Chapter Two: What do I do Now?

"Her beauty raged with a fire that even the demons wouldn't dare to touch."

1932; Sakhalin, Russia

The coast of Sakhalin was cold; the waves harsh and brutal as they swept the shoreside in their frigid winter temperatures. Mikhail Jirov drifted amongst the sea, slowly losing blood, warmth, and consciousness. He was floating, drowning, tossed among the waves as if he weighed nothing more than a feather in the wind. Water bled crimson around him as he slowly bled out from his injuries. But at least Yuliy was safe, and Yevgraf was gone, right?

His breath plumed in front of him as he watched the emptiness of the sky float past among the scattered clouds through heavy, half-lidded eyes. He was cold, freezing even, but his body had no energy left to keep itself warm and running.

The thick blackness of unconsciousness slowly started to overtake his vision, and he closed his eyes completely. He was going to die here. He knew he wouldn't survive. If he didn't bleed out, the sharks would get him, and if they didn't, hypothermia would. He would die, and no one would notice until his body was long gone in the depths of the ocean. Maybe he could drift away peacefully in his unconsciousness. There was no use panicking about the hopeless situation now anyway. Yeah… that sounded nice…

Just as the blackness overtook his vision, he realized he had been washed up onshore. Not that it made much difference. Now he'd just die on the beach instead of the bottom of the sea. His sluggish mind slowed even more as the waves washed over him like heavy blankets. It wouldn't hurt to take a nap, right? Just close his eyes and sleep for a while… yeah… a nap sounded great… especially after the fight over the Arc…

Abruptly, something tapped his head, and he peeled his eyes open, eyelids weighing a million pounds. Couldn't he just sleep? Why was everything keeping him awake? A woman with fiery red hair stood above him. She was not dressed in proper winter gear, instead sporting a knee-length, pastel green dress. Her red hair was cascading down her back in loose curls, a crown of white roses atop her head. She twirled a white lace parasol in her white-gloved hands. In short, a bizarre outfit for the harsh Russian weather, but she didn't seem bothered. In fact, she seemed perfectly comfortable. She looked familiar, but he couldn't place it. But it didn't matter, right? She probably found him right as he was on the cusp of death. Couldn't she just leave him be?

Before he could worry about much else, unconsciousness swallowed him whole; her intense yellow eyes being the last thing he saw.

…

Mikhail awoke somewhere warm, soft, and entirely unfamiliar. Then, finally, the room came into focus, and he saw the walls draped in luxurious rugs and curtains of rich reds, golds, bronzes, and plums. A fireplace was stoked high with a wood fire and took up an entire wall with scenery paintings on either side. The bed he was in was large and covered in white sheets, thick quilts, and downy pillows.

His entire body ached, and as he slowly sat up, he realized sterile bandages had replaced his old soiled ones. Someone had replaced his clothes with a simple white button-down and loose trousers, his feet bare. Feeling his face, he found it clean of grime and soot and blood from the fight. Hell, even his hair felt cleaner than it had in years. He didn't feel battle-worn or beaten.

On the contrary, he felt fine, if not a little sore. However, what worried him the most was that his hunger didn't plague him as it normally did after a large battle or even minor scuffle. He didn't feel any urge at all. No lust for blood, no craving for the ripping of flesh and spilling of crimson along the ground.

Who had changed him out of his blood-soaked clothes? Who had fed him?

The rug was soft underneath his feet as he slid out from under the covers and looked warily around the room. It was immaculately clean and smelled of pine and fire—the doorknob leading to who knows where was polished and shined. With a twist and push, he walked into the rest of the house.

Luxurious, that was the only word he could think of to describe the large living area. Tapestries and paintings lined the wooden walls. A massive roaring fireplace sat at the center of one wall, a pot of something in the middle of the logs—deep, luxurious fur rugs underneath a set of armchairs set in front of it. A large stone staircase led upstairs to other rooms, and a stone bookcase sat along another wall that led into a kitchen. A large gold chandelier inlaid with diamonds and crystals hung high overhead, glittering in the firelight.

Walking further out into the room, Mikhail inspected the pot and spied a thick viscous liquid with chunks of something floating inside. Leaving it and replacing the lid on top, he turned to the rest of the room, looking out the windows to see that they still had to be on Sakhalin.

"Ah, so you're awake then?" He jerked, hand reaching for a weapon that wasn't at his side as he looked towards the voice. The woman from before stood on the staircase, still dressed in the same green dress that she had found him in. She had lost the flower crown, lace parasol, and gloves, now sporting a pair of silken slippers instead of heels. Her hands were on her hips, a pleased smile on her face.

"I'm surprised you're awake this early. It's only been a few hours since you washed up on shore." She explained as she daintily walked down the staircase and into the kitchen, waving him to follow her. Warily, he did so, keeping an eye out for something he knew wasn't there and for a weapon he knew he didn't have. The kitchen had a stone island in the middle, oakwood cabinets lining the walls. She left him very temporarily and came back with two bowls of that deep red meat soup.

Mikhail took a hesitant seat on one of the barstools as she motioned towards them. The woman set a bowl of soup down in front of him. It looked like the Russian soup Borscht but smelled different. As a vampire, he couldn't eat human food, not that he needed to, and he didn't even need to feed at this moment. But this… This smelled delicious… His stomach rumbled, not for blood, but for the comforting scent the food brought. The woman was smiling knowingly.

"You can go ahead and dig in. It's safe for vampires. And you can ask questions as you eat." She gestured as she took a seat across from him, stirring her bowl of soup. Mikhail narrowed his eyes, mind battling stomach as he debated his choices. Mind over the belly. His stomach won out, and he took a hesitant bite. Taste exploded in his mouth, and before he knew it, the bowl was empty. The woman got him another serving that he ate slower than before as he asked his questions.

"Who are you?" She tapped her spoon against her lips,

"Idris Tana. We met before when Yevgraf was asking for information about the Arc. It was about two years ago, now who are you? I never did get your name."

"Mikhail, Mikhail Jirov." Idria swallowed another mouthful of soup and nodded,

"Lovely name Mikhail, a bit exotic hm? Means "A gift from God" in Hebrew, I believe."

…

He continued to ask his questions, her asking her own in return. He learned about Idris. He learned her name was Idris Tana, she was on vacation in Sakhalin, she wouldn't say her age, and she was planning on returning to Europe as soon as he was fully healed.

A fuzzy memory resurfaced from the depths of his mind. "Careful, Yevgraf… I'm a dangerous woman…" he blinked several times in recognition.

"You called Yevgraf an idiot." Idris smiled,

"So you remember me?" He nodded, spoon in his mouth as he took in the information;

"He wasn't happy after you left." At this, Idris laughed,

"Well, I could have told him exactly where the Arc was, how to activate it, anything he wanted to know. I would be upset if I were him." A pause, a mere moment of silence before he asked more questions;

"How did you have information on the Arc? Only the Sirius clan or Yevgraf's group know about that."

"I have my ways. He's not the only one with eyes all over." She leaned her head on her palm, her glittering yellow eyes almost unnerving now that they weren't hidden behind sunglasses.

"How?"

"When you have lived as long as I have, you tend to make a few friends." She tilted her head, studying him as he took in the information.

"Are you a vampire?" At this, Idris threw her head back and laughed, teeth glinting in the light of the chandelier.

"Oh heavens no! No offense to you as a vampire and all, but vampires are terribly inferior compared to me." She gave that feral grin he remembered from before.

"What are you then?" A shiver ran down his spine as she spoke once more,

"I am a dragon." Mikhail stared for a solid minute then snorted, stirring his soup around in his bowl as he did.

"Dragons don't exist." Idris gave a knowing smile, her yellow eyes seemingly glowing in the chandelier light.

"Of course they do. You're looking at one." She hummed, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and back behind her ear- which he noticed was pointed ever so slightly at the tip. When she smiled, his eyes caught on her fangs. Every tooth in the woman's mouth was sharpened to a point, her incisors slightly longer than the rest.

"You don't look like a dragon."
"And you don't look like very much of a vampire, now do you? All skinny and the like. You look like a toothpick! Someone hugs you, and they'd get a papercut!" She retorted, and he shut his mouth.

Idris spooned the soup into her mouth and worked it for a few seconds before swallowing. When she exhaled, smoke wisped from her mouth and lightly into his face, causing him to cough lightly. She didn't seem to notice nor care.

"Dear me, how to explain this… You see- Dragons don't always look like the classic dragon you hear about in stories." She interlaced her fingers together and set her chin on her fingers.

"Few dragons look like the classic dragon you think of anyway. Mainly the fire kind. The water and more aquatic dragons are, like slippery eels, while air dragons look like scaly serpents. Don't get me started on earth dragons; that's a whole other story. Anyhow, we all have something like two forms; one is the large scaly beast everyone knows and fears. Well- some are large and scaly. The other is something like a human form. Something that lets us blend in among humans." She gestured to herself,

"As you can see, I'm in the latter form." Mikhail stirred his food, frowning.

"But why hasn't this come to light before? You'd think that people would notice dragons."

"And they have, some get written off as crazy, others become dragonologists, many simply go about their lives knowing we exist. Many large cities are 'owned' by dragons, them falling within the boundaries of their territories." She explained, scraping the last few spoonfuls from her bowl and into her mouth. Mikhail sat back at this information.

Dragons were real.

He remembered his mother telling him and Yuliy when they were little more than children that dragons would swoop in and gobble them up if they didn't behave. Yuliy had nightmares for two days after that. It was almost funny looking back on it now.

"You're saying you can turn into a dragon?" He almost didn't know what to ask now; the fact that dragons were real was almost world-changing.

"Yes, I can. Not that I would right now. I rather like this place, so I'd rather not destroy it. I am… rather large in that form." Idris explained, almost sheepish, as she raised her cup in front of her mouth, and he swore he saw her cheeks redden just slightly. With a shake of her head, she seemingly regained her composure and set her cup down,

"Now, I'm sure you have plenty more questions, and I am more than happy to answer them. But what about you?" She leaned her chin on the back of her hand, studying him with those intense yellow eyes. He blinked, surprised at the sudden change of topic.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Mr. Jirov. What are you going to do now that Yevgraf is gone? Now that his Blood Pact is now nullified, what are you going to do with your life?" A valid question, but one he didn't have the answer to. Instead, he looked to his soup. He had almost finished it again.

"I- I don't know… I always thought I would die while in his service. I'm not a Sirius anymore, so I have no clue what to do anymore."

"You were a Sirius?" Now she cocked her head, eyes alight with curiosity.

"Before I turned into a vampire, yes. Believe me. It wasn't by choice." He gritted out as unpleasant memories flashed through his mind.

"I believe you; vampirism seems like a nasty business. But might I suggest something to do?" He looked up and met her gaze as she spoke again.

"We need to save your brother who possesses the Arc of Sirius."