After the whole Nightshades debacle wrapped up in tense agreement, Aleksander's phone buzzed as he stepped into the Quad. He checked the screen: a message from his Uncle Jane. Meet me outside the Academy.
Intrigued, Aleksander headed to the gates, where fog clung to the ironwork under the fading dusk light. Jane leaned against a pillar, flashing that trademark knowing smile and waving him over.
Aleksander eyed him steadily. "What are you doing here?"
Jane's grin widened, all easy charm. "Just wanted to meet my favorite nephew."
Aleksander smiled, pulling him into a quick hug before stepping back. "Okay, happy to see you too—but now tell me the real reason."
Jane shrugged with theatrical nonchalance, eyes twinkling. "Well, your grandfather called for a meeting tomorrow. He insisted I let you know personally—you're required and needed there."
Aleksander frowned, tension creasing his brow. He knew when Grandfather Grigori Morozova summoned everyone, it signaled serious business.
"Couldn't Father or Mother just message me?" he pressed.
Jane tilted his head, smile turning sly. "I took the job of informing you myself. Figured it was a good excuse to see you too.Speaking of... that dirt on your sleeve? Underground adventure? And the way you're glancing back at the quad—like you're half-expecting those Nightshades kids to tail you."
Aleksander stiffened slightly. "Just a detour. Nothing major."
Jane chuckled, circling him slowly like a consultant sizing up a crime scene. "Oh, please. Eyes darting to your phone, that faint tension in your shoulders—same as when you and Wednesday chased leads last time. Gates murder case, right? The principal strung up like a piñata. And don't bother denying it; you've got that 'we cracked it' glint. Let me guess... the unassuming botany teacher. Thornhill. Marilyn Thornhill. Harmless glasses, killer smile—literally."
Aleksander's eyes widened a fraction. "How—?"
Jane winked, patting his shoulder. "Observation, nephew. And a little mentalism. Stay sharp tomorrow—family meetings and murder plots? Sounds like your kind of weekend."
Aleksander nodded thoughtfully at Jane's words, then headed back through the gates. Wednesday waited in the shadows of the Quad, arms crossed, her pale face lit faintly by a nearby lantern.
She spoke first, monotone as ever. "I heard everything. It seems you won't be here for Outreach Day."
Aleksander nodded. "Yeah, family meeting. It's too important to skip."Wednesday tilted her head slightly, understanding without fuss.
Aleksander added, "Also, keep your eyes sharp. I sensed Thornhill's emotions—she's growing impulsive. She'll make her move soon."
Wednesday's gaze sharpened. "I will. When you get back, we'll talk about a plan."
Aleksander nodded to Wednesday, then headed to his dorm for the night. The next morning, he knocked on Principal Weems' office door, the scent of polished wood and faint herbal tea hanging in the air."I need an exclusion from Outreach Day," he explained flatly. "Family meeting—especially called by my grandfather."
Weems looked up from her desk, morphing briefly before settling into her composed form.
She nodded without surprise. "Your mother already messaged me about it. Just make sure you're back by evening."
Aleksander nodded his thanks and strode out to the academy lot. His Ducati Diavel 1260 S gleamed under the overcast sky. He swung a leg over, secured his helmet, twisted the key, and revved the engine—a deep, guttural roar echoing off the stones. Then he sped off, tires gripping the wet road as the gates receded behind him.
Aleksander pushed the Ducati Diavel 1260 S to its limits, the engine's thunder cutting through the winding roads as he wove past blurred trees and mist-shrouded hills. Speedometer needle pinned high, wind battering his helmet, he covered the distance in record time.
The mansion loomed ahead—grand and imposing, just like in the old stories: ivy-cloaked stone facade, towering wings framing manicured lawns, arched windows glowing faintly against the gray sky. He downshifted smoothly, tires crunching gravel as he pulled up to the entrance, killing the engine. Silence settled, broken only by the distant call of ravens.
Aleksander pulled off his helmet, shaking out his hair as he scanned the mansion's sweeping driveway and shadowed wings. He dismounted the Ducati, gravel crunching under his boots.
It wasn't long before the massive oak doors creaked open.
Grigori Morozova stepped out first—average build, solid and unyielding despite the years, his thick silver-white beard and mustache neatly trimmed around a weather-beaten face etched with laugh lines. Sharp brown eyes twinkled with rugged charisma under deep forehead wrinkles, the mark of decades in the information trade.Beside him stood Minerva Morozova, tall and severe, her black hair pulled into a tight, unyielding bun. The sprightly seventy-year-old moved with crisp purpose, her posture ramrod straight.
Both lit up at the sight of their grandson—the apple of their eyes. They knew how fiercely he loved them, especially after that "planned accident" years back when Grigori had nearly been murdered. Aleksander's raw anger had practically summoned a storm, weather shifting in his fury.
Minerva swept forward first, enveloping him in a firm hug, then held him at arm's length, inspecting him with a critical eye. "Look at you—all skin and bones. Haven't you been eating properly?"
Aleksander smiled, patting her back. "I'm strong, Grandma."
Grigori boomed a laugh, tugging his mustache like a man fresh from the African veldt. "Oh, the boy's looking fit enough! But he'd do better with some of your famous steak, eh, Minerva? None of that academy slop—puts hair on the chest, that does."