The People's Will

by Jasper Kent

  Mihail opened up the note and discovered that it was a summons; a summons from his father.

  Once he had begun to send his own messages, and listen to those that came back, Iuda managed to gather a clearer understanding of what was going on – not just in the Peter and Paul Fortress, but in the whole of Petersburg.

  There were at least twenty inmates who were in some way connected with the People’s Will, plus others arrested for more normal crimes and a few from organizations with similar goals to the People’s Will, but quite independent. None of these were allowed to know the code – least of all the other revolutionary groups – though Iuda had no doubt that a few would have been smart enough to crack it. He had managed it in only a day, and there were plenty who’d been incarcerated here for longer than that.

  Nor was it outside the realms of the imagination that the authorities understood something of the code – indeed it was almost essential that they did. While prisoners within the fortress could communicate with relative ease, it would be of little benefit to anyone if messages couldn’t be got out and in. At some point in the chain there had to be a corrupt guard to act as courier to the wider world. But that meant that the inmates had to be circumspect; beneath the surface of the simple code of tapping there were other layers of subterfuge. Pseudonyms were used rather than real identities – both for revolutionaries and their intended targets. Iuda had been familiar with most of it at one time but his long incarceration by the Turcomans had left him out of touch. Even so he could tell that something momentous was afoot, and that before long there would be another attempt on Aleksandr’s life.

  But that was not Iuda’s most pressing concern; he was becoming thirsty. He had not fed since Dmitry and Zmyeevich had provided him with the meagre feast of the boy in Moscow. Before that there had been nothing since Geok Tepe. The sentries at the fortress delivered food twice a day, but it was of no use to him. He wasn’t yet on the point of becoming weak or lethargic, but the time would come. He needed to get out.

  He had faced a similar problem with the vampire he kept prisoner beneath his father’s church in Esher. His first instinct, on discovering that what he’d captured was not human, had been to kill it. He was still young enough to have an instinctive sense of what was good and what was evil, and to have a revulsion for the latter, but his first problem had been to devise a mechanism. He knew little of vampire lore. He’d heard tales that daylight could harm them, but while some stories said it would bring death, others were quite clear that it would merely weaken the monster. During the day the creature lurked in a dark corner of the crypt and so Richard never had the opportunity to experiment on the effect light might have on it, except to make the observation that it was afraid of the sun. But even as he realized the difficulties he might have in killing the creature, he also began to question the need for it. His father’s attitude continued to hold sway; the rat and the butterfly were not killed for killing’s sake, but in order to study them. If more could be learned from a live specimen than from a dead one, then life should remain.

  He boarded up the small window by which he’d trapped the monster and instead gained access to it through the church. His father never went down into the crypt, and Richard now stole the appropriate keys so that he would not be able to, even if the whim took him. The entrance was hidden behind the triple-decker pulpit that stood almost midway down the nave, overlooking the Chamber Pew where the local nobility – the Pelham family – could worship in isolation from the masses. Richard’s father could preach directly at them, either from the top tier when he delivered his sermon, the middle when he read the lesson or the bottom when he had more secular announcements to make regarding the parish. It was from behind this bottom level that steps led down to a wooden door, and beyond that there was an iron gate leading to the crypt. Richard could sit between the two and converse with his specimen in complete safety.

  It was two days before he got any reply to his questions.

  ‘Yes, I am a vampire.’

  His English bore a heavy French accent, though Richard had already suspected his nationality from the manner of his dress.

  ‘Your name?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Je suis Honoré Philippe Louis d’Évreux, Vicomte de Nemours.’

  ‘You’re staying at Juniper Hall?’ Richard stuck with English.

  ‘Not any more, it seems.’

  Richard smiled. ‘But you were?’

  The vicomte nodded.

  ‘How long have you been a vampire?’

  ‘Twelve years.’

  Richard noted it down in his journal. ‘And before that, you were a normal man?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘And how did the transformation take place?’

  Richard copied down every detail of Honoré’s story, occasionally interrupting to ask questions but generally allowing him to tell it in his own way. That battered exercise book was to become the first volume of Iuda’s vast collection on the study of the vampire. He spent every moment he could down there, learning of Honoré’s strange life. His father scarcely noticed his absence. Only Susanna made any comment on his recent unusual behaviour, but he told her nothing. There had been a time when he might have been tempted to take her into his confidence, but since their kiss he had felt wary of her – afraid of the power she might have over him.

  It was after two weeks that the issue of Honoré’s sustenance had arisen. It came in the middle of their normal interrogation. Honoré had never asked anything of Richard and when the words came from him, it was more of a plea than a demand.

  ‘Feed me.’

  Richard had already been considering the issue. There was a series of possible solutions, each with increasing risk, and the increasing prospect of excitement.

  ‘Will animal blood do?’ Richard asked.

  Honoré shook his head. ‘I’ve tried it. I can force it down, but it does nothing to relieve my hunger. Perhaps others can stomach it, but not I.’

  ‘How much do you need?’

  The vampire shrugged. ‘Whatever I can get. A little regularly – a lot occasionally.’

  ‘Would my blood do?’

  ‘Certainly. Come over here and press your neck against the bars.’

  Richard chuckled. ‘I mean if I were to draw a little and give it to you.’

  ‘Where would be the pleasure?’

  Richard drew out his double-bladed knife. He no longer needed it to mimic the vampire’s teeth, but he had grown fond of it – proud of the fact that its wounds were his unique signature. He drew one blade across the palm of his left hand, then smeared the oozing blood on to the flat of the metal. He held the bloodied knife with an outstretched arm, approaching Honoré with utmost caution.

  The vampire snorted. ‘When I said a little … You’d do better to save your strength, Cain, and use it to catch me bigger prey.’

  Richard doubted whether his strength was up to the task, but he had his cunning. He stole a bottle of his father’s wine. Brandy would have done the job better, but it would be missed, whereas the cellar beneath the rectory was plentifully stocked with wine.

  It took another two days before he found a suitable victim. Honoré asked him constantly how he was progressing but Richard told him to be patient. Eventually he saw the man, a vagrant wandering down the Portsmouth Road. Richard watched as he plodded along and then eventually settled down for a night’s sleep. Richard sat down beside him and began to chat, eventually offering him the wine. The tramp drank eagerly, but Richard had underestimated his capacity for alcohol. He had hoped that an entire bottle would render him insensible, but it merely made him talk more, and with less coherence.

  In the end, that made things easier. Richard would have had trouble carrying the unconscious body back to the church, but all he now had to do was tell the vagrant that he knew where more wine could be found, and the drunken fool happily walked to his own death. Richard led him down under the church and then pointed through the locked gate while pretending to look for
the key.

  ‘It’s all in there,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Have a look.’

  The tramp peered forward, his beard pressing against the iron bars.

  Honoré struck.

  Richard sat a little way away and took notes. There was nothing that the tramp could do once the vampire had got hold of him. Honoré’s hands clasped him by the back of the head, pulling him close so that his neck lay bare against the bars, allowing Honoré to drink. The man’s hands scrabbled against the stone walls and his legs kicked wildly, but with ever-decreasing vigour as his blood drained away. Soon he was unconscious. The vampire let go and the vagrant slumped backwards on to the floor, his head hitting the stonework with a crack.

  ‘I need the body,’ Honoré hissed.

  Richard considered. The only way he could hand over the tramp’s body would be to open the gate, but that would be an idiotic risk. And yet he yearned to discover what the vampire would do. He wished he’d been able to further restrain his captive. He had a heavy chain and a padlock ready, but he could think of no safe way to get close enough. He decided to do the best he could with the hand he’d been dealt.

  ‘Step away from the gate then,’ he said. ‘Get right back, but where I can see you.’

  The vicomte complied. Richard kept his eyes fixed on him as he unlocked the gate, prepared for any attempt to rush forward, but none came. He managed to drag and kick the tramp’s body forward, noticing a slight groan, indicating that some life remained. Once he had got the body through he slammed the gate closed and locked it. Honoré scurried forward and dragged the tramp away into the shadows. Richard never discovered what it was that he did with it, or with the bodies of the other victims Richard went on to provide. Later he learned, through both observation and personal experience, that for many vampires the taste of human flesh was sweeter even than that of their blood.

  Richard left Honoré to spend the night alone with his repast, but he did not go to sleep. He spent the whole night reading, comparing his recent notes of how he had seen a vampire feed with some of his earliest on how a spider devours a fly, noting down the similarities and the differences. It was all quite fascinating.

  He kept his specimen locked down there beneath the church for two years, feeding it regularly, but not extravagantly. It was not always easy to find passing itinerants who would not be missed, but Richard was not without imagination. His friends from school already knew that an invite to the church to see something gruesome was worth responding to. Richard made them promise to tell no one, not even where they were going. That way, when they failed to return no suspicion would fall upon him. Honoré always kept back from the gate when Richard opened it, allowing his schoolfriend to walk inside and disappear into the blackness. Often he saw nothing of their fate, happy merely to sit on the steps down from the pulpit and listen to their screams.

  But through it all, Richard could only hide his terror. The more he learned of Honoré the more he understood how dangerous a creature he was holding captive – how lucky he had been to capture it at all. Honoré gave no hint that he was planning to escape, but Richard knew that it must be so – it was what he would have done.

  As time went by, Richard became more ambitious, providing victims not simply to sate Honoré’s thirst but also to settle his own personal scores. Of all the boys at his school, the one he hated most was Charles Armitage. They had been friends once, but at some point in his life Charles had made the decision that social success was best achieved by joining the crowd and deriding Richard’s quiet interest in the natural world, rather than sharing it. The worst of it was his hypocrisy – while he would goad Richard in public, he was fascinated to talk of nature’s glory when they were alone. It was to be his undoing – though it was almost Richard’s too.

  Richard tempted him down to the crypt as he had the others. He walked to the gate and checked to see where Honoré was. After a moment he saw his eyes, a safe distance away in the shadows, glinting in the light of Richard’s lamp. Richard opened the gate and beckoned Charles forward, promising him a thrill far greater than anything he had seen previously in the deadhouse. As he spoke he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. It was only then that he realized his mistake. Whoever’s eyes he had seen, they were not Honoré’s, nor was there any life behind them; he had given the vampire enough material to produce a convincing replication.

  Honoré moved quickly and slammed the gate against Richard, trapping him between it and the stone wall and knocking the wind out of him. The pressure was released and Richard slumped to the floor. The vampire stood above him, fangs bared. Richard tried to crawl away, but he made little progress. Even so, Honoré allowed him to move, confident that he could not escape. Richard knew that if he could just make it to the church above, where daylight streamed through the clear windows, then he would survive. But Honoré knew that too. Before Richard even made it to the bottom step, the vampire leapt, pinning him to the ground and gazing into his eyes, his foetid breath infiltrating Richard’s nostrils. Even at such a moment, Richard wondered how that stench might be related to the creature’s diet, and how he might devise an experiment to understand the connection better.

  ‘You should have killed me, Cain,’ he snarled.

  He opened his jaws wide, revealing his fangs, and raised his head in preparation to bring them down on Richard’s neck. Richard turned away and tried to close his eyes, but still his curiosity forced him to look – to try to learn even in the moment of his own death. But Honoré did not strike. His head fell back. A whimper escaped his lips and he froze for a moment, his eyes closed, as though in thoughtful contemplation. An instant later he collapsed into Richard’s chest. Behind him stood Charles, a huge piece of masonry in his hands which he had brought down on the vampire’s head. It would have caved in a man’s skull and killed him in a moment, but Richard already knew enough to doubt the effect would be the same here. In seconds he was up on his feet, pushing Honoré’s body off him, and confirming as he did so that the creature was not dead.

  ‘Quick!’ he snapped at Charles. ‘Drag him back in there.’

  Whatever presence of mind had allowed Charles to find the chunk of stone and bring it down on Honoré’s head had now deserted him. He stood shaking, his arms dangling loosely by his sides, tears welling in his eyes.

  ‘Now!’ shouted Richard, moving to grab Honoré’s feet and haul him back into the crypt. His action spurred Charles into movement and soon they had dragged the vampire’s inert body through the open gate. Richard bent down close to examine the wound at the back of his head, and saw that it was already healing. As he peered, Honoré emitted a groan.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ whispered Charles.

  Richard looked up at him. ‘Thank you,’ he said. It seemed the natural thing to do, but there was no sincerity to it.

  ‘How could he …?’ mumbled Charles. Then, with greater conviction, ‘We should get out of here.’

  ‘No!’ snapped Richard. He saw in the moment an opportunity, but not one that would be available to him for long. He dashed through the gate again and back towards the stairs, Charles in tow, but he did not ascend. In an alcove he found what he had left there, the chains he had wanted to use on Honoré. Back in the crypt the creature was beginning to stir, but Richard acted swiftly. Soon the chain dug tightly into the vampire’s throat, fastened with a padlock, its other end secured to the bars at the window through which he had first been thrust into his prison.

  Charles had been of no further help, and was eager to leave. ‘He’s waking up. Let’s go.’

  Richard was calmer. ‘It’s safe now – now that he’s bound. Let’s watch.’

  Richard stood by the gate and did as he’d suggested, Charles beside him. He knew perfectly well that it wasn’t a safe place to be. He’d made sure that the chain was long enough for Honoré to reach every corner of the crypt. He also made sure that Charles was a little further into the crypt than he was. The two boys stood, watching with different mixtures of ter
ror and fascination as the vampire came to. His eyes fell upon Richard and he leapt to his feet, then stopped and raised his hand to the chain at his neck, sensing it for the first time.

  ‘You’re wise to chain me, Cain,’ he said. ‘But you’d have been wiser to kill me.’

  ‘Perhaps one day I shall,’ replied Richard. ‘Or perhaps one day I’ll free you. For now I want you alive. And for that you must feed. Bon appétit.’

  Charles didn’t even notice that Richard had stepped to the other side of the gate. It was only when he heard the lock turn that he understood what was happening. He had proved a useful ally – an indispensable one – when Honoré had attacked Richard, but there was no chance that he would keep what he had seen to himself.

  Richard at least did his friend the courtesy of not staying to watch his end. Even after he’d locked the wooden door and begun ascending the steps he could hear Charles’s muffled voice shouting after him.

  ‘Richard! Richard! Richard!’

  It didn’t last long.

  Honoré never attempted to escape again, and their previous routine resumed. Richard fed the vampire and questioned him, and received the answers he sought. It was during their conversations that Richard first came to know of Zmyeevich, though that was not the name by which Honoré referred to him. It was thrilling enough to know that vampires were not rare, certainly not in Europe, but more fascinating still to learn of one so old and so powerful that he struck terror and obedience into every one of his kind. Honoré spoke of Zmyeevich’s hatred for the Romanov family, but knew nothing of its origins.

  When Richard was sixteen his father summoned him to his study. Richard guessed what the conversation was to be about and was excited by the prospect. At last he would be free.

  ‘Sit down, young man,’ his father began. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, you’ve reached the age in life when a gentleman of a certain status and intellect should be looking forward to going to varsity. We haven’t spoken of it recently, but we both know that it’s always been my intention for you to go up to Oxford, just as I did.’