Chapter 1

*Wurdulac, also spelled wurdalak or verdilak, is a vampire in the Slavic folklore mythology. (wiki)

Do you think about anything when you're flying headfirst from the roof of a twenty-story building? Does your whole life flash before your eyes? Now I can say for sure - no. The wind rushes in your ears, and the ground is approaching your nose at an astonishing speed. And the scariest thing about it is that at that very moment when I made this Olympic leap, I didn't want to die at all. Today I turned eighteen. Just this morning, I planned to leave home. To find a new job wherever I could, rent a small, even a lousy, but my own room or even an apartment. And start a new life from scratch. Where there would be no room for memories of my alcoholic mother and grief for her. Where there would be no her husband, who killed her two years ago. And now me too.

However, before I start telling about my transition to the Wurd, it's worth taking a look at my, albeit short, but still life in our world.

My name is simple, but proudly - Ulya. And if we go by the passport - Ulyana Belova. As I mentioned earlier, I just turned eighteen. My appearance is unremarkable - I recently cut my hair and became the happy owner of a "boyish" haircut. I even bleached it. I wanted to radically change my life, but who knew, who could have guessed that it might not be necessary. Although the new hairstyle suits me. I left my eyebrows dark to further accentuate my green eyes. For them, for this little magic in me, I'm immensely grateful to my mom; this gift always set her daughter apart from the crowd. On my birthday, my height reached one hundred seventy centimeters. That's good, I suppose. I have a decent figure, no excess, but my breasts could be bigger than a size two. Maybe then I wouldn't still be a virgin. Of course, I'm talking about the loss of innocence through love, not at the hands of a perverted stepfather.

My life situation was not remarkable in any particular way, just like my appearance. Let's put it this way, I would never be featured in the news, written about in newspapers, and I highly doubt I would have found myself a prince. Someday. Seventeen years of constant studying and reading. The grayness of each day, a dreary home where joy has long vanished, and only dreams before sleep about how everything would change someday.

Now I nostalgically remember our mother-daughter gatherings in the kitchen. When I was little, she found joy in something at least.

"Ulya, tell me, how's school? What have you learned?"

Despite the dreadful fatigue from her heavy and poorly paid job as a janitor, she always found time for me. I remember black tea in white cups with red polka dots. And cheap but sweet and tasty cookies. Why tasty? Maybe it's just sugar, or maybe it's her love. And that rare attention that I later missed so much when my mom started drinking alcohol. She held on for a long time, searching for a replacement for the father who abandoned her as soon as he found out about the pregnancy. As it turned out, he became the love of her life. Even though it was unsuccessful.

It's good that we inherited a three-room apartment from my grandmother. It was on the outskirts of Moscow, almost a slum. The twentieth floor. One could hope for an excellent view, but all the windows faced the neighboring buildings' walls covered in mold from perpetual dampness. A typical panel housing. Just like my meager existence in the real gray world. In a world where, with the onset of autumn, all you could see around were scary courtyards with potholes in the asphalt, garbage, and rats. With cockroaches and perpetually angry people who couldn't be blamed for their mood because we all live here.

My mom broke down mentally when I was fifteen. Perhaps there's also some blame on my part - teenage maximalism, attempts to show myself as smart and independent, led to my mother's total solitude. Along with alcohol, my new "father" entered our lives - Anton Reznik. At first glance, a good man, uncomplicated but good. He has a profitable profession - working as a foreman at a construction site. That's what my mom reassured me with, at least. However, I still can't figure out how it happened that she transferred our apartment to him. Made him the sole owner. She gave it away. To this simple and very good person.

I learned about it right after her death. Anton himself informed me and showed all the documents.

"Now I will take care of you, my little swallow," he said with a predatory grin. And he didn't even bother hiding that he couldn't care less about my mom. And her death was so strange. The emergency doctors said she accidentally slipped on the wet floor in the bathroom. Strangely enough, she was home alone at that moment. I might have been willing to believe it was an unfortunate accident if it weren't for the fact with the apartment, which was our only property. Yes, my mom drank alcohol, and when Anton started supporting us, she drank even more because she was lonely all day long, immersed in total solitude.

I couldn't prove anything - the police said there were no grounds to initiate a criminal case. Anton had an alibi, and there were no signs of violent death. And I have nowhere to go from home; this apartment is the only thing I had. And now it's even worse. It's easy on TV, pack your things and leave. But in real life, there's a harsh winter outside, and there's no one, no relatives - just my mom and grandmother, both resting in the cemetery.

At first, I was very afraid to be alone with my stepfather in the same apartment. However, besides his lecherous glances and suspicious gifts, nothing further happened. So I decided to stay, hoping to endure at least until I turned eighteen, and then I have to try to escape.

As you can see, I managed to hold on until eighteen. Exactly. On the morning of that day, I found a new place to live - somewhere to go, I rented a bed with the money I earned during the summer and autumn. I returned home to gather my things. Precious photos of my mom and grandmother, my grandmother's little box, and my white owl that had been guarding my sleep since I was five.

I entered the apartment, hoping that my stepfather would be at work - that's how it should be. It was usually like that. I wanted to tidy up and leave before his return, not even leaving a note - I didn't like him, even though, until today, he had behaved relatively decently. Nevertheless, I was a hundred percent convinced that I was living under the same roof as my mother's killer.

"Ulyana, darling, I've been waiting for you!" Anton stepped into the hallway with a large bouquet of roses. He was wearing a jacket and his worn-out jeans, with a fresh haircut and a clean-shaven face. Extraordinary tidiness for him!

Following his greeting, a strong smell of alcohol hit me.

"Thank you," I reluctantly accepted the flowers, restraining the urge to grimace. It seemed like the departure was postponed for at least half an hour. I'll have to celebrate, no way around it. And God forbid he finds out that I planned to move out - he knows how to swing his arms too. His ability has left heavy marks on my mother more than once.

"Come in, I've set the table! Look, your favorite cake!" He nudged me into the room. And I didn't like it at all. His hand seemed to aim for my waist but, like, missed and landed lower. And immediately his sweaty palm squeezed my buttock. It seems he planned to have a jolly evening.

I shuddered.

"Sit, sit, my dear, everything is ready," his repulsive voice grated on my ears. I sat down on a chair because my legs had turned weak from fear. Suddenly, I realized what he had in mind and that I didn't have much of an escape or a way to overcome him. Most likely.

"Anton, I'm in a hurry, I have plans with friends today," I tried to dismiss my stepfather, but it wasn't that easy.

"So, I'm nobody to you now?" Reznik paused. Just a second before, he had sliced the cake into eight pieces with a huge knife. And now, with his terrifying, eyelashless eyes, too pale, he was drilling into me. I could feel the danger of the situation on my skin. In that moment, nothing was stopping him from plunging a dreadful blade into me. "I reme-em-ber how you ran to the cops and screamed at them that I killed your mother," he took a step closer to me and suddenly, with a swift movement, he stabbed the knife into the tabletop right in front of my nose. Then he leaned in, spitting and transitioning into a fit of hysteria. "You!!! You want to run off to your little boyfriend, spread your legs for him?! You bitch, you insignificant little whore!" Shouting this, he pushed the table, and it crashed to the floor with a loud noise. Just a moment ago, everything was still fine. Fear nailed me to the chair I was sitting on. "You want to know what a real man is like, huh?! I'll show you right now!!!" He grabbed my arm, forcing me to stand up. I struggled, trying to reach for my grandmother's vase, which had been standing next to the TV for years. The vase was heavy enough to shatter that scoundrel's skull! But I didn't have enough time. Reznik held me tightly with one iron grip while his other hand began to undo his pants. What happened next was as swift as the later fall from the height. I managed to push the assailant away. Losing his balance on his drunken legs, he fell to the floor, where he immediately found the knife and, enraged, lunged at me with an inhuman scream of "I'll kill you!"

I can't explain why I acted the way I did. The large window behind me was open. Maybe I just wanted to stop my stepfather. But I didn't even realize how I took a step from the windowsill into the abyss...

During the fall from the twentieth floor down to the ground, I didn't remember anything, only my white owl and my grandmother's photograph. For some reason, not my mother's, but specifically my grandmother's. The flight lasted fractions of a second, and then darkness set in.

Sensation followed sensation. Silence and darkness. Then coldness. You know, the kind that seeps through your legs. However, I don't have legs; I am shapeless, weightless. And then heat. And sweat. I felt droplets of sweat on my forehead. Small ones, about six of them. One in the center, two on the right, and three on the left temple. They trickled down horrifyingly slowly, as if deliberately not wanting to hurry anywhere.

And then I opened my eyes!

"Just tell me, Yust, will they appear right in my office?!"

I was spat on again! A huge face with three chins and an equally huge mouth, from which yellowed fangs protruded, loomed over me! I had never seen how eyes could change color. From brown to red, and from red to fiery orange! And all of this happened in a fraction of a second.

Oh my God, where am I?!!