Ilya Malinin

Ilya sits on someone's tombstone, counting his ages when the person died. Then, with his dangling foot, he touches a flower growing in the ground above the coffin and plucks a white bud from the earth. His lips stretch, and his cat-like fangs gleam in the moonlight.

Petya shies away and refuses to accept the flower when Ilya, holding onto the window open in the night, holds out the plucked bud.

“You can’t pick flowers from graves,” Petya shakes his head reproachfully.

“Why?” Ilya’s voice is high and innocent.

• Because this flower grows on the grave, Ilya.

Ilya pouts in frustration and hangs his head, crushing the petals with his fingers. Before leaving, he slips the flower between the clever books on the shelf and squints slyly as he leaps out the window into the night. He doesn't know that flowers need a vase of water to live. Ilya needs blood to live. Sweet blood, because Ilya has a sweet tooth!