“Koliada be damned,” Kirill muttered.

The wind gusted against the window, sending a frigid breeze blowing around the heavy curtains and into the room. The fire in the hearth roared with renewed life as the air stirred the embers, whipping them into a glowing mass of throbbing coals. Kirill slammed his weapons’ belt down on his dresser and stalked over to the window.

The sun peeked over the horizon, the first pink rays stabbing into the night sky and leaving bloody red trails in its wake. Kirill gritted his teeth and pulled the window closed, locking it tight and then settling the thick curtains to be certain no light shone through. He glanced at his empty bed and scowled.

“Koliada be damned,” he repeated, this time with more force.

Irina had been adamant that she couldn’t come to bed yet, something about getting the dining hall properly decorated. Normally, Kirill would have been only too pleased to set her loose, knowing that his father would be dismayed upon rising to find that his precious castle had been festooned with all the winter solstice holiday’s trimmings. Irina had been conspiring with the pixies to make their coming dinner with friends “magical,” and Kirill had no doubt that not a single square inch of the sprawling dining hall would escape un-glittered. It would be a miracle if his father didn’t take off for the country manor just to escape the festivities.

Unfortunately, no amount of discomfort on his father’s part could make up for Kirill going to bed alone after he and Irina quarreled. As much as it infuriated him to admit it, he needed to hold Irina in his arms after conversations such as the one they’d had today—conversations that underlined how very different they were. Though they’d said goodnight on soft terms, today’s episode in the mine had made Kirill all too aware of how very different he was from Irina—and he feared it had shown her the same. There was no doubt in Kirill’s mind that Irina saw him as a skryaga—a sour old miser with no interest in festive holidays or warm gatherings with friends. The complete opposite of the rebellious rusalka whose goal was to see everyone in the kingdom as happy as she was.

Kirill sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, absent-mindedly sliding his hand under his pillow to check for the knives he kept hidden there. He paused, eyeing Irina’s side of the bed. One hand rose of its own accord to rub his chest, trying to ease the sudden ache over his heart.

“It is only a matter of time until she sees the real you, young master.”

The blade was in Kirill’s hand before his mind fully registered the intruder, muscles tense, ready to stab at whoever had dared to invade his sanctuary. The adrenaline roared so loudly in his veins that it took him a full minute to recognize the voice, to parse the deep, rough tenor from the myriad of others he’d encountered. If he’d had a heartbeat, it would have stuttered to a halt inside his chest.

“Rasputin?” The name scarcely escaped Kirill’s lips, the urge to hold it in almost overwhelming. He hadn’t spoken that name in so long. Not since before that horrible night. The night everything had ended and everything had begun. The night he’d died.

A glowing apparition floated from behind the bed curtain, so close Kirill had to clamp down on the urge to leap from the bed in startled fright. He narrowed his eyes at the intruder, a ghostly form wearing the rough cloak of a holy man. The thick brown beard was exactly as Kirill remembered it, the black eyes still the same piercing gaze that had once sent children screaming into their parents’ arms. That face had never frightened Kirill. Even as a human boy, he’d known that Rasputin was a man of power and influence, a man who could help him to become the powerful ruler he was destined to be. It had been among the worst nights of his life when he’d risen from the grave after the coup to discover his family’s advisor remained dead and decaying in his grave.

Rasputin hovered closer and Kirill’s attention fell to the long coat of sheep’s wool under the cloak, wet and heavy with mud. It was the garb of those who came from Iriy, the land of the dead.

“You are one of the koledari.” Kirill’s words came out a mere whisper, his voice hushed by the strange energy slowly filling his bedroom. He brushed at his arm, pretending to have spotted a piece of lint to cover his attempt to rid himself of the eerie sensation crawling over his skin. He crafted his face into his courtly mask, the impenetrable expression he used to hide his thoughts from the world. “It was my understanding that when the koledari come from Iriy, they wear grotesque masks to scare away demons. Are you so confident that your own face is frightening enough?” He wrinkled his nose. “Or are you counting on the smell of wet wool to frighten away your demons?”

“You have grown insolent since your death,” Rasputin answered, his voice the same deep, gravelly tone that Kirill remembered so well. “Enjoy your superiority while you can. I have not come tonight to sing you carols or rid your home of demons.” His black eyes shone with strange light. “You are the only demon in this room, young master.”

Kirill’s attention fell to the heavy saber hanging at Rasputin’s side. The metal shone dully in the firelight, the handle heavy and smooth from the caress of a hand. A well-used weapon. “And do you intend to drive me out then?”

“Quite the contrary. I have come to make certain that you do not share my fate. When it is your time to travel to the land of the dead, I want to make sure you arrive in Iriy on better terms than I.” Rasputin gestured at the painting hanging over the bed, the wedding portrait of Kirill and Irina. “You have taken a strong first step, young master, but I fear even she will not remain at your side if you cannot see the error of your ways.”

“Error?” Kirill replaced the knife under his pillow. It would do him no good against a specter anyway.

“You fight to rule your people, Kirill, but you do not yet live among them, understand them. You concentrate on what’s best for them, but you do not know them. You forge relationships like one forges chains, strong, but unfeeling, and more of a prison than a partnership.”

“You sound like Irina.” The words escaped before Kirill could stop them and he tensed at the knowing look that came over Rasputin’s face.

“Indeed. And that is why you will lose her.”

“I will never lose her,” Kirill snarled. “I would die for Irina.”

“You have already died.” Rasputin crossed his arms, tucking his hands into either sleeve of his cloak. “What you must do is live for her.”

“You want me to find some way to resurrect myself?” Kirill’s blood ran cold, his mind immediately flying to Aiyana, the princess of the kingdom of Mu, wife of Saamal. She had successfully raised the dead in the past, an act Kirill had most actively sought to avoid and barely managed to escape. “I have no wish to be a mere human.”

Rasputin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Always so literal,” he muttered. “Kirill, there is more to living than a pulse. You work and you study and you plan on the life you will have, the life you will create for your people, but you take no time to appreciate it. I fear when your time on earth is done, you will have spent your entire existence working for a reward you never enjoyed.”

“I enjoy my pursuits. I have no need for meaningless frivolity.”

Rasputin’s eyebrow rose. “And what of your wife? Is she content to leave you to your pursuits while she alone enjoys ‘frivolity?’”

“It’s only one day. Spend it with me? With our friends?”

Irina’s voice echoed back to him, the soft plea in her tone tugging at his heart just as it had then. Something must have shown on his face because Rasputin nodded.

“There, you see?” He leaned back and narrowed his eyes. “Even as a boy, you were never one to have playmates or while away your days with games and fun. Never have I known a boy so studiously dedicated to his future—and nothing else.”

“You helped me a great deal back then.” Kirill shifted, eyeing his former advisor. There was something about his posture, about the energy swirling around him. It was the same posture the man had held when focusing on a topic of study that Kirill found a waste of time. He had something to say that Kirill wasn’t going to like.

“And I will help you again.” Rasputin’s face settled into firm, unemotional lines. “Today you will be visited by three spirits.”

Kirill startled, eyes widening slightly. “Three—”

“Listen to them, Kirill. Hear what they have to say. They may be your last chance.”

“What kind of spirits? Polevoi? Mara? Nichnytsia?” Kirill’s mind whirled, spinning through everything he knew of spirits, trying to analyze weaknesses, purposes, but the term was too broad. He needed more information.

“Kirill, you cannot plan for this. You cannot come up with ways to destroy them or blackmail them. They are not coming to harm you. They are coming to help.” Rasputin floated closer, the end of his ghostly cloak not touching the ground. “Listen, young master. Hear what they have to say and take it to heart. My fate does not have to be yours.”

“I am a vampire.” Kirill’s nerves sang with tension as if a thousand pixies had landed on his body at once. “I am already dead, and after this existence has ended, there will be nothing for me.”

Rasputin’s eyes crackled with power, the air in the room sharpening somehow, biting at the skin. “Do you think you know more of the afterlife than me, young master?”

“This is my afterlife.”

Light flared in Rasputin’s eyes, an unholy glow that was both hot and cold at the same time. A searing pain lanced Kirill’s eyes as he looked at him. He winced and stepped back, averting his gaze.

“If you refuse to listen, refuse to hear, then there will come a time when we will talk again and you will mourn that you did not heed my words. I failed your family once, I will not fail them again.” His voice was a raw hiss now, thick with emotion. “You will live, Kirill. Even as you stay a moving corpse, you will live, if I have to tear your un-beating heart out to make you do it.”

“Do not threaten me!” Kirill staggered back toward his dresser, feigning fear of the light shining from Rasputin’s eyes even as he groped behind him for the vials he kept in one of his dresser drawers. He had holy water in there somewhere…

“Expect the first spirit tonight when the bell tolls one.” Rasputin’s form lost detail, becoming just a vaguely human-shaped vapor as he faded into light mist.

“The sun will be at its height at one. I’ll be dead. Let the spirit talk to my corpse.”

Kirill’s words echoed in the room as Rasputin’s ghost faded away completely. As the last trace of the apparition vanished, the fire in the hearth crackled and died, growing smaller as if the ghost’s presence had been feeding it and it was weaker for Rasputin’s absence. The warmth fled from the room, a temperature change that shouldn’t have affected Kirill in the slightest. He shivered nonetheless, then cursed himself for it.

Nerves still singing like rabid wolves crying to the moon, Kirill stalked over to the fire and stirred the embers. The room was too cold, the bite in the air too sharp. He wasn’t certain when Irina intended to come to bed, but he didn’t want her to enter an icebox when she did.

“Today you will be visited by three spirits. Listen to them, Kirill. Hear what they have to say. They may be your last chance.”

Kirill retrieved a few vials from the drawer of his dresser, holy water, acidic dragon saliva, and a few others. He brought them to the bed and tucked them underneath his pillow alongside the weapons already nestled there. Rasputin’s words haunted him as he drew the curtains closed around his bed, providing a second shield against the daylight. He lay down in his clothes, not bothering to undress since Irina wouldn’t be coming to bed before he died.

Staring up at the ceiling, Kirill half-heartedly ran through the spirits he’d encountered in the past. What spirits would be visiting him? Would they speak, or would they show him images? Would they project themselves into the blackness that swallowed him when he died, or would they wake him, bring him out of his daily death?

Too many questions and not enough answers. For one shining moment, Kirill was thankful he didn’t sleep as humans did. Surely with all he’d heard tonight, sleep would have been impossible. He closed his eyes and ran through his list of spirits one more time before he died.