A Rumour in St. Petersburg

Me: Warning: Fluff.

"Dimitri, buenas dias."

"Sacerdotisa Rosalina, a good day to you."

Valencia stirred. Both vampyres felt it in their souls as the first ray of Sun peeped over the Spanish horizon, casting its light onto the House of Night. The High Priestess briefly eyed the edge of the shadow of the nearby wall that was protecting them both, before returning her attention to the other vampyre.

"How is she?"

He frowned. "Not well." He sighed, "What more can I say?"

Rosalina's long mahogany hair lay peacefully around her serene face as she spoke, her stance never changing. "Has the news been badly received in Russia?"

His eyes didn't move from the Sun. "It has not yet been revealed in Russia."

The High Priestess did not look surprised. "Oh."

His eyes filled with sadness. "Those poor children..." he said, "None of it was their fault. It wasn't even quick." He paused, "None survived."

"Except Anastasia."

"She fainted, what should have hit her square on in the chest hit her in the shoulder. The thought alone of them in that cellar brings tears to my eyes."

Rosalina remained impartial. "Then they are missing a body."

"Their Mistress of Sorcery gave me a spell." He said, unfolding a dirty piece of paper from out of his pocket and passing it to her, "A lifeless copy of her. No, they think she's dead."

Rosalina read the spell and raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement. "I have heard of their High Priestess' precognitive powers from far and wide..." she said, "She summoned you just in time."

"With all due respect Sacerdotisa, she summoned me too late."

"I understand, Dimitri."

"Ved'maverkhovnaya Zhritsa Valentina of the House of Night of St. Petersburg sends her regards, my Lady. I brought Anastasia there for healing, and then on to here. Did you know..." he continued, "That she never told anyone that she was Marked? Except her sister Maria? And even then I think that was discovered accidentally. She was exposed to the Sun and has had no proper education. For two years. It explains her poor health."

"I thought the family were carriers of the haemophilia."

"They were, and yes, that was the excuse given to the public. Well, to them it wasn't an excuse, they genuinely thought it was causing her health problems."

"A little time away from the Sun will mend her. How old is she?"

"Seventeen."

"And have you thought of an alias?" Rosalina looked worried for a moment, "I don't want any Red Army knocking on our door looking for the Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia."

"You may tell the other staff that her name is Nastiya Mihailova, and that she is a fledgling relative of mine." He said, "But keep her presence from the fledglings, for now."

"I understand that she will need a lot of time Dimitri, but eventually she will need some kind of tuition in our ways." Said Rosalina, "She must be very nearly through the Change!"

He nodded. "Yes. But these scars are going to run far deeper than a simple bullet wound. How much time she will need, I know not."

3 weeks later...

"Dyudya?"

Where was he? She had looked everywhere for him, the staff-room, the dining hall, his own suite. There was only one place left to check. Anastasia pushed her gloved hand onto the brass handle of the large oak door. Pressing down, the door creaked open on its hinges. The Hall of Sword Arts was still lit, a beautiful chandelier filled with candles hung above the centre of the room, their light reflecting from the training mirrors adorning each and every wall. She closed the door behind her and looked around.

"Dyudya?"

Uncle?

The Russian fledgling's eyes rested on one of the benches by the stone wall – a blade was laid out in its case, gently, almost preciously, the case left open, like someone had left it out and was coming back for it. She blinked in acceptance and paced down the hall to her uncle's study, the wooden boards creaking under her boots. Well, her many times great uncle, he was a brother of a many times great grandmother, and had been Marked and Changed into a vampyre two hundred years ago. She had never known of his existence, it had been hushed by the family. She tutted to herself at the thought, fully understanding why he had chosen to leave Russia and come to his mother's homeland. Yet she found herself feeling a mixture of emotions for this vampyre... In that cellar... In that wagon... She blocked the images from her mind as tears flowed to her eyes. She had wanted nothing more than to die. To go with them. The pain she felt as their lives were extinguished like candles and she was forced to lie in their blood to survive. She had fainted, the bullet meant for her heart had hit her shoulder, and she had been shielded by Tatiana falling. If he had left her, she would have died too. She would have been with them right now. She wiped the tear from her cheek. But he had saved her. She didn't know how he had known to come, but he had. She truly didn't know if she should love him, or hate him. She would have been happy to die with them. Honoured, even. She had suffered with them, suffered the newfound pain of the sunlight to be at their sides, hiding the Mark with concealing make-up, determined not to leave them to be at the House of Night.

And now she was at one, although not attending, miles away from home, in a town known as Valencia, on the east coast of Spain. In the first week she had hated Dimitri Mihailov more, but she had begun to fight through it, and see the kind person behind it. She might even have tried to kill herself, had he not warned her that that would be stooping to their level. The other thing he had done for her was fencing lessons. Anastasia loved to fence, and had been taught since she was a small child. He had begun to continue to teach her, a little every day, and it had started to build bridges between them.

She knocked on the door of the study, waiting for a reply. Not receiving one, she opened the door, and entered. No one.

"Dyudya, gde vy?" she said. Uncle, where are you? It wasn't as if the words were going to bring him here. Her words did nothing for her here. She sighed, and looked around. There were new blades in their cases on the floor next to the door, and papers scatted untidily over his desk.

A scraping of a door-latch made her jump. She stopped herself from rolling her eyes and took a breath – it was probably him. Heading once again for the door, a flash of light through the crack between the hinge-side of the door and the wall caught her eye, followed immediately the familiar sound of the air being sliced by a sword. Her tracks stopped, and she pressed her forehead to the stone wall, peeking through the crack.

The master of the blade was, to her surprise, not her uncle. Her eye focused in on his forehead – no full Mark. His movements were a combination of fencing arts and gymnastics. It was like he was flying, the blade never once falling from his command, bending to his will so easily it was untrue. Never in her life had she seen anyone move so fast, so swiftly, with such elegance, not even her own uncle. Watching the figure, he had a peaceful expression on his face, harmony. As if the blade completed him, expressed his very soul. Anastasia began to smile through her awe. His Goddess-given affinity.

Then, his feet touched the floor, lighter than a cat's, and he was upright again. A smile appeared on his face, and he took long, straight strides over to the case that had caught her attention earlier, his loose linen shirt billowing a little from his frame. There was a glass of water on the bench, which hadn't been there before, she was sure. He picked it up and drank from it thirstily.

Clearly, it was not her uncle, and she felt a little pang of disappointment. Pulling a key out of her pocket, she unlocked the case of her own blade and tied the scabbard to her belt, briefly flicking it in the candlelight.

"¿Qué haces?"

The voice made Anastasia spin around so fast her organs took some time to catch up. It was the fencer, his blade tight in his hand at his side, his expression hard and unyielding.

"Ya... Ya smotryu na moego dyudyu..." I... I'm looking for my uncle...

The fencing fledgling looked confused. He asked her again. "What are you doing? Why are you in Señor Mihailov's study?"

"Ya vas ne ponimayu..." I don't understand you... she said, crumpling her brow in desperation. "Ne mogu poniat'..." I can't understand... She looked away from him, frantically trying to think of a way to communicate with him. Anastasia felt like a common thief. To him, she might as well be. She cradled her forehead in her hand, before looking up to him again and shrugging silently. His brown eyes met her blue ones for a few seconds. "You can't understand a word I say..." he said quietly, as if it were a secret. His eyes darted to her crescent moon Mark for a moment, his entire face was confusion. It was like trying to talk to a girl who couldn't speak. She studied him wordlessly – he was short, for a male fledgling, only around 5ft7, but he was well built, strong, his figure was perfect. He was handsome. Not supermodel-handsome, not breath-takingly sick-makingly gorgeous like many of the fledglings, but pleasantly handsome. His hair was dark-brown, as were his eyes. His skin was tanned but not like hers was, not even like that of the other Spanish fledglings, almost like that of an Englishman that had become accustomed to the Sun. She wanted to squirm as she felt him make similar observations. She was dressed ready to train, in baggy brown trousers, thick beige boots which came to mid-calf, and a long bright blue tunic, which split at the front and back just below the waist, so it acted like a very long tailcoat where said tails came right around her hips and down to mid-calf. Her skin was tanned, sun-kissed, ironically also, as the colour had nothing to do with the Sun. Her hair was the colour of caramel, the curls and waves bouncing around her waist, her eyes were a bright bright blue.

"Who are you?"

She felt humiliated. A poorly educated fool. There was no point in staying if she couldn't understand a single word. She shoved her sword back into the scabbard and headed for the door, feeling his eyes bore into her as she brushed past him.

"Espere!"

She continued walking, even though her intelligence gave her some meaning of the word. Her ears detected light sounds on the floor behind her, and then the air moving, flying over her head. She stopped. The fencing fledgling was standing in front of her, his sword extended. She pulled hers from her scabbard with a swish, and hit down on his blade hard, attempting to knock it and him out of her way. He blocked it expertly and flicked the tip of his blade around hers, interlocking it with his and using it to push her backwards. Her arms swept around again and hit his blade again, this time maintaining contact.

He looked down at her, almost as if he couldn't believe his eyes. She thought for a moment that he would let her pass... Or maybe not... He looked like he was making a decision. She sensed his arm move before her eye saw it, her own was moving before she even told it to. His attack was defected with a clash of metal, and again. They stood facing each other again, her feet moved her backwards. Wordlessly, they saluted each other, and the match began.

Anastasia had never had to move so fast in her life. Her feet barely touched the floorboards before they had to move again, her spare hand so tightly clenched that had it not been for her gloves her hand would have been bleeding. Their blades whirled through the air, the crashes echoing through the stone Hall. It was like dancing – so fluid and graceful, yet so fierce. The brutal determination that bounced off their eyes so bright like mirrors, ricocheting like bullets. She smiled – this was no longer about getting out of the Hall. It was fun. The first interaction she had had with another living being in weeks, aside from Guinevere, her cat. As she parried and blocked, she cursed herself for her lack of Spanish, wanting more than anything to throw a banterous jibe his way, to converse. Anastasia felt her glove absorb the shock from a blow to her sword, the muscles in her fingers burned, and it was over.

The cold metal of the other fledgling's blade pressed into her throat, and she raised her empty hands in defeat, her blade hitting the floor with a thud fifteen metres away. A small smirk appeared on his face, and he removed the blade slowly. Anastasia was a little taken aback when he offered her his hand – she blinked – wasn't there a vampire-handshake or something? And what was it? She nodded to him in acknowledgement and shook it firmly in the human way.

Both of the jumped and pulled their hands away as the door behind them flew open and Señor Mihailov's tall form strode into the Hall. His gaze went first from his niece, then to his pupil, and then to somewhere in between them. His eyes darted from the blade in her opponent's hand and the blade on the other side of the room. He smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Ah, Alejandro, I see you have met my niece, Nastiya."

Despite the language barrier, she definitely could hear her own name, and suddenly felt worried – to keep it a secret from the Bolsheviks that she was possibly here, they were all told that her name was Nastiya Dimitraevna Mihailova. "Nastiya" as it was a shortened version of her name, what her brother and sisters had always called her, and the rest of it as if she were his daughter. He looked back to Anastasia, and her blank expression, and addressed her in Russian, "Nastiya, this is Alejandro Lankford, our finest swordsman, a protégé of mine."Anastasia politely curtseyed to him, noting with humour his sudden bow when he realised her uncle was introducing them. "Alejandro, you do know that the Sun has risen?" asked her uncle, switching effortlessly back to Spanish, his voice sounding almost chiding.

"I was aware, Señor."

"I appreciate your desire to focus on your training, but a great swordmaster cannot be weary." Said the professor, "Nor should he forfeit the company of his comrades in such times." The vampyre smiled, "You have done enough today my boy, rest well."

Alejandro seemed comforted by these words. "Good night Señor, Señorita." He said, bowing to them in turn, before handing his blade, handle first to the professor and leaving, carefully avoiding the light that streamed through the windows.

Her uncle reverted to Russian again. "Nastiya I am so sorry to keep you waiting, I was caught up in a conversation with Sacerdotisa Rosalina." He explained, putting the blade away as he spoke, "Although I trust it was an eventful duel with Señor Lankford?"

She let her hands rest clasped in front of her loosely, "I've never seen anything like it." She said, "The Goddess has blessed him with an incredible talent."

"Yes, in all my years, never have I even read about such abilities." He admitted, walking into his study, turning to face her as she followed him, "But he will leave the House of Night soon, it is his final year of study. Anyway, enough of Alejandro, what of you?"

"I am well. Is Sacerdotisa Rosalina in good health?"

Anastasia tilted her head to the side a little, to ridicule the words that still automatically fell from her mouth. It was common human etiquette to inquire after someone's health, but vampyres never fell ill.

"She is." Señor Mihailov's eyes seemed to dull, "Nastiya... I have had word from Ved'maverkhovnaya Zhritsa Valentina."

Anastasia narrowed her eyes. "Oh?"

Her uncle continued. "She is encouraging me to return you to their House of Night. An idea I strongly oppose. It isn't safe, despite them thinking you are dead. There are already rumours in Moscow that one of the Romanov children may have survived."

Anastasia stood shocked, and shook her head slowly. "Please don't send me back there..." she said, "I... I can't go..."

He nodded. "I know." He said, "You have a choice. You may stay here, under my guardianship, and enter this House of Night as a pupil." He said, "Or, of course, I cannot stop you from returning to St. Petersburg, and living under Valentina's guardianship until you Change, if that is what you want."

"I won't go back there." Said Anastasia firmly, pressing her lips together.

"It is settled then." He said, "You understand, however, that you must study hard to learn the Spanish language. I will give you a few weeks and organise a tutor for you. I cannot see your education go to waste, you are such an intelligent fledgling."

"Thank you uncle." She said, "But, to be fluent in this language, in a couple of weeks?"

"I know, child, but it pains me to see you here with no contact with the other fledglings. You are young, you should make the most of your life."

Anastasia looked to the floor, feeling almost ashamed to meet his eye. She didn't want to hide away, but rather felt that she had no choice. This particular topic of conversation always made her feel uncomfortable, like people were indicating that she was trying to lock herself away from the world. She gave a short curtsey. "I will retire now uncle." She said quickly, not wishing to discuss the subject any further, "Good night."

"Fascinating..."

The light went out.

Anastasia sighed to herself, annoyance eating at her otherwise good mood as the Cyrillic letters on the page in front of her disappeared into the darkness. Tearing herself away from her textbook her uncle had given her from his fledgling days and reaching into the drawer of her desk, she pulled out a fresh candle and a box of matches. Fiddling the new candle into the brass stick, her other hand opened the matches and pulled one out. A flame seared into life at its end, and with a steady hand, she put it to the candle wick. The words reappeared again, and she blew out the match gently. A meow at her side tore her attention once again.

She smiled. "Guinevere..." she said, stroking the little white cat from head to tail. Seeing the cat gave her reassurance of some sort. Guinevere was a loyal friend, but had been distant as of late, wondering off into the night, sometimes not returning for days, when normally she was never any further than a few metres from Anastasia's side. Her behaviour had done little more than annoy Anastasia, it was perfectly normal for cats to take themselves wheresoever they pleased at random intervals, but as soon as she needed the feline's company, she was nowhere to be seen. It wasn't as if she needed a foot-warmer as she slept now that she lived in the Mediterranean, but still... The cat purred and arched her back lovingly, "You like the dark, I know. How's your leg today girl?"

A few days ago, Guinevere had come to Anastasia with a nasty cut on her right hindleg. How she had acquired it was a mystery, and Anastasia had only just managed to hold the cat down for long enough to clean the blood from her fur and wrap the cut in a small dressing. It was getting better, but she could see from the colour of the bandage that it needed changing.

"Alright, I'll get you a fresh one." She said, getting up from her seat to look for a fresh bandage. Guinevere gave another small meow, and jumped from the desk, heading for the window. "Guinevere no..." she began, making a leap for the cat. The cat sprang, and Anastasia landed hard on her elbows on the windowsill. She closed her eyes for a moment while the pain subsided, and opened then again, watching the cat disappear into the night. "Damn..." she thought to herself. Grabbing the ointment, bandage and scissors and shoving them into her pocket, she opened the window wide, and leapt. Her room was on the ground floor, making the jump easy. She landed lightly and marched after the cat – the last thing she needed was her uncle chiding her over bad cat-husbandry.

The night breeze was warm, and smelled faintly of lemons, courtesy of the lemon trees growing outside the entrance to the guest's buildings. She followed her cat over a thick green lawn towards another large building made out of white stone, this one surrounded by olive trees. The cat flew up one of the trees with the ease and weightlessness of a feather, and hopped neatly through an open window on the second floor.

Now athletic, Anastasia was, but she certainly wasn't climbing trees after the creature. Bad childhood experience. Sighing to herself and trying to ignore the feeling of embarrassment of having to remove the cat, she counted the windows with her finger, seven, before heading for the building's main entrance. Climbing a stone staircase to the second floor, she saw that it looked like a Hall of Residence, with bulletins adorning the walls and lots and lots of small doors down individual corridors. She headed down the one that faced east, with the rooms looking out onto the lawn. "One door, two doors, three, four, five..."

As she neared the seventh door, she noticed the door was open, and she heard someone moving inside. Peering around the door, she saw a figure turned away from her. She gasped. It was the fledgling that she had duelled the other week, Alejandro Lankford... At least she was fairly sure it was him, if she had to go from his back. A meow drew her gaze left, where Guinevere was perched on one of the now empty shelves on his wall.

Anastasia knocked on the open door firmly. He turned around like a flash, drawing himself up almost defensively. He looked a little taken aback as he recognised her, and then seemed to relax. "You?"

Anastasia's brain began to finally recognise the Spanish. "Izvinite... I mean... Lo siento..." she said, forming the words shakily. She pointed to the cat on his shelf, "Er... mi gato..."

He looked over his shoulder at the cat and smiled. "Is she yours?" he asked, pointing up at her casually.

As Anastasia nodded, she felt something large and furry against the side of her boot. She glanced down - an enormous Maine Coon cat rubbed past her legs and strutted into the room as if it owned it, and hopped up onto the desk.

"Shadowfax..." he said, giving the cat a friendly rub. The cat looked at the other fledgling as he if were a mere servant, and sprang from the desk to the shelf, next to Guinevere. He shook his head. "It's true what they say, cats don't have owners, they have staff." He commented. "Oh, come in, have a seat." He said, pulling the chair from beneath the desk. "Can you understand me?" he asked, speaking slowly and clearly for her as she concentrated on the sounds.

"Now, yes, a little..." she said nervously, "But no before." Her Russian accent almost obscuring the words. "Um..." she searched for more words, "You, you no have lesson?"

"Juliane had to deal with a bad case of colic, so she excused the class. Which means I'm free for the rest of the day."

Juliane... She was a profesora her uncle had introduced her to, she taught Equestrian Studies. She remembered being quite glad she wasn't in her class. Juliane was tall and slim, but looked strong enough to take on her uncle in a wrestling match. She was German, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, and quite frankly, terrifying.

Anastasia smiled. "Juliane?" she said, "She, frighten me..."

He laughed out loud. "Yes, she does that to people. She's not that bad though. Luckily for me my father taught me to ride when I was young." He said, "Something about being an English gentleman..." he muttered.

"Father?" He nodded, noting her surprise over what he deemed to be quite a simple concept. Maybe she hadn't understood, but he didn't think so. "He, no mind, that..." she gestured to her face with her hand.

"Oh..." he said softly, "No. My mother is local, she is used to there being vampyres, and, my father is from England and he took a little more persuading." He continued. "Señor Mihailov explained to me about before. I apologise for my rudeness."

"You not rude, you right." She said. She waited for a reply from him, but it didn't come. He was looking at the cats. She followed his gaze upwards, and over her shoulder. Guinevere and Shadowfax walked past one another, leaning in and rubbing against the other. They circled again, before sitting close to each other, their tails entwined. They were nuzzling each other and purring loudly.

Alejandro looked transfixed by the scene. "Er..." he chuckled, "I think my cat is in love..." She laughed lightly, and broke out into chuckles as something dawned on him. He pointed up at them like a teacher scolding a naughty pupil, "And please no kittens."

Anastasia laughed and pulled the bandage, scissors and ointment out of her pocket and stood up, pointing out the dirty bandage on Guinevere's leg. Alejandro nodded in understanding and watched her pull the cat down and plop her on the desk gently. As she began to cut a new strip of bandage to length from the roll, she felt a little tickle in the back of her throat. Dismissing it as probably one of Guinevere's many left-around hairs, she coughed lightly. Still there, but now she could feel blood pounding in her ears. She coughed again, raising her hand to her heart as she felt her chest seize. Alejandro's face disintegrated into pure horror, his eyes suddenly filled with indescribable panic. His actions were faster than lightning - roughly yanking the scissors from her fingers; he slashed himself violently across the wrist. Pulling his sleeve up, he thrust the cut to her face.

"Drink it!!!" he shouted, darting round behind her to support her, clasping her hair and pushing her head towards the blood that spilled from the wound, "DRINK IT!!!!"

Blood...?

The immediate horror she felt – having never drunk blood before and finding the idea utterly repulsive – was overpowered by a wonderful scent wafting into her nostrils, flicking a switch in her mind. She pulled it to her mouth and let it flow down her throat. It electrified her from inside out, strength, every good feeling rushed through her. The sexual pleasure hit her hard, draining all the energy from her limbs and replaced it with an incredible desire. She moaned into his wrist, again, and again, every nerve ending alive and screaming. Anastasia had never tasted pure blood before – and had probably suffered most of her health problems because it (and also exposure to daylight) – it wasn't like how the House of Night laced it into the wine, which Anastasia barely noticed, it was extraordinary! She had read about what it could do to a vampyre though, and had not quite believed it until now. Meanwhile behind her, she heard Alejandro become breathless, the hand in her hair loosened its initial grip and its caress became sensual. He threw his head back in ecstasy, "Aah oh Goddess..." he moaned, his control buckling under the weight of his desire. He was using all the willpower Nyx gave him to stop himself from making sweet love to her there and then.

Suddenly, she stopped drinking and licked her lips. Alejandro felt his wrist heal, duly noting the pleasure did not dissipate at the speed at which it had arisen. "Are... Are you... alright?" he breathed as she turned to face him, slightly embarrassed at being so obviously aroused.

"What... What happen?" she asked, taking deep breaths, her one hand still firmly clamped onto his wrist, but now holding it away from her, as if she let it any closer it would bite her. Ironic.

You..." he panted, "You began to reject the Change..."

She felt like her stomach had been removed and there was just an empty cavity. "W... Wh... What???" she stuttered, not breaking contact with him.

"It can be stopped..." he explained, trying desperately to ignore his urges, "If... if you drink blood before the rejection spills your own...It... restrengthens the vampire-physiology, halting the rejection..."

Anastasia understood, loud and clear. Shakily, she stood up from the chair and faced him, speechless. She felt guilty – the thoughts that should have been running through her head at that moment, he had just saved her life, and the fact that she wanted nothing more than to jump on top of him made her burn with shame. She could see clearly that he wanted the same thing, despite his attempts to be gentlemanly. Without a word, she kissed him fully on the mouth, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him to her. His body reacted before he could tell it not to, kissing, touching, feeling. He lifted her clean off the ground into his arms, not breaking the kiss, falling onto the bed with her. He broke his fall, landing lightly on top of her, continuing to kiss and touch her. His fingers left traces of fire under her skin, tingling as they tore each other's clothes away. She lifted her right leg over his hip, and moaned as he began to rub his hips against hers. She suddenly felt the huge bulge in his trousers and rubbed back. He began to kiss down her neck, down her jugular vein, at the base of which he nipped at her skin sharply. The pain quickly became uncontrollable rapture as he sucked gently at the cut, moans became pleasure-wracked cries and cries became screams heard only by the ears of the Valencian Moon and the Night, their stars winking down upon a new beginning.

By the time Anastasia woke, it was almost dinner time. A familiar bustling sounded faintly in her ears, that of hungry fledglings making their way to the Dining Hall. It was odd, however. The light footsteps had been replaced with a heavy thundering...

Boys.

Her eyes opened. She felt a strong pair of arms around her, her own arms on top of them, holding them there. Her heart began to thump in panic when she remembered what had happened. Her stomach sank and churned – what had she done? All her life, she had been told about it by her mother, but what she had experienced was nothing like what her mother had always described. Her voice clear as a bell yet frosty would warn how intercourse should be painful, not pleasurable, a duty not an ecstasy, and then only happen inside marriage. Anastasia bit her lip and forced herself to remember her Vampyre Sociology sections of the books she had sneaked out of her father's library in Russia, how it was perfectly acceptable to do as she had done. The transition from human to vampyre ways was difficult, especially for girls of high society. She knew that women had power in this world, but even knowing that did not change what had been drilled into her head since she was twelve years old.

Still, they couldn't have helped it, not for all the revolutionaries in Russia. It was amazing, she didn't know that that kind of thing was even possible. She began to understand why it was so influential on people. She felt him stir behind her, and immediately felt a tug as her heart, a jerk. A connection. Another realisation surfaced – one Anastasia had also read about, one she didn't need explaining, not in any language.

They had imprinted.

"Wow..." she whispered, holding his arms tighter. She felt him stir behind her, his face contentedly against her hair. She wondered if he had realised it yet, and felt her face heat up.

His heartstrings jerked. He had imprinted with her. His mind darted back to his Sociology lessons, what types of imprints there were. The answer was all sorts; they could provoke anything from mental and emotional connections to lust and sexuality. Alejandro, for the first time in a long time, felt a little frightened. If she had never begun to reject the Change, if all they had done that night was talk, laugh, he still might have wanted to stay. Despite her not being able to speak Spanish very well, he could see in her face, her expressions, she was intelligent. And she could fence. Well. There was no denying that that had drawn him to her.

And then there was her blood.

More delicious than anything he had ever tasted. All the books described how human blood was most important and most satiating for the adult vampyre. He had tasted human blood many times; the wine the sixth-formers all drank at meals was laced heavily with human blood, but nothing had ever replenished him or brought him such pleasure as hers had, nothing had ever done that to him, made him lose control like that. It had turned him into a predator, and they were still only fledglings...

"Are you alright?" he asked, not really wanting to move. Not that he really could. That had been... incredible...

She nodded. "I fine..." she said, laughing.

"By the way..." he said, "You owe me something."

She raised an eyebrow and looked over her shoulder, twisting around to face him. "What?"

He leant forward and kissed her deeply, almost feeling sparks. Imprints worked in strange ways, but, he really, really liked her. Madame Ségaèle, one of the professors would have called it 'la chemie'.

"Why I owe you that?"

"You started it before." He said, "Are you hungry?" he asked. She nodded again, "Come and eat with us."

She looked disappointed. "I can't..." she said, getting up and beginning to pick up her clothes off the floor, "What if my uncle see?"

He got up and did the same. "Does it matter?"

"And I no understand." She said, "What people think?"

He saw the point. Or the lack of one. What was the point in her sitting there if she couldn't understand properly what he or the other fledglings were saying? He watched her face as it slowly lit up, like a light bulb had been lit above her head.

"If you no have work..." she said, "Come see me in free lesson?"

And so it began. Anastasia was the happiest she had been in a long time. Simply someone to communicate with apart from her uncle and her damn Spanish tutor made her feel like she had a grasp on the outside world. Sometimes they would sit in her room for hours, playing some form of charades trying to communicate better, the odd pillow-fight wasn't uncommon either. Sometimes, if the Hall was free, they would fence. That was fairly predictable though, as she never beat him. Her Spanish improved, even escalated, she wanted so much to talk properly with him. The communication was one thing. Their desire for each other ate through their souls like wildfire, giving rise to stranger feelings. It took a few weeks before either of them were brave enough to become intimate again, there was an innocence that went along with not blood-drinking beforehand – it felt slower, more sensual almost. They could feel their souls twisting, entwining, in a way that both frightened and fascinated them, bonds spinning themselves from heartbeats and gazes. Their imprint was now so strong, that their minds were synchronising to the point where they could almost hear each other's thoughts, if they tried. Even the very thought of it made Anastasia smile – she had come here without the slightest hope of a friend. And now her mind could barely cope with what they had become...

More weeks passed, and Anastasia had finally begun to find her feet at the House of Night. Trying to explain how she had suddenly gained a command of Spanish had proven tricky. Her Uncle Dimitri had quizzed her on it briefly, knowing full well that his niece could no sooner speed-learn Spanish than fly to the Moon. Anastasia had prayed to Nyx that her encounters with her uncle's best pupil would remain a secret from him, that his vampyre intuition would somehow be clouded from the truth. The Fencing Master had suspected something, an imprint with someone, it was after all the most probable suggestion, the only one, at that. As his Mark implied, he was eagle-eyed. But he was also wise enough to know that it was none of his business, and as for the Spanish-speaking, as Juliane would say, one should never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Anastasia became a part of the school, of course, with her uncle as her mentor. Life was finally looking up, she could speak with the other fledglings, attend classes and functions, have some fun. Again she thanked Nyx that she had been allowed to keep her own room and not have to share – not that she minded sharing, it was just nice to have the privacy sometimes.

Dropping her books down on the desk in her room on a frosty morning in January, she gave Guinivere a good-spirited pat on the head, before smiling to herself and heading to Alejandro's room. It was always him who came to her, but she thought she would surprise him this once.

She tip-toed along the corridor of rooms so as not to make a sound on the flagstones, until her eyes rested upon a laden trunk and several bags outside his door in the hallway. Peaking around the door, her heart leapt – he had his back to her, like the day Guinivere had lead her here. Except, he was different. She couldn't even see him properly, but she could sense that there was something about him that was more mature, more mystical. She nearly gasped again when he turned around – on his face the crescent Moon was filled. Two beautiful serpent-like dragons encircled his face with their forms, sapphire, glowing in the candlelight, their tails lining his jaw, their heads breathing fire over his crescent Moon.

He had Changed.

"Alejandro..." she said, standing at the doorway, unable to tear her eyes away.

"I was just coming to see you..." he said, "I just wanted to... Finish packing."

"You're leaving?"

"They won't let me stay." He said, holding her tightly as she catapulted herself into his arms. His heart leapt, his spirit aching painfully.

"Where are you going?"

He sighed into her hair as he felt her tears leak through his shirt. "To my parents, on the outskirts of the city." He said, "And then... I don't know."

"I want to go with you..." she whispered.

"I want you to come with me..." he said, "Sacerdotisa Rosalina would never allow it."

"Will you come back?"

"To Valencia? Of course, I grew up here." He said, stroking her hair, "I'll come back for you."

"You had better be." She said, making him chuckle. There was a small pause.

"I'll miss you." He whispered, before kissing her tenderly. Anastasia felt frozen when he pulled away. "I have to go." He said, reluctantly pulling out of her arms, "My parents are expecting me."

His thoughts flowed into her head like water. "You don't want to go."

It was a statement rather than a question. "All I can think about is staying with you..." He answered, lifelessly pulling a waistcoat over his loose shirt, in his eyes shone a longing that no one could displace.

Passing the bag he had been packing to him, she removed her right glove and extended her hand to him. "Good luck..." she said, "Schast'ya i zdorov'ya." "I wish you happiness and health".

He took her hand and shook it. "Thank you."Slowly, he lifted her hand to his face and kissed it, lingering for longer than was platonic. He released her hand and tried to smile, but there was something about his face that looked destroyed.

"It was nice." She said, before she put her hand to the door handle. "Goodbye..."

Alejandro simply watched as her form disappeared around the door, flinching at the click of the latch. Above his head, Shadowfax gave out a yowl.

"Goodbye."

Empty, lifeless months passed Anastasia by. Thoughts of him cluttered her mind like pieces of scrap paper – where was he? Was he alright? Does he ever think of me...? Life seemed to lose its colour, even in Valencia, Anastasia felt like an empty chasm of leftover feelings. She found herself lying awake in the day contemplating what had happened between them, and the effect it was having on her. It was almost like an obsession, a priority concern, and the persistence made it all the worse.

She had briefly considered asking Madame Ségaèle – the Mistress of Sorcery (before it was called Spells & Rituals to make it sound less morbid) not that Sociology Mistress wasn't nice, but Anastasia had really come to trust the motherly and slightly wacky Frenchwoman. She sighed as she gathered up her books for that very class – she hated asking for help. It only proved to her that she could deal with it herself, and as a Sixth-Former, in her mind, she certainly should be. But he was in her head. Lodged. She was glad she had classes to concentrate on, because otherwise she might just have spent the entire time thinking about it, in that obsessive manner. She wanted to see him again, desperately, having often considered using the mental connection to try and find him. Then she had gotten control of herself. She was pining, wanting him so badly it was embarrassing. In fact the very concept of never seeing him again made her feel physically ill.

Maybe she would talk to Madame Ségaèle.

"Nastiya, how are you?"

A girl who had befriended Anastasia in her very first lesson, Sofia, met her in the corridor and continued walking by her side. The girls made their way to the class, actually arriving early for once. The classroom was more like a laboratory than anything else, maybe crossed with a kitchen, set out with silver cauldrons and ladles. Anastasia smiled – the room felt like home, she was in her element. The ability to cast spells was a difficult one, but also one feared by humans, having given rise to the witch-hunts all over the world a scarce century before.

Without warning, the oak door burst open, almost coming off its hinges completely, making way for a flurry of colourful skirts, scarves and French-cussing. Silently, the entire class stood.

"Ah bonjour, bonjour mes cheries, assieyez vous, s'il vous plait..."

The class sat, large smiles on their faces. This was always a fun lesson.

"Alors..." said Madame Ségaèle, "Cheries, I regret, I 'ave a small problème, ze new books zat I 'ave ordered for you 'ave not yet arrived. C'est triste, oui, I am afraid I will 'ave to send you to ze library for private study today."

A chorus of disappointed voices rang amongst the class, and chairs began to scrape reluctantly against the flagstone floor. Anastasia waited until the last person walked through the door, reassuring Sofia that she would catch up in a minute. As the voices became fainter from down the hall, she approached the Sorcery Mistress. Anastasia always felt that she was being watched by this woman, even though she was sure that if she had been human she would have been as blind as a bat. Her Mark was the Eye of Horus, one on each cheek, perfectly symmetrical, and there were lines beneath her eyes, running from under her eyelashes to mid-temple on both sides, making it look like she was wearing Egyptian-style make-up. It looked even stranger, as, unlike most of the Spanish vampyres, Madame Ségaèle's waist-long curly hair was blonde.

"Madame..." she said, "May I have a word?"

"Mais oui, ma Cherie!" she said, pulling up a spare chair next to her desk and beckoning her to sit, "Come, venez, assieyez vous. Now tell me child, what it is that bothers you?"

Anastasia clutched her notebook firmly. "I need some advice Madame." She began. Madame's expression became more serious and kinder as she noted her pupil's tone. "I..." Anastasia continued, "I need to talk to someone."

She had half expected the woman to be shocked and taken-aback, but she wasn't, she simply gave a reassuring smile. "Of course you do, now what is ze matter Cherie?"

"I..." she swallowed the lump in her throat, "I, imprinted, with someone, and, I am concerned about the effects it is having on me." She was already embarrassed, unable to meet the vampyre in the eye.

"Oh my dear do not worry..." said Madame, giving her shoulder a friendly rub, "It is frightening what zhey tell ze students in zese books nowadays. Ce n'est pas la réalité, pas du tout."

"I suspected as much."

Madame mock-spat. "Tis nuzzeeng more zan jibberish. Do not compare your experiences wiz zhose in ze book Cherie. Now what exactly is bozzering you?"

Anastasia chuckled at Madame's analogy, before fading into silence again. She clutched the book tighter. "The strength of it frightens me, Madame." She said.

"What kind of Imprint is it?"

"I don't know..." she answered, "Too much... Lust... Making me feel like I love him..."

"It will go with time, Cherie." Said Madame sweetly, "Imprinting exists to ensure our survival as a race. To stop us from becoming deterred from drinking. But imprints weaken wiz time. Zhey are frightening, but, unlike in ze books, zhey are not forever."

Anastasia blinked and bit her lip. "I can't stop thinking about him, wishing that I was wherever he was, the concept of not seeing him makes me feel ill."

"When did you last see him?"

"Five months ago."

"And 'as it become stronger since?"

"Yes."

"Was it forged by blood-drinking, or making love?"

Anastasia inwardly squirmed for a moment before reluctantly answering. "Both."

Madame nodded. "I see."

Anastasia, feeling that all her pride and dignity had been stripped, simply decided to not be embarrassed anymore. "You know Madame," she said casually, "When it first happened, it created a mental connection so strong that we could almost finish each other's sentences."

And at that, Madame was speechless. She looked at the fledgling as if she were a criminal being interrogated and she had just sussed her out. Her right brow raised slowly. "What?"

"Madame, sometimes I can hear his thoughts."

"Ma Déesse, fascinating..." she murmured, "Cherie, zhat certainly is quite incroyable."

"Madame, what should I do?"

"Hm..." Madame looked like she was absorbing the information like a sponge, "Ze truth of ze matter is, zat 'normal' Imprints can be of little significance to an adult vampyre, we break zhem and make zhem as we wish, if we wish. However Imprints forging connections between minds, between 'earts, zhey are symbolic. Does zhis affect him in ze same way?"

"I don't know." She replied.

Madame clasped her chin in thought. "Nastiya..." she began, "Ze strength of Imprint zhat you are describing is extremely rare, and also extremely precious." She paused again, "Imprints of zhis nature are usually gifts, from Nyx, almost like our affinities are." She paused, "Maybe zhis is Nyx's way of telling you zhat you 'ave found your true mate."

She almost paled. Alejandro Lankford? Her mate? Her mind flitted back to the books - it took adult vampyres centuries, sometimes millennia to find their mates, she was still a fledgling.

"Nastiya..." Madame continued, "I don't need to be told a story to know that life has been cruel to you. Per'aps Nyx is giving somezhing back."

Anastasia's eyes began to water. "Madame nothing will ever make up for what I lost..." her voice shuddered.

"I know Cherie..." she said, "But it will 'elp you move on."

Anastasia let the tears fall as the sobs set in. "I'm frightened..." she whispered, wiping her eyes and tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Nastiya..." she said, her voice soothing, smoothing the creases in her worry, "Do you love each other?"

Anastasia sniffed and blinked, her breath deep and still not enough. Words never came, only more tears. A spark ignited inside her, shouting at the vampyre beside her. Madame heard. She opened the draw of her desk and pulled out a handkerchief. A loud meow at the window diverted her gaze upwards, stopping her hand mid-track.

"Bon soir, qu'est ce qe tu fais là?" Anastasia followed Madame's eyes over to the window, where an enormous cat was sitting on the sill, washing one of its monster paws. Madame seemed to recognise the creature, "Ah oui, I know you, you are ze cat de Monsieur Lankford, n'est ce pas? Mais what are you doing 'ere?"

Anastasia's heart jumped. "Shadowfax?" she said. As if on cue, the cat leapt from the window, to Madame's desk, to Anastasia's lap. Madame's presence silenced her. She might have asked the cat 'is he here? Can I see him?' almost sure beyond reason that he would answer. However she could see that Madame was 'duly noting', and simply continued to pet the Maine Coon. "Why are you here boy?"

The cat made itself comfortable on her lap, making her feel warm. Its face was completely indifferent, the expression clearly reading 'groom me please, that's an order'. Her heart was beating hard – was he close by? Where? She put a cork on her thoughts and collected herself. He lived in the town, maybe Shadowfax was just wandering, as cats were so prone to do. She felt her stomach disappear from her abdomen and phased out, her muscles paralysed where they were. Every part of her felt tight, blood rushed from her head. She bent over Shadowfax, faintness consuming her, before she fell from the chair, Shadowfax landing fortunately and conveniently springing out of the way in time.

Madame was on her feet before she saw Anastasia fall, dropping to her knees at her side and propping her up. Anastasia took deep breaths as the feeling returned to her limbs; the flagstone floor was cold beneath her sweaty palm. Her muscles ached like she had just run a marathon, and yet were easing into a feeling of serenity.

"Take it easy..." said Madame, getting to her feet and offering Anastasia her hand. She took it gladly and sat back on the chair. Madame was grinning. "You did it! Congratulations Nastiya! You're a vampyre!"

Anastasia was gormless. "What?"

Madame reached into her carpet bag, and pulled out an Estée Lauder blusher. Opening it, she turned it away from herself and passed it to Anastasia. Her eyes fixed onto the little mirror on the inside of the lid. Sure enough, the crescent Moon on her forehead was whole, and sat inside a sapphire triquetra. Three were intricate swirling lines from the sides of the triquetra, travelling over her temples, forming little spirals and occasionally giving way to little butterflies over her cheeks. It was beautiful.

"You are free." Said Madame.

"But..." she stuttered, "W-what now?"

Madame grinned impishly. "You 'ave someone you wish to see, non?"

Anastasia broke out into a grin of her own, and then into almost hysterical giggles. She leant forward and kissed Madame on both cheeks. "Merci Madame!!!"

"Allez petite." She said, still grinning as Anastasia gathered her things and left the room at a rate of knots. Almost pulling the door to her room off its hinges, she laughed out loud and scooped Guinevere off the bed where she was snoozing, and waltzed with her around the room.

"I think he's near..." she said, before stopping and narrowing her eyes to herself, "I sound like a silly little girl..." she said, thinking what her sisters would say if they could see her now. "Olga would say just that..." she sang to herself, "But she would just be annoyed that I found someone before her... And Tatiana would be sceptical... And Maria, Maria would be waltzing with me right now!"

Popping a very dizzy Guinevere back down on the bed, she brushed her hair out of her eyes and sat down beside her. Guinevere, terrified of being booked for the next dance, sprang out of the way and onto the window sill, out of which something seemed to take her attention. Anastasia saw that she was going to jump.

"Guinevere..." she warned, "Don't you dare..."

The cat jumped.

Anastasia frowned comically. "Guinevere!!!" she said, leaning out of the window and looking around. "Stupid cat..." she said, swinging her legs over and dropping silently to the grassy turf below. A meow reached her ear, and she followed the sound expertly. It was coming from the path that led to the beach. Picking up a jog, Anastasia disappeared into what was almost like a path lined by exotic plants, before re-emerging into the olive tree grove, listening for meows...

"Thank you Guinevere."

Anastasia's head shot to the right – it was him.

Alejandro Lankford was leaning against an olive tree, Guinevere and Shadowfax perched in the branches, where he was tickling Guinevere's chin.

"Why are you here?" she whispered, staring at him unwaveringly from across the short stretch of lawn. She saw that he was holding a newspaper in his hand by his side, resting against his leg, his back against the tree, his face completely impassive, but his eyes were alive and betraying him.

"When I left my parents..." he began, "I went travelling for a bit, just over Europe. I went to St. Petersburg for a few weeks."

She narrowed her eyes. "You went to Russia?" she asked.

He nodded. "It really is in uproar over there."

She nodded as well. "It's not exactly a tourist attraction at the moment." She said, "But the Reds wouldn't lay a finger on a vampyre. Not that they could ever catch one."

His gaze was straight and serious. "There are lot of rumours going around over there, you know."

"Oh?"

"Yes." He said, "The Red Army are not too happy about it either."

"And why is that?"

Wordlessly, Alejandro took slow, long strides to her, and passed the newspaper to her. Unfolding it, she scanned her eyes over the front page, the headline jumping off the paper at her.

"Tsar's children still alive?"

She tossed it back to him. "Of course they're not!" she scoffed, extremely offended, "It's a silly rumour someone made up for publicity."

"Well, that's what I thought." He said, opening the paper to about the third page. "Until I saw this."

Anastasia took the paper gently in her hands again, quivering as she saw the picture. Her body froze, and her eyes began to leak. The photograph was of wounded soldiers in the hospital, taken in 1915. Posing with them, on the left, was Maria. And on the right...

He broke the long silence. "That's you." He said gently, "Isn't it?"

Tears fell from her eyes like waterfalls, sobs engulfing her, shaking her form inside out. She couldn't stop them anymore. The salty tears landed on the paper, blotching the black ink and obscuring the Cyrillic lettering.

Her sobs were silent. No outbursts, no wailing. Just tears. Her sadness filled his heart and his facade shattered. Without a sound, he reached around her and drew her to him in a hug. His one hand rubbed her back tenderly, and tears actually leaked from his own eyes. "I'm so sorry..." he said, burying his face in her hair, "I'm sorry for what they did to you..." he felt her sobs lessen, "I want to be there for you." He said, holding her tightly.

She blinked her eyes clear, her voice stuffy. "I want to be there for you too..." she whispered.

He released his grip on her with his right hand, and slid it into his pocket. "I found something I thought might mean a lot to you..."

He drew his hand out of his pocket, in it was something that shone in the moonlight. He held it up on his palm, a smile breaking out onto his face as hers lit up.

"How did you get this???" she gasped, taking it out of his hand and examining it, "I thought I'd lost it..."

The necklace in her fingers was completely studded in white diamonds and set in gold. She turned it over, revealing the inscription on the back in Russian. Anastasia read it slowly.

"To my beloved daughter the Grand Duchess Anastasia on her sixteenth birthday, the 18th June 1917, Tsar Nikolaj II of Russia.

My Nastiya, my love always, Papa."

She remembered this... In her favourite storybook, Pocahontas, Pocahontas' father had given her a beautiful necklace that had belonged to her deceased mother. Her own father had had this one designed exactly after the one in the book before his abdication, decorated richly, it had been a present. She had only just managed to smuggle it into Ipatiev House, it must have been confiscated after... She began to cry again. How had he gotten this?

Alejandro smiled and tucked her long hair around her shoulder, beckoning for her to put it on. She let him clasp it and flicked her hair back again, looking down at it over her nose, before looking back to him.

"Oh thank you!!!" she said, throwing her arms around him and kissing him passionately again and again, "Thank you... Thank you..."

He clamped his arms around her possessively and returned every one. She paused, before lifting her hand to his face and tracing the outline of one of the dragons delicately.

"Well, I'm not a prince..." He stifled a grin as he said it. Anastasia blew a mock raspberry and drew him into an embrace, tucking her head into his neck.

"Yes you are."