Sometime in early December.
Dawn is breaking across the mountain peaks of Montana, milky pinks and purples bringing the day closer and sending nefarious creatures back into caves and hollows. A car winds along the frosted road destined for the private airstrip of St. Vladimir's Academy.
Aleksander Wozniak fingers drum against his knee in the back seat, eyes unseeing the landscape passing outside the window. The Guardian driving hadn't disturbed him, hadn't tried to make small talk like a common cab driver, he'd been grateful to be back among those who knew proper etiquette. The Guardian's at the school had reminded him of civilization and the proper order of things. The inexplicable and inexcusable affairs that had transpired at the Dashkov's home seemed even more unworldly and filled him with rage when he returned to the sanctuary of the school. Guardian's manning their stations, only speaking when spoken to, teaching, or delivering updates. Dhampir students remaining respectfully quiet when he was in their presence and again, only speaking when spoken to, letting their Moroi classmates take the lead in general settings.
They were soldiers and thinking otherwise was ridiculous and yet the other Heads had been convinced to go against the age vote. His opinion hadn't mattered, the slights against him had become his fault. He should have known when he left that house and the other established academics didn't follow, protesting on his behalf, that Prince Dashkov was working hard to cultivate his agenda.
Keeping a Blood Whore in his home, parading her around so openly and in an immodest dress – if anything he'd been right to highlight this. He'd thought receiving an invitation to a royal household to celebrate a western holiday had been one of the major highlights of his career. That his position was finally being noticed and regarded highly. He'd clawed his way up to be on the Education board, a representative of culture he took such pride in, a voice that mattered for the greater good. The invitation had turned out to be one of the biggest mistakes of his life and career. Balan and that other weak oaf, Levandi, had shown up to their Monday meeting no longer torn or reluctant, minds made up to vote 'no'. Which left him and Kirova as allies.
The talking had gone round and round. He'd argued until he was blue in the face and he was exasperated to the point of needing to take long breaks. The treatment he'd endured had been turned against him as if it were his own doing, made out to be a sleaze and hostile character that a Guardian had to subdue. Kirova had looked at him with reproach and suspicion. Outside the meetings, he avoided them all.
But now, he was on his way home, back to order and normality. The Educations vote was hung and Victor Dashkov could go to hell.
He takes a call from his wife, eight hours ahead at home, and she tells him she misses him and apologises again that the visit had not gone the way he'd hoped, appeasing him. He had not told her the entire story, there was no point, she had no head for politics, and he was sick of relieving the details, just that the Prince was an arrogant and immoral character.
A Blood Whore disguised as young charge in his care. Rescued from her small town and given refuge with her brother at his boss' generosity. Bullshit. You did not keep a specimen like that without making every use of it.
The airfield comes into view but the car slows into the shoulder of the road.
"Why are we stopping?" He demands. The car to be out of petrol and having to walk the rest of the way would just be icing on the cake.
The Guardian ignores him and gets out of the car, waking his temper. He waits for some indication of what's going on, for the Guardian to knock on his window and apologise for the inconvenience but it's swiftly being rectified.
The door wrenches open, making his temper spark again but it quickly sputters out. The Guardian facing him is not his driver.
Dimitri Belikov drags him from his seat without a word.
"Unhand me now!" He manages to shout, the shock slapped away by winter wind as he's forced out of the car.
The brute ignores him, fastens a hand into the back of his collar and kicks his knees out from under him. He struggles to stand, to wrench free but the Dhampir bears down on him with his unmatchable strength and stature. He has little choice but to let the cold asphalt bite into his knees and try to find the reign of his element, feel out that essence of life itself passing through the Dhampir's lungs and squeeze it from him.
He'd been so caught up in the bastard handling him like he had the right, that he hadn't noticed he's not alone.
Dashkov's dog squats in front of him.
"Hello again."
Aleksander's eyes widen. The man should be dead or in a worse state. That would explain why Dashkov hadn't mentioned him, hadn't thrown into his lie spinning that Aleksander had killed one of his Guardian's after assaulting the Blood Whore. He'd thought it was the leverage he was holding back or that he didn't want to deal with an investigation that would distract from the main task of the vote.
"What? Surprised to see me?"
He has no words for him.
"I'm not particularly thrilled to be seeing you again either but to business. You're going to vote 'no'. Understand?"
The second wave of shock gives way to anger. "How fucking dare you? Either of you? Let me go!"
He looks around for his driver throwing curses at both of them. A strike to the side of his head makes him slump, the dizziness descending in one heavy wave and he's only held up by the grip on his jacket.
"For a Headmaster you are not quick to the mark, are you? Now pay attention or Dimitri will hit you again and this time he won't be gentle."
The words are hard to grasp, slipping past him as the road sways and the bitter wind presses into his skin.
"You will get on that plane, you will return home and from your office tomorrow you will send an eloquently crafted email to the other heads informing them you have changed your mind. You will say 'no' and you will stand by it. To make things a little easier for you, our colleague Ben already has that email ready in your drafts and if you decide to put your own embellishments to it, it's a wasted exercise. It won't reach anyone. And if you continue trying to weasel your way around it, call Kirova directly, for instance, then we'll make sure your wife and your faculty are forwarded all those raunchy messages from Magdalena. You know, the woman you were just texting whilst on the phone to your wife?"
The blonde Guardian grins watching Aleksander absorb the information, dread drowning out his rage and disbelief.
"Be grateful Aleksander because if you didn't have a task to carry out you would be intimately finding out why they call me Dashkov's dog." He leans forward, a hairsbreadth between his lips and the Moroi's cheek. "When I get hold of something, I don't let go."
Then he stands and steps back, in one fluid and precise motion. Leaving the Moroi reeling and starting to shake, from fear or the cold it was hard to determine.
"Do you understand?"
The Moroi is blinking, dumb with all that's transpired. Dimitri prompts him with a shake.
"Y-you can't do this."
"What's giving you the impression we can't? I think I've been quite polite about it considering you tried to suffocate my brain matter."
The Moroi flinches back at the violence darkening the Guardian's face. The situation finally starting to sharpen for him. He was on his knees, in snow melting through his trousers, road biting into his skin, being held in a vice-like grip by a man who seemed less than human and one who smirked whilst threatening him.
"Tell us you understand."
"I understand." Aleksander utters, betraying his ego, betraying himself.
"Good boy." Dashkov's dog ruffles his hair and he jerks back. "Well, I've said my peace."
He looks above Aleksander and nods. He's hauled to his feet like a rag doll and then pinned to the back of the vehicle like an insect. Dimitri Belikov, the imposing one of Dashkov's three, no longer holds him. He didn't need to, the look the man was giving him made Aleksander press himself back against the metal, wishing desperately he could be inside.
"I will say this once." He says quietly, his Russian accent thicker and contrasting against the calm tone. "If you ever lay a hand on another woman or someone you consider beneath you again, consider it your last act on this earth."
The only sound is Aleksander's shaky breath being dragged through his teeth. His mind disconnects from his body but he's trying to locate his tongue, his self-preservation needing to tell him he understands but that last remaining shred of his pride finds it first.
"She's a Blood wh-"
His pride doesn't get to finish as Dimitri's fist shatters his nose. All that exists is agony as he slides to the ground in a heap. Dimitri kneels beside him and behind him the blonde sighs, pulling out a packet of tissues and tossing it toward them.
"One hand on another or one more word about her." Dimitri says, resetting the terms of Aleksander keeping his foothold in this world. He grips the Moroi's bloody chin and turns in toward him. "Thank you, for your co-operation."
The hold on his face releases and Aleksander slumps, his mind grappling to orientate himself. After what could be seconds or minutes he pulls himself upright and looks around at the empty road.
The scuff of a boot makes him jump and his driver rounds the side of the car.
"We should get going, sir."
Aleksander stares at him and his almost bored demeanor. Wordlessly he struggles to his feet.
The Guardian gestures to the pack of tissues and the Moroi jerks at the movement. "You might want to use those. Use the snow too."
"Right. Right." Aleksander utters and mechanically grabs for the packet. Woodenly he gets back into the car as the Guardian slides into the driver's seat.
When the plane is in sight, which means other witnesses, he asks, "How much did they pay you?"
The Guardian meets his eye in the rearview mirror. "I don't know what you're talking about. Safe flight. Careful on the ice, wouldn't want to fall again."
Aleksander is out of the car as soon as it rolls to a stop in front of the jet. He pays no mind to the people waiting, doesn't greet or thank anyone, taking the steps two at a time into the aircraft that will get him out of this god-forsaken place.