Since We Are Apart

Chapter 13.1 Tomorrow was War

"Asya, run!" she shouted, raising her hands and aiming at Vladimir. She let out a furious howl as a shimmering blue sphere of energy appeared between her palms. The moment the light flared, Violetta’s body arched, and with all her strength she hurled the energy at her father. The sight was so terrifying that I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, expecting to hear the doctor’s scream—but nothing of the sort happened. There was a thud. Then another. And another. Everything flickered before my eyes, and I couldn’t understand what the hell was going on. When I opened them again, I froze in shock at what I saw.

Moving as if in fast-forward, my mother was intercepting sphere after sphere that Viola, in her rage, kept releasing, and tossing them aside to shield Vladimir, who, like a coward, tried to follow right behind her, using her as a living shield. But the doctor wasn’t holding my mother by force. She was protecting the elder Smirnov of her own free will, shielding him, while his children stood staring at their sister in confusion, not understanding a thing.

"Maksim, don’t just stand there like a post! Attack her, attack!" Vladimir barked, but Max only kept blinking, following each projectile with his eyes.

"Viola," Max asked quietly with trembling lips, "what are you doing?"

Stas carefully moved along the edge of the room, as if sensing the worst, and came to stand beside me. His fingers brushed softly against my palm, and in the next moment my hand was in his. There was so much warmth in that gesture, so much support—something I desperately needed in the midst of the chaos—that I didn’t want to resist. It seemed he had finally heard and understood what I had said earlier, and instead of stepping in to solve everything for me, he now stood beside me, offering support at the very moment when the ground was threatening to slip from under my feet.

"He killed her! Killed her!"

Only thanks to the flashes of light from the spheres Viola kept launching could I make out her face. It was even paler than usual. A scatter of pinkish spots dotted her cheeks, the way they did on mine after crying. Beneath her eyes were the remains of smeared mascara, dissolving in a stream of bitter tears.

"He killed Mom!"

Stas’s hand in mine twitched, and I immediately turned to him, catching an expression of complete incomprehension on his face. His world was crumbling right now, and he, like a mute spectator, was watching the destruction of Pompeii from a bird’s-eye view, powerless to change anything. His eyes darted around, looking for any point to latch onto—anything to keep from breaking down like his sister right here and now.

The mask had fallen, revealing the real Stas. The cold calm and composure dissolved the moment that short but devastating phrase echoed through the room. However I felt about him, whatever disagreements we’d had, seeing his weakness made me want more than anything to help him: the taste of my own loss still lingered bitterly on my tongue, reminding me of the pain.

I couldn’t believe what I’d heard any more than Stanislav could—because if I did, it would mean my subconscious, which clearly painted Dr. Smirnov as a monster, had been losing to brutal reality in a lopsided score. The truth had struck us all in our weakest places and kept striking, dragging everyone present into the halls of hell, where a fitting cauldron had been lovingly prepared for each to endure their suffering alone.

No, it simply couldn’t be true. I hadn’t heard much about the Smirnov couple, but it was nearly impossible to picture as evil a pair who had, with a firm yet loving hand, united five immortals within the walls of an old manor. Yes, there were dark impulses I could easily—and even gladly—attribute to Vladimir, but the desire to harm the children wasn’t among them.

The way the doctor treated them—how coldly he lectured them, trying to discipline them just to protect them from mistakes—whether I liked to admit it or not, it made me respect him. And would a man whose heart was cold as ice really leave an empty seat at the table for the wife he had killed, as if secretly hoping to see Olga again today? I sensed something was off, but Viola’s reaction drowned out the quiet voice of doubt: the pain on my friend’s face was too vivid, the mark of a terrible loss too clear. What if she really had found Olga’s body in the house? It was best to prepare for the worst.

Wanting to pull Stas out of the whirlpool of emotions consuming him, I squeezed his hand tighter, but his cold fingers simply loosened in response. Unstoppable, he lunged forward with such speed that he caught Maria off guard. While still deflecting the spells that Violetta kept sending at the doctor one after another, my mother had completely forgotten about her own safety. Stas noticed this and, like a predator spotting weak prey in the crowd, sharply changed direction, aiming not at Vladimir but at Maria. I noticed the change too late to react, and when Stas swung his tense hand—fingers pressed tightly together like a blade—straight toward Maria’s throat, a desperate cry tore from my lips. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Event after event unfolded before my eyes like in a terrible dream.

Time seemed to slow, and a familiar chill ran over my skin.

"Oh yes," Kaandor purred sweetly.

At the last moment, Maria deflected the blow, and the fight turned into hand-to-hand combat between her and Stas. Consumed by rage, Stas launched one attack after another, and Mom, focused and tense as a drawn string, skillfully parried each strike before it could come crashing down on her. The sight could have been mesmerizing in its beauty and perfect precision: their movements were flawlessly calculated, and each opponent seemed to anticipate the other’s moves on an instinctive level. Maria predicted Stas’s actions as if eavesdropping on the vampire’s thoughts, using it to her advantage, but there was something strange in this mad dance. Soon I realized what it was—Mom wasn’t striking Stas back.

Before long, Arthur joined the frenzied dance, trying to get to Vladimir. Together with his brother, he attacked in turns, aiming to exhaust their opponent, who barely managed to dodge not only them but also the glowing spheres Violet continued to hurl. Unlike the brothers, Viola was moving slower and slower. She was already breathing heavily, her forehead glistening with sweat. It was clear how much effort each new attack cost her, yet she tried not to fall behind the brothers.