Disclaimer: I do not own Vampire Academy or anything surrounding it (but I do own this plot :D)
JPOV
Christ, it was cold. I buried my hands deeper into their pockets and scrunched my neck into my collar; the wind nipped on my cheeks like it was flicking me with a knife and my only resistance was a grimace. As it was April, the winter season was coming to an end, but the temperature remained decidedly cold, as though winter wasn't quite ready to bugger off yet.
Selfish bastard, I thought. They say that it was Britain that had the cold, drizzly weather. Clearly, they had not been to Russia.
"Ah, Guardian Hathaway. Enjoying the weather?" I did not move my head from its nest in my collar and between my scrunched shoulders, but my eyes shifted enough to glare at the smirking Moroi who had just entered my peripheral.
"Mr Mazur," I said, annunciating every syllable in my frost-induced state, "remind me which of us is carrying a weapon?"
"Whoever told you I was not?" He cocked a brow.
I scowled. "What did the taxi guy say?" I snapped, changing the subject.
"Hard to tell. His Russian was worse than mine, but from what I could make out..." he said trailing off a little as he caught another glimpse at my face. "I fear you may not like it..."
Great. Just great.
A growl formed deep in my throat, tickling me with its vibration as it begged to be released. "How long?"
"Up to an hour, probably two."
"Quick trip to Russia, my ass." I muttered.
Apparently, this was to Ibrahim's great amusement. He chuckled in that smiling way he did that broke down the formal persona he always put on: a mask of eerie politeness. Yet, as we stood, freezing, in Novosibirsk while we waited for our hire car to arrive get us to Baia, the facade was gone. Indeed, it wasn't really surprising, but in the stress of it all, he hadn't had time to shave, which left his face laced with a layer of bearded stubble, giving him a somewhat rugged complexion. Combined with the worn down, but still ever-so eye catching suit, he practically fit the bill for your average highwayman. I would've said pirate, but there wasn't nearly enough leather. And he had way too many manners, I noted as he arranged our luggage into a make shift seat and gestured for me to sit. I hesitated out of principle. He eyed me for a moment, smirked, shrugged and sat down, still leaving enough room for me. I scowled and joined him.
We had checked in with Harriet and Emyl upon our arrival in Moscow. Ibrahim's hotline to the plucky Brit was proving to be of much use: apparently Vincent didn't take family reunions too well and was sneaking out when he could to, and I quote, "alleviate at least some of the torturous activity". They were gathering as much as though could, careful not to encroach on Hamlet and his mission. Evidently, there were some boundaries with these boys.
Well, maybe not with all of them...
"What do you think you are doing!?" I jumped up and off the suitcase upon feeling Ibrahim's hand touch my far shoulder.
He looked up, his arm still extended, and frowned. "Guardian Hathaway, perhaps you hadn't noticed, but you are currently having a somewhat unpleasant reaction to the present weather situation. Since you are far too selfless to accept my aid in the matter as an act of kindness, your shivering was starting to bug me, so sit down and let me make it stop."
Son of a- I growled again, tightening my folded arms. Dear God, this man was infuriating! I continued to glare at him with no affect on his resolve. "Sit."
I submitted. Plonking down back into his embrace and trying to hate every minute of it. "You better not be smirking, mate."
"Yes, I have learnt to keep my facial contortions to myself around you." He replied. I rolled my eyes and snuggled deeper into his side, not really realising, at the time, what I was doing.
We were silent for a moment, primarily because the only noise I could get out of my lips successfully was the sound of chattering teeth. Though I wasn't about to admit it, his plan was definitely working and I was definitely warming up. I tried pretending the chatter my teeth, but this quickly proved futile so I directed my focus elsewhere. "How old were you?"
"Hmm?"
I cleared my throat awkwardly. "How old were you when you came to Russia?"
If he was confused at my sudden change in topic, he didn't show it; merely, he replied in the same flippant yet somehow thoughtful manner. "I was twelve and we left when I was sixteen."
I looked up a little. "Only four years? What made you leave?"
Ibrahim shrugged. "My father, his job was somewhat...similar to my own, shall we say," he said casting a wary look my way. "He made many enemies, almost everywhere we went. He, my mother and I were always on the, or at least ready to, move."
I winced a little. "That can't have been easy."
A flash of a smirk danced over his features before disappearing as quickly as it came. He looked lost in his thoughts for a moment before seeming to remember that I was still there. "Perhaps it is why I am an only child." He said with superficial amusement.
I felt a pang of guilt bringing this up, so endeavoured to cheer him up. "Nah, maybe they took one look at you and realised you were quite enough work on your own."
To my shock, he burst out laughing. I smiled wholly, glad to have recovered and not lead him down a too upsetting path. "That is equally plausible." He looked down at me, with a smile that covered his every feature. "What is your favourite colour?"
I blinked, frowned and looked up at him more. "I-sorry?"
His smile increased. "Come, you asked me a question. Can I not do the same?"
I mean, it was a perfectly sound argument, but I was slightly baffled by the randomness of the question. "Green..." I said with caution.
He seemed to ponder over the answer. "I would have guessed blue."
I cocked my brow slyly. "Why, because I am so cold-hearted?"
He chuckled. "No. That is not why."
Now that he had brought it up, I was quite interested to know what his was, however useless a piece of information it was. "What's yours?"
"Red." He said definitely. "The more muted, darker colours though, not the bold-in-your-face type."
I rolled my eyes at the general Ibrahim-ness which that sentence exhibited. "I agree: I am much fonder of the natural greens. They seem more...real."
He smiled again. "First kiss?"
"I beg your pardon." I said slightly over-dramatically, feigning insult, though was still surprised by his questioning.
"Oh dear, have I offended your delicate, lady-like constitution? I am ever so sorry." He replied, mirroring my level of dramatics.
I gently jabbed his side with my fist. "No you're not."
"Not even slightly." He said with a chuckle. "So who was he?" he paused, reconsidering. "Or she?"
I fixed him with my eyes. "He." He chuckled. "Why do you want to know, anyway?"
He shrugged which was a rather odd feeling given that I was pressed under his arm. "As I say, we may be here a while: humour me."
I was slightly concerned that he may want to go track the chap down and beat him up, or whatever it was the Ibrahim did. In all honesty, I would've probably helped him considering who it was. As pitiful as it was, the kiss that Alastair Kravitz planted upon me at the Ivashkov party – where this whole cacophony of catastrophes began – in aid of a stupid bet was my first. The small romantic part of me wanted was rather pissed at that, having wanted it to actually mean something, but in truth, intimacy was always something of a mystery and a discomfort for me, so I didn't wish to dwell on it too much. However, there was no way I was admitting to Ibrahim that I had only had my first kiss less than a month ago, so devised another solution. "It was at some big, fancy party at Court. I can't really remember it: his name was Alan, I think. Maybe Alastair, I don't know." I tried to sound as casual as possible, but it wasn't working. Man, I really sucked at lying.
Ibrahim, obviously, didn't believe a word of that, but did not call me out on it. I suspected he didn't expect me to give an honest answer, but knew me well enough that there would be some truth in the matter. A small burst of panic ran through me as my brain reminded me of the extent of Ibrahim's inference skills, but he replied with his usual aura of casualness. "No matter, he definitely doesn't deserve your time, let alone your thoughts."
Now it was my turn to read between the lines. His comment seemed to both alarm and comfort me at the same time in the way on Ibrahim knew how. I grimaced at the thought, but was spared from having to change the subject when he spoke again: "Milah Ornek: she was mine. She was eight and I six."
I couldn't resist the quip and looked up at him. "Like your women older, do you?"
He smiled. "I like my women, whatever way they come." He said with a wink.
I shook my head and resumed my position. "Was it a long-term relationship?" I asked, slightly teasingly.
He nodded. "Indeed: lasted all of a day." I snorted and hid my laughter in his side. "Guardian Hathaway, are you laughing at me?" he said, feigning hurt which only served in making me laugh more. "I'll have you know, she was my first love."
I composed myself, biting down on my bottom lip. "Sorry."
"No you're not."
I smiled. "Not even slightly."
He shook his head and sighed loudly into the cold night. "So go on then, an eye for an eye, who was your first love, so I can mock him relentlessly?"
I stiffened a little and, being as we were, I had a feeling Ibrahim felt it too. As it will surprise no-one, affairs of the heart were not my forte, so I tried to answer honestly, but carefully. "Emyl, I suppose." One look at Ibrahim's face and I realised further explanation was required. "Not like that. But he was my first friend and I suppose friendship is a kind of love..." I trailed off, thinking about how we had parted. How far we had come from those two, scrawny kids paired together once in class and then allied ever since. Allies for life. How far had we fallen...
Ibrahim considered for a moment. "Surely then, your first love would be your parents?" Instead of stiffening again, I removed myself fully from his embrace and turned away. He flinched. "Janin-"
"Don't."
He retreated, the hand that was extended out fell to his lap and he remained a respectful distance. "Forgive me. It is an unfortunate habit of mine: seeing information but being blind to its significance."
I paused and closed my eyes, swallowing down every emotion threatening to boil over in my throat. "Consider yourself forgiven: it is not your fault."
"Neither is it yours, I suspect." He said. I tightened my eyelids, desperately blocking out everything around me. I wanted to disappear – shrivel down into a dark pit and vanish. Running was always easier than fighting when I came to the battlefield of emotions, particularly with regard to my...'parents'. So desperate and distracted was I in blocking out the wider world that I did not notice when Ibrahim got up and walked round to face me. It was only brought to my attention with the feel of his fingertips against my chin, tilting my head and impulsively-opened gaze towards his remorseful eyes. "Worry not: the past needn't always grace the present. It can remain forgotten." My lips twitched and I watched as he rose from his squat, turning around to check the road again, but inadvertently crashing into a passer-by.
"Izvinite-"
"Nyet pro-Ibrahim?"
Ibrahim took one look at the man, blinked and punched him in the face.
Remember when I told you about how Ibrahim could shock me, beyond anything at any given moment? And also how it peaked?
Well...
"Ibrahim!" I shot from both my own self-pity and my seat, no longer feeling the coldness of the weather. Ibrahim, from my perspective having just punched a random guy in the street, continued to beat the man relentlessly. I witnessed then what I had imagined to be a demonological possession: a corruption of all things good in place of pure, unadulterated fury. He smacked, he kicked and he knocked the man to the ground. The man, the poor soul, seemed in a paradox of being both shocked and unsurprised. He didn't bother fighting back; hell, I don't think he could. But I had to step in before Ibrahim Mazur killed him. "Ibrahim: look at me!" I ordered, standing in front of him, blockading the man behind me.
"Get out my way, Janine..." he warned, his tone an icy growl that petrified me more than his actions. His chocolate eyes had turned the blackest of black and every fibre of his being emanating rage.
"Ibrahim: stop." I ordered again, though there was a desperate undertone that I could not shake.
His colourless eyes met mine. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way."
I took an involuntary step back, but stood my ground. "No."
Ibrahim inhaled loudly. "Guardian Hathaway, as your charge, I order you to get the fuck out of my way..."
I cast a glance behind me: the man was still rolling about the ground, clutching his stomach and groaning. I looked back at Ibrahim. There was no reasoning. There was no mercy. He held a look that I knew all too well; a look commonly found upon the face of the un-dead, the Strigoi. It poisoned him. Subverted him.
I saw only one option.
I took a step forward, towards the blazing form of rage that stood before me and whispered my sorrow: "Forgive me." And with that, I swung: crashing my palms against his temples, forgive me, so that he staggered and with one final swing, smashed my clenched fist against the underside of his jaw, forgive me, and knocked him out. I saw the colour return to his eyes as the rolled back into his skull; all forces keeping him standing fell away like stripping away a Band-Aid. He fell forward and I caught him, holding him close to my frame and gently easing him to the ground. Forgive me.
I turned my attention to the man. A shrivelling, moaning mess laying on the white snow, stained blood red. "Hey, pal, you-" I stopped myself, contemplating the highly probably fact he didn't speak English. He groaned again and rolled onto his front. I walked towards him whilst racking my brain for anything Russian. "Kak dela?"
"Fear not," he grunted, shaking off my attempted aid and pushing himself to his feet. "I am both well and American."
I wasn't sure how relieved I was at his assurance. "Right. Do you need me to call anyone? Maybe a hospital..." I trailed off with a wince as he stroked his dislodged jaw. His face was red, but under it was what could be considered your conventional, stereotypical handsome face with strong, protruding features and deep, dark green eyes, hidden under the swell of his cheek. I knew it was wrong, but I was quite impressed by the extent of the damage Ibrahim had inflicted on the chap.
I snapped out of my apparent but very much inappropriate admiration of Ibrahim's actions at the sound of the man's strained chuckle. "No, no: I'll be fine. I've been in worse scrapes than this, if you know what I mean." He said with a wink, or at least the closest thing he could manage in his condition.
I clenched my jaw, beginning to see why Ibrahim didn't like him. "Well, if you're sure."
"Yeah, it's all good. People don't ask too many questions round here and, hey, violence is just a means to an end, right?" he said with a smile.
I was then rather impressed with myself for managing to maintain the mask of indifference at that particular comment: he had tried to find some sort of grounding or indeed understanding, but clearly knew absolutely nothing about being a guardian, or even a dhampir. I decided against reacting to his last comment, instead steering the conversation away. "I wish you all the best, sir-"
"Randall."
"Sorry?"
He grinned. "Randall Ivashkov, at your service. But most people call me Rand." He said with a mock bow before digging into his pocket to take out a handkerchief and wiping away some of the blood. "Jenny, was it?"
Jenny. Emyl. I shook out the thought and smiled. "Yes, now I really think you should get seen to."
He shrugged. "I'm tough – I make the rules in my life." I cocked a brow. Was this guy pissed as well? I sighed: we were in Russia after all. Maybe it was an unfair stereotype, but I couldn't imagine that we were far from the nearest vodka supply.
"You should probably go before he wakes up." I gestured to the limp body behind me, not looking round for fear of further guilt.
He seemed to consider for a moment, looking up and down my figure which made my blood boil. "You're probably right. Well, it was nice to meet you, Jenny. I do hope we cross paths again." He tried to extend his arm out, but realising it was broken or sprained or whatever it was, he retracted, smiled and walked away. I watched him through a narrowed glare, a feeling deep within me telling me something was wrong, and not just because Ibrahim, for want of a better word, 'vamped' out on him.
I glanced back to the said Moroi. He looked remarkably peaceful against the thin layer of white on the ground, almost impossible to tell I had knocked him out cold. I walked towards him and squatted down, readjusting his jacket and brushing away the dirt from his face. I see the beginnings of a bruise on his jaw and I looked away.
Thankfully, it was only ten minutes later that the car finally arrived. The driver got out, took one look at Ibrahim and asked I needed a hand. Within the next ten minutes, we had loaded the bags into the boot and loaded Ibrahim into the back and I jumped in next to him. The driver resumed his seat in the front and switched on the radio. "You mind, no?" He asked.
"No, go ahead."
"I take you to Baia, yes?"
I nodded before realising he couldn't see that. "Yes, I have the address if you need it."
"No, I already have address." He said, sliding the car into fourth to cruise along the clear road. It was dark and still cold, the car not being any warmer than the outside, but the thin layer of snow that had lined the Novosibirsk pavement had been worn down by traffic to leave a clear run if tarmac.
The drive was remarkably pleasant, or at least as much as it could be with an unconscious man and a woman too uncomfortable to talk to the other man driving the car. I found solace in the music I didn't understand as I watched the world sneak past in the shadows of the outside world. We had left definitive civilisation a while back and entered into the isolated realm of the heartland of Siberia. I knew nothing of where we were going. Baia? I had never heard of the place. Though, if I'm being entirely honest, I had never heard of Novosibirsk either. Geography was definitely not my strong suit, so there was no choice I'd know about a small, rural town in central Siberia. It also didn't help that I had no idea who this Olena Belikova was, or even what she looked like. How on earth was I supposed to find her?
I glanced over at Ibrahim; he remained unconscious, his head resting against the window and his eyes shut off from the world. I wondered if he'd remember anything when he woke. I had hit him quite hard. Very hard, in fact, so I didn't think he'd be waking up any time soon. Great.
I must have dozed off at some point because when I opened my eyes, we were slowing down. I frowned. "Are we here?" I said, looking out into the dark abyss.
"Baia, yes." The driver replied, pulling the car to a stop, sliding out of gear and applying the handbrake. He looked round for a moment before hopping out and striding to the back of the car. I stopped looking out the window and started looking at Ibrahim: he was still very much unresponsive.
Shit.
I jumped out the car to help the driver with our bags, placing them on the side of the road. I then opened the back-right door and pulled Ibrahim out, plonking him down on the bags. The driver hovered for a bit and it took me a while to notice. "Um, are you okay?"
He seemed confused. "Payment...?"
"Oh, right...um..." I patted myself down to see if I had any money before I glanced towards Ibrahim. I grimaced. Forgive me. Rummaging in his jacket pocket, I found a sizable wodge of roubles. Not knowing the currency exchange, I handed it over to the driver who struggled to contain his delight. "I take it that's enough." I said.
He composed his features. "This is about right."
"Sure it is." I said, glancing apologetically towards the unwitting Moroi. The driver, having thanked me, wandered back towards his car. I only caught sight of where he was going after he had got back into the vehicle. "Wait!" I called out, but it was too late. He had gone. I took the opportunity to properly survey my surroundings: we were indeed in a small town, which was a start. Whether it was Baia or not was hard to say. Everything was shut and quiet given that it was eleven o'clock in the evening. The street-lamps were dull and ineffective, but gave enough light so that I could see a substantial distance. I could feel the cold hilt of my stake against my side which held an almost calming edge. I was a guardian. I could deal with this. Think of it like a training exercise, I told myself and began to reassess the environment.
"Kak dela?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Leaping round, I backed towards Ibrahim and jolted my stake out in front of me to face the voice. I nearly cried when I saw who owned the voice. A small boy, no more than six years old, stood in front of me. His features were hidden under a long brown fringe which forced him to tilt his head up to look in front of him, but highlighted by the dim glow concocted by the streetlamps and the moonlight. I dropped my stake down and he inclined his little head, seemingly unfazed by the fact I had just threatened him with a weapon.
"Otkuda vy?" he said again.
I blinked. "Vy-" I paused, trying to remember how you said it. "Vy govorite po-angliiski?
"Yeah, I speak English."
Oh thank God. "Hi there, I'm Guar-" I stopped. Did they have guardians in communes? Did they know about them? "My name is Janine."
"Who is he?" the little boy nodded towards Ibrahim.
"Oh, him. He's..." I pondered for a moment, "He's my friend. He's just not feeling too well." That was an understatement. The boy frowned under his fringe, as though he did not believe me. I decided to move this along. "We are actually here to see a friend of ours: Olena Belikova?" I said.
The little boy smiled. "I know her."
"You do?" I said, a little involuntarily.
"Mhmm." He nodded.
"Do you know where she lives?" I asked, not believing my luck.
"Mhmm." He nodded again. "But if you are a friend, why don't you know?"
Ah. Damn, this boy was smart. "W-well, we haven't seen her in a while, you see, and..." I looked around for inspiration. "...it's quite dark..." genius Hathaway "...and we got a little lost. My friend here start feeling a little unwell so he sat down and fell asleep."
The little boy considered for a moment before scrunching up his face and shrugging. "I can take you to her."
"Thank you!" I exclaimed, a little too enthusiastically.
The boy grinned and turned to leave, before seeming to remember something and coming back. "Would you like me to carry your bag?"
"Um..." Did I trust him? Did I have a choice? "Yes, thank you." I said, picking up Ibrahim's limp form. I hooked his arm around my shoulders and secured my arm around his waist. His height and my lack thereof proved a little tricky, but I persevered, gritting through the pain. To his credit, the little boy grabbed both bags and began dragging them against the ground, leading me down the street and towards the house towards the end of the block. He had a look of determination on his face and a sense of victory when he reached the door. Pushing against it gently, it opened and he gestured for me to follow. "Oh, I don't think..." Too late. He was already inside. Well, this was a great first impression. I only hoped this Olena was as forgiving as Ibrahim made her out to be.
I followed the little boy through the small hall and into the main living space, with sofas and seats to my right and a dining and kitchen area to my left. I sighed and tugged Ibrahim towards the sofas, plonking him down again, he fell onto his side. It didn't look like a particularly comfortable position, but my arms were way too tired to move him again.
"Dimitri, is that you out of be-" I looked up to see a woman in her mid-twenties. Her eyes met mine and were filled with fear. "Dimka, prikhodit zdes..." she said, reaching out for the boy.
The boy shook his head. "Nyet, mama." He replied and then said something else in Russian. The woman responded, repeating one of the words, and the boy nodded. I had no idea what was happening, so when the woman looked at me, all I felt was fear.
"You know Ibrahim?" she said in perfect English.
Startled, I hesitated. "Uh, yeah. He's um..." I nodded to the couch in front of me. The woman frowned and walked round, grabbing who I now assumed to be her son in the process, and blinked rapidly upon seeing Ibrahim on her sofa. She cast a glance over to me and bit her lip. I was about to feel even worse when I realised she was trying not to laugh.
"See, mama – it's the man." The little boy, Dimitri, said, tugging at his mother's dressing gown.
"That it is, my dear." She turned her attention to me. "I am so sorry, where are my manners. My name is Olena Belikova." She said, extending her arms out towards me.
A wave of relief flooded over me and I took her hand. "I'm Janine. Janine Hathaway."
