table, turning his attention to his guests.
The normally impeccable Moroi lords were disheveled and dirty, looking completely exhausted. Radu had limited their blood supply in order to keep their magic at bay, and it was taking a toll on them. A few sips twice weekly kept them alive, but weak and sick looking.
"Have the accommodations not been to your liking gentlemen?"
"You'll pay for this Luzhkov. I'll see you executed for what you've done," Oleg Ivashkov said, with what Savva assumed was meant to be a fearsome glare.
"I think not." He smiled, hearing footsteps overhead. "You see, I have people to account for my whereabouts at all times. I have friends. Powerful friends."
He turned, prepared to assist the women as they came down the ladder. All three were haggard and pasty, not the clean, healthy type of feeder that the Moroi had become accustomed to. Kintsel roughly led them over, shoving them to their knees in front of the prisoners. Ozera and Dashkov immediately began to feed, but Ivashkov's lip curled up in disgust.
"I want the other feeder—the one the blonde dhampir brought last time."
"I don't believe you are in any position to make demands," Kintsel said, smirking at the Moroi. "You'll eat what I provide or suffer my masters wrath."
Savva's laugh was low and dangerous sounding. "These are the feeders we have on hand. Drink or don't drink, the choice is up to you. I hope you do not, because I would love to watch what Kintsel's employer will do to you for your disobedience."
Ivashkov's face twisted into a malevolent glare, his thoughts telegraphing across his face as he studied the woman's bowed neck. Savva pulled out his stake and was beside the man in a flash, the tip pressing into the soft flesh of his jowls.
"I will kill you before you complete the change," he stated, his voice flat.
"I wouldn't—"
"Do not lie—I know what you were considering. I saw it in your eyes."
"And what would that be, I wonder?" Isaiah's cold, emotionless voice echoed down from the opening overhead. A moment later he dropped down to the dirt floor, completely forgoing the ladder. Smiling broadly, he flashed his fangs as he straightened out the cuff of his black suit coat. "Perhaps he intended to drain the whore dry? To awaken himself and attack you?"
Ivashkov let out a small, terrified sound as his eyes widened in horror at the sight of the Strigoi. The noise alerted his friends—they pulled away from their feeders, staring uncomprehendingly at the new arrival. Their eyes flicked to Savva and he could read them like a book—they were waiting for him to attack the Strigoi and protect them—that was what guardians were for, after all. It was their job—the Moroi came first.
Isaiah sauntered to Savva's side with the rolling grace of a big cat. Motioning towards the Moroi with an outstretched hand, his voice was almost a hiss. "Which one should I start with… what a marvelous selection of Royal blood..."
Savva's hand tightened around the stake as he studied the three struggling, pleading captives—for just a moment, a lifetimes worth of conditioning kicked in, urging him to guard the Moroi and protect them with his life, but he shoved it away. His lips curled up in a vengeful smile as he turned towards the Strigoi.
"You are my dinner guest—the choice is yours, my friend."
And then, the Moroi's screams began.