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“It’s early for you, isn’t it?” she asked.

I turned and caught sight of the kitchen clock. I gasped. It was only about four hours after I’d gone to bed. “Good God. Is the sun even up?”

Amazingly, it was. Olena offered to make me breakfast, but again, Yeva reiterated our time crunch. My stomach seemed to simultaneously want and loathe food, so I couldn’t say if abstaining was a good thing or not.

“Whatever,” I said. “Let’s just go and get this over with.”

Yeva walked into the living room and returned a few moments later with a large satchel. She handed it to me expectantly. I shrugged and took it, hanging it over one shoulder. It clearly had stuff in it, but it wasn’t that heavy. She went back out to the other room and returned with another tote bag. I took this one too and hung it over the same shoulder, balancing both of them. This one was heavier, but my back didn’t complain too much.

When she left for a third time and returned with a giant box, I started to get irate. “What is this?” I demanded, taking it from her. It felt like it had bricks in it.

“Grandmother needs you to carry some things,” Paul told me.

“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. “I sort of figured that out fifty pounds ago.”

Yeva gave me one more box, stacking it on top of the other. It wasn’t as heavy, but by this point, it honestly didn’t matter. Olena shot me a sympathetic look, shook her head, and returned silently to her dishes, apparently not about to argue with Yeva.

Yeva set off after that, and I followed obediently, trying to both hold the boxes and not let the bags fall off my shoulder. It was a heavy load, one my hungover body really didn’t want, but I was strong enough that I figured it wouldn’t be a problem to get into town or wherever she was leading me. Paul ran along at my side, apparently there to let me know if Yeva found anything along the road she wanted me to carry too.

It seemed like spring was charging into Siberia far faster than it ever did into Montana. The sky was clear, and the morning sun was heating things up surprisingly fast. It was hardly summer weather, but it was definitely enough to notice. It would have made very uncomfortable walking weather for a Moroi.

“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked Paul.

“No,” he said cheerfully.

For someone so old, Yeva could move at a pretty good pace, and I found myself having to hurry to keep up with her with my load. At one point, she glanced back and said something that Paul translated as, “She’s kind of surprised that you can’t move faster.”

“Yeah, well, I’m kind of surprised that no one else can carry any of this.”

He translated again: “She says if you’re really such a famous Strigoi killer, then this shouldn’t be a problem.”

I was filled with great relief when downtown came into sight… only we kept walking past it.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Where the hell are we going?”

Without giving me a backward glance, Yeva rattled off something. “Grandmother says Uncle Dimka never would have complained so much,” Paul said.

None of this was Paul’s fault; he was just the messenger. Yet, every time he spoke, I kind of wanted to kick him. Nonetheless, I kept carrying my burden and didn’t say anything else for the rest of the walk. Yeva was right to a certain extent. I was a Strigoi hunter, and it was true that Dimitri would have never complained about some old lady’s crazy whims. He would have done his duty patiently.

I tried to summon him up in my mind and draw strength from him. I thought about that time in the cabin again, thought about the way his lips had felt on mine and the wonderful scent of his skin when I’d pressed closer to him. I could hear his voice once more, murmuring in my ear that he loved me, that I was beautiful, that I was the only one… Thinking of him didn’t take away the discomfort of my journey with Yeva, but it made it a little more bearable.

We walked for almost an hour more before reaching a small house, and I was ready to fall over in relief, soaked in sweat. The house was one floor, made of plain, weatherworn brown boards. The windows, however, were surrounded on three sides by exquisite, highly stylized blue shutters overlaid with a white design. It was that same sort of flashy use of color I’d seen on the buildings in Moscow and Saint Petersburg. Yeva knocked on the door. At first there was only silence, and I panicked, thinking we’d have to turn right around and head back.

Finally, a woman answered the door-a Moroi woman. She was maybe thirty, very pretty, with high cheekbones and strawberry-blond hair. She exclaimed in surprise at seeing Yeva, smiling and greeting her in Russian. Glancing over at Paul and me, the woman quickly stepped aside and gestured us in.

She switched to English as soon as she realized I was American. All these bilingual people were kind of amazing. It wasn’t something I saw very often in the U.S. She pointed to a table and told me to set everything there, which I did with relief.

“My name’s Oksana,” she said, shaking my hand. “My husband, Mark, is in the garden and should be in soon.”

“I’m Rose,” I told her.

Oksana offered us chairs. Mine was wooden and straight-backed, but at that moment, it felt like a down-filled bed. I sighed happily and wiped the sweat off my brow. Meanwhile, Oksana unpacked the things I’d carried.

The bags were filled with leftovers from the funeral. The top box contained some dishes and pots, which Paul explained had been borrowed from Oksana some time ago. Oksana finally reached the bottom box, and so help me, it was filled with garden bricks.

“You have got to be kidding,” I said. Across the living room, Yeva looked very smug.

Oksana was delighted by the gifts. “Oh, Mark will be happy to have these.” She smiled at me. “It was very sweet of you to carry these that whole way.”

“Happy to help,” I said stiffly.

The back door opened, and a man walked in-Mark, presumably. He was tall and stockily built, his graying hair indicating an age greater than Oksana’s. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink and then turned to join us. I nearly gasped when I saw his face and discovered something stranger than the age difference. He was a dhampir. For a moment, I wondered if this was someone else and not her husband, Mark. But that was the name Oksana introduced him with, and the truth hit me: a Moroi and dhampir married couple. Sure, our two races hooked up all the time. But marriage? It was very scandalous in the Moroi world.

I tried to keep the surprise off my face and behave as politely as I could. Oksana and Mark seemed very interested in me, though she did most of the talking. Mark simply watched, curiosity all over his face. My hair was down, so my tattoos couldn’t have given away my unpromised status.

Maybe he was just wondering how an American girl had found her way out to the middle of nowhere. Maybe he thought I was a new blood whore recruit.

By my third glass of water, I began to feel better. It was around that time that Oksana said we should eat, and by then, my stomach was ready for it. Oksana and Mark prepared the food together, dismissing any offers of help.

Watching the couple work was fascinating. I had never seen such an efficient team. They never got in each other’s way and never needed to talk about what needed doing next. They just knew. Despite the remote location, the kitchen’s contents were modern, and Oksana placed a dish of some sort of potato casserole in the microwave. Mark’s back was to her while he rummaged in the refrigerator, but as soon as she hit start, he said, “No, it doesn’t need to be that long.”

I blinked in surprise, glancing back and forth between them. He hadn’t even seen what time she’d selected. Then I got it. “You’re bonded,” I exclaimed.

Both looked at me in equal surprise. “Yes. Didn’t Yeva tell you?” Oksana asked.