The People's Will

by Jasper Kent

  He looked at the other samples and wondered what he should do with them. Most, if not all of the donors were dead, but still Iuda might have some foul purpose for them. Even if not, it was disrespectful – particularly for the likes of Marfa Mihailovna, Aleksei’s wife – to have the remnants of their corporeal existence here on display long after they had died. Perhaps they should be returned to family members, or buried with due ceremony so that their owners’ souls could rest in peace. But Mihail doubted that God would require any such ritualism to help in His judgement of who was and was not righteous. Besides, Mihail did not have room to take them all. Thankfully the newly rebuilt hotel was an exemplar of modernity. The bathroom had running water – both froide and chaude according to the enamel labels – and a sink that drained directly to the sewers. It was a simple if time-consuming task to empty out every bottle and wash its contents away. It struck Mihail as odd that the stuff hadn’t congealed, but evidently Iuda had found a way to keep it as fresh as on the day it had been drawn from the body. No doubt it was described somewhere in all those journals.

  At the bottom of that last cabinet there was a small, brown envelope – unmarked. Mihail picked it up. The contents hidden within were small and unyielding – six little lumps as hard as stone. Mihail could make no guess as to what they were. He ripped open the paper and poured the contents on to the table. Now there was no misunderstanding: two distal phalanges; two intermediate phalanges; two proximal phalanges. They were the bones of the smallest two fingers of the left hand of his grandfather, Aleksei Ivanovich, cut from him in a gaol in Silistria in 1809. It was a slight leap of intuition, but Mihail felt confident in it. There was no doubt that they were finger bones, and who else’s would they be? How they had come into Iuda’s possession was a mystery, but they would not remain there. Mihail returned them to the envelope and placed it in his bag.

  It was time to go. Mihail had been in the room for over an hour now. From what he could guess, Luka’s duties had simply been to keep an eye on things while Iuda was away. Mihail was playing the role of his replacement, and the manager might become suspicious if he stayed too long. He looked around him at the mess he had made; the smashed cabinets and the pile of emptied bottles. It did not matter. No one would be entering here. The hotel staff was under orders not to and Iuda was safely locked up. It was a shame. Mihail would have liked him to know just how easily this inner sanctum had been penetrated.

  He took one last look around the place, then headed for the door.

  Iuda turned off Mihailovskaya Street and into the Hôtel d’Europe. It was much as he remembered it: the elegant high ceilings, the bustling clientele, the attentive staff.

  ‘Round the back!’

  Iuda felt an iron grip on his shoulder as he spoke. He could have broken the man’s arm without a second thought, but he required the goodwill of the hotel and its staff.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you’re looking for work,’ explained the concierge, ‘it’s round the back. Though to be frank, I don’t rate your chances.’

  Iuda switched from Russian to French, in the hope of making it clear he was very much entitled to use the front door. ‘Is Monsieur Kryukov available?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kryukov, your manager.’

  ‘Kryukov’s not been here for two years. It’s Sazanov now.’

  ‘Well go fetch Monsieur Sazanov, and when you find him, tell him that Collegiate Councillor Chernetskiy is here.’

  ‘Chernetskiy?’ The idiot seemed to recognize the name. ‘But …’

  ‘Just go and do it.’ Iuda raised his voice a little. It had the desired effect.

  Moments later a figure approached, almost bowing as he walked. Iuda presumed him to be Sazanov.

  ‘Your High Nobleness. I should have known. I should have known.’

  ‘Known what?’ snapped Iuda.

  ‘That we were to be graced by your presence.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of your man. You sent him ahead. To prepare the room for you.’

  Iuda squeezed his jaws hard together, feeling the muscles tighten. He’d been right to be concerned. Luka had given something away before he died. Iuda should have come straight here and not wasted so much time the previous night.

  ‘I sent no one,’ he said firmly. ‘When was this?’

  ‘An hour ago. An hour and a half.’

  ‘How long did he stay?’

  ‘He’s still up there. He has the key.’

  In seconds Iuda had crossed the lobby and was bounding up the steps. He had no trouble remembering the way and the unending flights of stairs did nothing to exhaust him. He recognized the bronze faces that decorated the rails of the final staircase, with snakes in their hair, like Medusa. Soon he was at the door of 215. It was locked. He prepared to put his shoulder to it – it would offer no effective resistance to his strength.

  ‘Sir! Please!’ Sazanov was at the far end of the corridor, moving with surprising swiftness for a man of his build, but red-faced and out of breath. In his hand he was waving a bunch of keys. ‘Use this.’

  Iuda snatched the keys from him, holding the one that had been proffered. ‘Go!’ he snarled.

  ‘But sir, that’s the master key. I can’t leave it with a guest.’

  ‘I’ll return it when I’m done,’ Iuda whispered. Something about his tone convinced the manager, who waddled quickly away. Iuda turned the key and flung open the door to his room.

  Mihail threw himself down on the bed. This hotel was far less grand than the Hôtel d’Europe, but he was happy to be here. His heart was still pounding; not from exertion, not through fear, but simply at the thrill of seeing his quarry – though not at all where he had expected him to be.

  Mihail had just turned on to the final flight of stairs that descended into the lobby when he had seen Iuda – not his face, simply the back of his head, but the straight blond hair just touching his collar was clue enough. Then he’d turned and Mihail had seen his profile. They’d met only on one occasion, in that gaol at Geok Tepe, but Mihail had spent the whole time studying him, learning his every feature, so that even at a distance of half a verst he would be able to pick him out, hunt him down and kill him.

  Mihail’s first instinct was to strike there and then. In his knapsack he carried the simplest of weapons; one that had proven effective against vampires – though never yet in his hand. But to rush down the stairs and attempt to plunge a short wooden dagger into Iuda’s heart was too risky. Iuda was strong and fast. The lobby was crowded with people. Even if he succeeded, he would be arrested. And he would have to take Iuda by surprise, and where would be the fun in that? This was to be punishment – an execution. The pleasure would not be solely in Iuda’s death, but in the knowledge that Iuda understood he was about to die and the reason for it. Iuda must know regret.

  And so it was better to wait. Somewhere on a train between here and Saratov a trunk was being delivered, at Mihail’s request. He would be reunited with it soon. Inside he would find far better tools to complete the task, devices he and his mother had worked on together; had tested as best they could. Ideally it would be a slow death – and a painful one – so that Iuda would have time to contemplate. There was a way it could be done – a modern, scientific way. Mihail had seen it with his own eyes. But it would take careful preparation.

  He’d slipped back up the stairs and hidden in the room with the piano. Iuda had passed in a whirl of fury and Mihail had not waited. He headed down as quickly as he could. He almost bumped into the hotel manager on the stairs, but the man was so flustered that he did not even notice. At the exit the concierge held the door for him and tipped his hat with a conspiratorial wink. Mihail felt sure the man wouldn’t reveal that he had witnessed Mihail’s departure, though it would matter little if he did.

  Now he was safely back at his own hotel on the other side of the city centre, the bag of loot sitting on the table, tempting him to delve inside and discover its secrets. But he restrai
ned himself; there would be plenty of time for it later. One simple thought possessed him: Iuda was free. It shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise. Mihail recalled everything he had seen in Geok Tepe that had been designed to restrain Iuda. There would be nothing like that at the fortress – the troops were unlikely even to know what Iuda was. It might be worth scouring the newspapers for news of the mysterious, bloody deaths of fortress guards, but that would most likely be covered up. No one escaped the Peter and Paul Fortress; a record like that could only be maintained by the occasional editing of the facts.

  On the other hand Iuda’s liberty did present new possibilities. In the fortress he had been invulnerable. Mihail would have had no chance of getting in there. Now there would be opportunities to creep up on him; to catch him alone. Mihail even knew where to find him, though it was unlikely he would stay much longer now at the Hôtel d’Europe. But perhaps there was some clue as to where he might go in the papers Mihail had taken. He went over to the table.

  As he moved, he heard a sound – a light tap against the window pane; then another. He opened the curtain, but could see nothing. The sound came again and this time he caught a glimpse of some tiny fragment ricocheting off the glass. He pulled up the sash and looked down. A figure stood below. In the darkness he couldn’t make out a face, but from the build he felt sure it was female.

  ‘Mihail?’ The voice was hushed.

  ‘Who is it?’ he hissed back.

  ‘It’s Dusya. Come down.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Please.’

  He pulled his head back inside and closed the window. Then he dumped the knapsack in his trunk and hid it under a pile of clothes. He slipped on his coat and went downstairs. Dusya had been at the back of the building – Mihail did not care to pay for a room with a view – but when he emerged from the hotel she was waiting for him.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked.

  ‘You gave Luka your address, didn’t you? You think he wouldn’t tell me?’

  It was conceivable, but when would he have had the chance? More likely she, or one of them, read it on the card they’d found on Luka’s body before they dumped it in the river.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  She breathed deeply, as if about to speak, but then her eyes filled with tears and she flung herself forward, burying her face in Mihail’s chest. Mihail could do nothing but reciprocate. He put his arms around her and held her. They stood like that for half a minute and then she lifted her head to look up at him, her eyes still glistening. The look suited her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice choked. ‘It must have been the Ohrana.’

  It was a convincing show, but it still seemed unlikely. ‘Wouldn’t they have just arrested him?’ Mihail asked.

  ‘You understand what we do. He’d have run rather than be caught. And they’d prefer him dead than free. Punishment is more important to them than justice.’

  ‘So what is it you do?’ Mihail had guessed, but he needed to know more.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t you tell me here?’

  ‘Please.’

  She walked away without looking over her shoulder to verify that he was with her. He had no option but to follow. She led him away from the river and from the centre of town into an area he was not familiar with. He quickly caught up and walked alongside her.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘Somewhere safe.’

  ‘Why weren’t we safe before?’

  ‘They’re always watching.’

  ‘Watching me, or watching you?’

  ‘We both spoke to Luka, so they’re watching us both.’

  She walked quickly for someone of her stature, her eyes fixed on the ground ahead of her. Mihail grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to stop and turn to face him.

  ‘Who are “they”?’

  She looked up at him in silence, her eyes, still moist, gazing into his.

  ‘Please,’ she insisted. ‘It’s not far.’ She began walking again.

  They passed an insalubrious-looking tavern, but didn’t go in. Just beyond was an alleyway. Dusya ducked inside, grabbing Mihail’s hand and pulling him after her. They were beside the kitchens. Warm air blew out of an open window, making the alley warmer than the street they had come from, and filling it with the smell of pork and cabbage.

  ‘What is it then?’ he asked.

  She reached up to him and put her hands on either side of his head, pulling him down towards her. She was going to bite him. He had been a fool not to bring a weapon, and not to consider the possibility that she might be a vampire. But he had considered it; he always considered it, with every individual he met. That was how his mother had raised him. He had seen Dusya in daylight twice now – on the train and when he had followed her. Any doubts were dispelled when he felt her lips not on his neck but on his own lips, trying to kiss him. He pulled away. It was madness. It was not what he was here for.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you want me?’ As she spoke, she allowed her overcoat to fall open. She began to unfasten her blouse beneath, revealing more of her pale white flesh with each button.

  It was pathetically clumsy; inept and fake. But it was too late. Even as Mihail watched her he sensed somebody behind him and the world went black. He felt coarse material sucking against his mouth as he breathed in and a cord tightening around his neck. He reached up to pull it away, but Dusya’s hands grabbed his wrists and held them down with surprising strength. Then he felt a screaming pain at the back of his head, and stars filled the darkness, and then he sensed no more.

  CHAPTER XV

  IUDA WAS A cautious creature. He had been so as a man and had become more so as a voordalak. He expected problems. He did not always know where they would come from or what their nature would be, but he accepted that the world was unpredictable, and so he prepared. He hadn’t known specifically that someone would find his rooms at the hotel and steal the one blood sample that was most precious to him, but he had known that to have only one sample would be the error of a fool.

  Had they been trying to hide the fact that they had taken Zmyeevich’s blood, he wondered. All those vials, emptied away. Was he supposed to think that Zmyeevich’s blood too was now mingling with sewer water and being flushed into the Neva? Where then was the empty bottle with Zmyeevich’s name on it? And the greater question remained: who had been in his rooms? The obvious culprits were either Dmitry or Zmyeevich, but the description that Sazanov had given matched neither. Moreover, whoever it was had arrived in daylight, but they could easily have recruited someone to do their work for them. Sazanov – desperate to redeem himself – had mentioned the letter of permission. That linked the whole thing back to Luka. Dmitry had known about him, and might have been able to get hold of the letter. The intruder had worn the uniform of a lieutenant. What about the fellow that Luka said had been sniffing around – Lukin? Sazanov’s description could match the man of that name that Iuda had seen in Geok Tepe. It seemed ever more likely that he was working for Dmitry.

  It all made Iuda’s meeting more vital than ever. The message had been clear; the place, the time, who to ask for. The place was very familiar. Iuda had worked there himself in his early days at the Third Section, before he had moved to Moscow. The time was in a quarter of an hour; eight o’clock on the evening of Sunday 8 February. He left the Hôtel d’Europe for what he suspected would be the last time. All his remaining possessions there – what was left of the notebooks and the money, along with some of the clothes – were crated up ready for transportation to the luggage depot at the Nikolaievsky Vokzal. Where he would have them sent from there he did not yet know.

  He walked along the slippery compacted snow of Nevsky Prospekt, heading south-east towards the Fontanka. The moon had not yet risen, but the city was strangely bright. On the main thoroughfares there had been gas lighting for several years, and some experiments with electrification, but th
e light they produced was weak – helpful to humans, but of little benefit to a vampire who could see clearly even with only the light of the stars to help him. This was different though; a bright, white light that almost mimicked that of the moon. As Iuda walked on, the source of it soon emerged from behind the Imperial Library.

  It came from Aleksandrinsky Square. Tall lamp-posts stood there, topped with the sources of this strange, disconcerting light. In the square below, the people seemed comfortable in the glow. Iuda watched them as he walked. His attention as a scientist had always been focused on biology and sometimes, like today, he regretted that he was not au fait with the latest developments in the field of electricity, undoubtedly the power source for this strange radiance. He would find out about it. There was a chance it would prove helpful to him, or any vampire, providing a safe form of bright light for those occasions when it was needed, such as for use with a microscope.

  But even as he walked by, separated from the square by the wide Nevsky Prospekt, he began to feel uneasy. His stomach knotted and from it spread a sense of nausea that permeated his body. His skin began to itch. He turned his face away from the light and pressed on towards his destination, but even that did not protect him. The glare of the light was reflected back at him undiminished from the snow all around. Worse than the physical discomfort he felt was the unaccountable fear that filled him, itself almost a sensation. It was the same fear that any vampire felt at the prospect of the rising sun and however much Iuda told himself that this was a manmade, artificial light that could do him no harm, still he felt gripped by the urge to run away from it.