Anastacia Petrov

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Anastacia Petrov

1 Mortal Life
2 Embrace
3 Requiem in Washington DC
4 Retainer
5 Pictures of Home
6 Vehicle

Mortal Life

My story begins in St. Petersburg Russia, as it is now called, in 1955. I am the only childe of Sergei and Monya Federov. By Russian standards, I didn’t grow up in a normal home. I guess that happens when your parents are both members of the KGB. My mother, under the Second Chief Directorate, ran a brothel of sorts, catering to wealthy citizens and foreigners. The girls would pass along any secrets their “johns” would share with them. My father worked for the Ninth Chief Directorate. His main duties were to escort and protect key figures of the government figures as well as protect several facilities for the government. Later he would work for the Fifth Chief Directorate which was responsible for censoring media and controlling religious dissent.

How do I know all this? Well you can’t live with two members of the KGB and not pick up some things. I believe that all along they were grooming me to join in the family “business”. Thank god it wasn’t to be a cheap whore in momma’s brothel. Those women were the nastiest women I knew and, on the chance that one of them was forced to baby sit me, I made sure I stayed away from them. I doubt most of them washed. If one stepped in my room it would take hours for the aroma of stale sweat and cheap men’s cologne to disperse. No my mother and father’s idea of a family fun was target practice. I was probably the youngest 12 year old that could pick off a scurrying mouse from 20 yards away.

Family was a weird concept for me. I remember me having loads of uncles, aunts and cousins when I was really young. However, as the years wore on more and more family members seemed to disappear. One of the last gatherings stood out in my memory. The event was tense at best, nerve racking, for some, at worst. There were so many darting eyes you thought we were all playing tennis. I remember grabbing one of my cousin’s arms and dragging him off to go play with me and his parents went hysterical. Apparently wanting to show him the gun daddy got me wasn’t an approved activity. That’s the last I saw from them. We didn’t keep in touch with the others in our family much after that either. Momma tried to explain that they were nervous because they were hiding secrets. My response was to say that family shouldn’t keep secrets it’s not nice. My mom burst into laughter.

When I hit my teens I had figured out that the men that were screaming in the middle of the night weren’t just getting off. Some were also being dragged off. Eventually I just learned to sleep through it. School was no better than family. I was a pariah of sorts among my classmates. Although that was somewhat alleviated by the fact that I developed early and a lot. At least it made the boys follow me and the girls jealous. I knew from an early age that I could have anything I wanted, either through fear or through manipulation.

Then it happened. It was an event that would change my life. The one hazard of living in your mother’s intelligence gathering brothel is that at some point someone would figure things out and do something foolish and desperate. I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday.

It was a clear night outside. There wasn’t much activity in the brothel. I guess that made hearing the man entering the house so much more vivid. The door opened then closed and the bell rang. Next came some soft talking followed by a scream and the sound of gunfire. My first thought was “Hooray the babysitter is dead!” This was followed by the sound of doors slamming shut and a couple dozen whores whimpering in their rooms above me.

It was then I noticed the slow methodical footfalls of the man making his way from room to room down the hallway towards me. For the first time in my life I was terrified. Then something inside me clicked and I quietly made my way to the closet and grabbed the gun my father bought me, then made my way back to my bed. I got back in my bed and waited. My blankets were up practically to my ears as the man’s heavy footsteps stopped in front of my door.

As I watched the doorknob turn, I clutched the gun and released the safety. The man opened my door and smiled. I remember desperately not trying to shake for fear he would hear the rattle of the gun. He entered and sat down on my bed. He was incoherent and his breathe smelled of cheap vodka. He was rambling on about his brother and that the only possible way to get justice was to make me his little whore. He made one critical mistake. He assumed I wasn’t a threat. As he lunged at me, I unloaded the gun into his torso. He pawed at me and then looked into my face. The shocked expression is permanently ingrained in my mind. As he slumped on to my lap I remember still trying to fire but only resulting in clicks of the hammer.

Everything after that was a blur until my mother and father arrived. I ended up crouched in the corner my knuckles white as I gripped the gun. It took great effort from my father to get the gun from my hands. It wasn’t until then that I was smacked back into reality and I realized I was crying hysterically. It was also the first time I remember my father and mother expressing their great concern for me. It was the only time I saw my father cry. I was sixteen and killed my first person. I guess no one forgets their first.

It was shortly afterward that mother and father were asked to retire and my family was moved to the US in 1972. I knew there was a reason my mother made me learn English. My family moved in large part as the first in a wave of many former KGB members to migrate to the US to feel out the political goings on here. We arrived in New York City in June and my family went to work making contacts with other former KGB members and set up a “family” of sorts.

Soon after that it was evident that the “family” was going to be doing business for more than just the Soviet Union. By that time, I had been fully filled in by my parents as to what they were. It was there wish for them that I find other means of occupation. I was home schooled for about a year by my mother before being accepted into NYU. College life was much different for me. I got my own apartment and lived on my own and was immersed into many more political views than I would never have received in the Soviet Union. I double majored in Art History and International Political Science.

After I graduated I became an Art and Antiquities buyer not only on the legitimate side of things, but with my parent’s contacts, I got involved on selling art on the black market. I was often called on both sides of the business to import and export pieces. My parents were thrilled with me and my success. They also seemed to be more and more capitalistic. Eventually ties to the Soviet Union were cut and my parents were fully assimilated into the Russian Mafia. They enjoyed the fact that I could at least stay on the safer side of things, but still made sure I could protect myself.

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Embrace

Well that was until 1982 when I met Nikodim Alexey, an acquaintance of my father’s. He was a strange man. Quiet, obsessed with artwork, and only seemed to come out at night. He also appeared anemic at times. On the rare occasion I swear I would catch him sniffing my neck. I just racked it up to him being a dirt ole sexually repressed man and that was the end of it. He would buy vast amounts of artwork at a time. He often came to talk to me about art. The man was fixated on it. One night he came to my office to bring me coffee. As we sat there, I started to feel dizzy. I realized something was wrong I stood up spilling the rest of the coffee down the front of me. I looked to Nikodim and he had an odd smile on his face, but that’s the last living memory I have before blacking out.

I woke up later in a strange house and sore as all hell. The first thing that hit my senses was a great desire to drink. I searched and found water but as soon as it hit my stomach I knew that wasn’t what I wanted and threw up. A rat skittered past the toilet at that moment something in me took over and I knew exactly what I craved. Part of me was repulsed. But the satisfaction its meager amount of blood gave made me hunger for more. By the time I was done I found 20 rats and killed them all. It was as I was feeding on the last one that Nikodim came in.

It was as if that malevolent smile never left his lips. I was angry and attacked him, but all it took was him looking in my eyes, and a few words, to hold me in place. I was livid. How could such an insignificant man do that to me? I knew he had done something to me but I wasn’t sure what. He then related to me what he was and that I was the same. I was a monster walking the night to forever thirst for the blood of mortal beings. It was soon after that he took me away and we ended up in Washington DC.

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Requiem in Washington DC

Nikodim belonged to the Invictus the old school aristocracy of my new world. I admired them for their conviction and cunning, yet I despised them even more for their inability to adapt and change their government to the changing times. Any successful government that was worth anything knew they had to keep up with change or be left behind. They didn’t even have the sense of family. They were like the KGB in the fact that they hated secrets, but only if those secrets were going to be used against them. They were hypocrites and antiquated and I knew I had no place among them. My decision to join the Carthians caused Nikodim to go into a rage.

The Carthians, while rag tag and disorganized in DC, was where my beliefs lay. I instantly became a target of Nikodim’s. He believed he could control me and do what he wanted. He was sorely mistaken. For all his gifts he could not control the one thing I was. I was a free being, with the freedom to choose what I am to become. Many years passed and the Carthians were on the edge of war, at all times, with the Invictus. It was the Kindred version of the Cold War.

However I played my cards exactly as I should have. I started out with our shared fixation of the arts and used that a stepping stone to speak to him at length. I knew Nikodim was not content with the leaders in the Invictus. I schemed and planned until I had regained Nikodim’s trust. Except he was stupid and he let his guard down. I double crossed him and made a deal with the Invictus leaders. After all was said and done and the blood and smoke were cleared, Nikodim was torpored and the Invictus was in disarray. Eventually they were relegated to the Maryland side of DC to govern and the Carthians took the Virginia side.

With my sire torpored for who knows how long and the Carthians finally organized and in control of half of DC, it is my opportunity to strike out on my own and expand my contacts with the Russian Black Market and to alter my identity once again. The last thing I did was steal away Nikodim’s vast collection of artwork from the Romanov dynasty. How it pained me to part with it, but with the large some of money I generated from the sale I can invest it overseas and live off the returns. I now set my eyes on Atlanta, a gleaming jewel of the South.

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