by Jasper Kent
In the end Mihail settled on a hybrid: a core of iron or, better, lead, wrapped in a wooden sheath, almost like a pencil, but whose sharp tip was of wood. It was accurate and penetrating – Mihail had successfully hunted wild boar with it more than once. Neither he nor Tamara had seen any reason that it should not be fatal to a voordalak, but they had never tested it on one. There had been only one opportunity for such an experiment, and they had chosen to exploit their single chance in a different way. Five glass cylinders safely wrapped in straw had been delivered in the case from Saratov too. Mihail knew just what a potent weapon they could be, but they needed preparation and stealth – and a source of power. But he had seen the effects with his own eyes. The arbalyet was a different matter; theoretically sound, but untested. Perhaps soon, very soon, Mihail would discover the truth.
He pulled back the lever, tensioning the bow, and then inserted a bolt. He carried on along the short passageway. Already the splendour of the cathedral seemed far behind. The corridor ended in a descending spiral staircase. Mihail made his way down the stone steps, the lamp held high in his left hand, the crossbow outstretched in his right. Before long the steps brought him to a long, straight corridor, its end further than the lamplight could penetrate. He continued forward, nervous but determined. The narrow passage meant that attack could only come from ahead, and he was ready for that. Besides, however dark it was down here, it was still noon above. Any voordalaki he encountered were likely to be sleeping; likely, but not certain.
The passageway ended in a door. Mihail could see a keyhole and an iron ring for a handle. If the door was locked, then he would have to abandon his search, at least for today. He had no explosives with him, and he didn’t relish the idea of slowly breaking down the door and giving whatever lay beyond ample time to prepare for his entrance.
The handle turned and the door swept noiselessly open. Beyond was a vaulted brick chamber. Along one wall were a number of cupboards, much like the ones in Iuda’s rooms at the Hôtel d’Europe. All were closed and one, at the far end, was locked shut, the handles tied together with a far greater length of chain than was necessary, fixed with a sturdy padlock. It served only to intrigue Mihail.
In the middle of the chamber, among the brick columns that supported the ceiling, was some kind of ornamental pond – perhaps a font. The water in it was still and a few slivers of ice floated on it. It was cold down here, but warmer than on the surface. In the shadows towards the back of the cellar Mihail saw almost what he had been expecting to see. There were two coffins; he had anticipated only one.
It was not unthinkable that Iuda had acquired a companion. When Tamara had encountered him, he had hunted and killed alongside Raisa. Tamara had described her discovery of their two coffins, side by side, just like these two. Mihail wondered if he would be familiar with Iuda’s vampire companion. Would it be someone he had seen at night in the streets of Petersburg? Or someone he would recognize, unchanged, as an acquaintance of years before?
On the other hand, two coffins did not necessarily mean two vampires. It might not even mean one. Iuda had known of this place for at least fifty years, when he had somehow persuaded de Montferrand to build the passage down from Saint Isaac’s. At some time in that long history he might have slept here with a companion, but that did not mean he did so now. Mihail could not even be sure that Iuda himself slept here. Perhaps he should have waited – watched the cathedral just as he had been watching the hotel. But he was impatient for revenge. He felt his heart beat faster. It might be just moments away.
He went closer. Both coffins had their lids in place. Mihail looked around and found a hook on one of the pillars from which he hung his lamp. It rocked a little from side to side, making the shadows waver. He held the crossbow out in front of him, like a pistol. It would be more accurate if he squeezed the stock tight against his shoulder, but at this range accuracy should not be a problem. He had tested it held close to the carcass of a dead pig; the result had been spectacular. The only thing to remember was not to hold it too close. The bow had to be given time to transfer all its energy to the bolt.
He reached forward with his left hand and curled his fingers under the lid of the first coffin. It did not resist. Once he had raised it an inch he slipped his toe under it, allowing him to straighten up and take better aim. He reached into his pocket and withdrew another bolt. If there were two of them he would have to reload and take aim again quickly.
He gave a kick and the coffin lid slid from its position and hit the brick floor with two hollow thuds, as first one edge and then the other made contact. Mihail’s finger tightened on the trigger, but he did not fire. He wanted Iuda to be conscious; wanted him to know.
The coffin was empty. Mihail stepped quickly over it to the second one, afraid that the noise had disturbed whoever slumbered within, expecting to see the lid begin to rise and pale fingers to creep around the edge and take a grip.
All remained still.
Mihail repeated the process of lifting the lid, first with his hand and then with his foot. This time he scarcely heard the noise of its landing. His mind was occupied with what he saw.
This coffin was not empty. The tall figure that filled the wooden box lay deathly still, his eyes closed, his arms by his sides. Mihail’s finger relaxed a little on the trigger and his arm dropped a few inches. He forced himself to raise it again. He had rehearsed this moment so many times in his mind; how he would feel; how he would wake Iuda; how he would say the words, ‘My name is Mihail Konstantinovich Danilov, son of Tamara Alekseevna Danilova, daughter of Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov’; how long he would wait to see the look of understanding in Iuda’s eyes before he finally pulled the trigger.
But this was not Iuda. It was a voordalak, of that there was no doubt, and one that Mihail instantly recognized, but one that he had not expected to find here.
His thoughts were interrupted. A shudder ran through the vampire’s body and his chest began to rise and fall. Air scraped in and out of his throat. Mihail’s mind raced, wondering whether he should flee, or just kill the creature where it lay.
But it was too late. Dmitry opened his eyes.
CHAPTER XVIII
‘DON’T MOVE,’ SAID mihail, his voice clear and steady in the enclosed space.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ replied Dmitry.
‘Because I have this aimed at your heart.’ He jerked the arbalyet a little so that Dmitry would know what he meant.
Dmitry eyed the weapon, but did not move. ‘I take it this is more than revenge for our encounter the other day,’ he said.
‘Much more.’
‘And that our paths crossing both here and in Geok Tepe is more than simple coincidence.’
Mihail nodded. Dmitry thought for a moment, giving Mihail time to do the same.
‘Please, may I at least sit up?’ Dmitry asked.
‘Very well, but don’t stand,’ Mihail replied. The extra seconds it might take Dmitry to rise to his feet could mean the difference between life and death. Mihail backed away a little, so as to be too far for Dmitry to lunge at. He felt something against his thighs, stopping his movement, and realized it was the walled side of the pool. He took a few steps sideways, so that he could see both Dmitry and the door, then leaned back against one of the closed cupboards, making himself a little more comfortable. Meanwhile Dmitry had raised his body and pulled his knees up. He had nothing to lean back against, so he hugged them for support. Despite his stature he looked small and pathetic.
‘You didn’t expect to find me here, did you?’ said Dmitry, suddenly a little more confident.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because this is not my home. You came here for just the same reason you went to Geok Tepe; for the same reason I went there – to find Iuda.’
‘That’s very astute.’
‘Thank you.’ Dmitry smiled and shifted his position a little. Mihail raised the arbalyet an inch or two, just as a reminder that it was still there. ‘The questio
n is,’ Dmitry continued, ‘are you a friend or an enemy of Iuda?’
‘The question is, are you?’
‘How can you ask that? You saw what happened at Geok Tepe.’
‘You’re a vampire. Your allegiances can change with the flicker of an eyelid.’
‘You seem to know a lot about my breed.’
‘I’ve been studying for a long time. I know enough.’
‘So why don’t you simply kill me?’ Dmitry asked.
‘I’m considering it.’ Mihail realized that he was losing control of the conversation. It should be him asking the questions. ‘Whose is the other coffin?’
‘It’s just a spare.’
Mihail shook his head. He already suspected the answer, but still he needed it confirmed. ‘No. In Geok Tepe you spoke of “we”. So whose is it?’
‘So you understood us; you speak English.’
Mihail said nothing. Dmitry thought for a moment more before speaking.
‘That means you also heard our conversation concerning Luka Miroslavich; which would explain why you sought him out … though not how you found his address, or even that he lived in Petersburg.’
‘You didn’t cover your tracks very well,’ said Mihail. It was an unnecessary bluff; he would have done better to say nothing. ‘I’ll ask again, who’s with you?’
Dmitry completely ignored the question. ‘Have you any idea where Iuda is now?’ he asked instead.
‘In the Pyetropavlovskaya, where you left him.’ Mihail deliberately understated his knowledge, hoping to tease something out of Dmitry.
‘I wish that were the case, but I’m afraid he was freed. He must have friends in some very high places. We’ve no idea where he is now.’
‘There’s that “we” again.’
‘You really don’t want to know.’
‘I don’t suppose you actually call him a friend.’ Mihail looked for a flicker of reaction, but saw nothing. He tried goading Dmitry. ‘It’s been, what, a quarter of a century you’ve been a vampire? You can’t have made many friends. An entire human lifetime, and how many vampires have you met? How many that you can trust? Two? One? None?’
Dmitry’s eyes narrowed and his lips pressed hard together, becoming pale. For a moment Mihail thought that he’d got to him, but again he seemed to regard himself as in control.
‘Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin – that’s your name, isn’t it?’ he said, peering closely at Mihail. ‘My father had a friend called Lukin. He was killed by Iuda – well, killed by Iuda in the way that we all were; me, Raisa, Papa. He causes it to happen, but he keeps his hands clean. Anyway – Maks died a long, long time ago. You’re not a relative, are you?’
Mihail said nothing.
‘No, I don’t think you are,’ Dmitry continued. ‘Not of Uncle Maks, anyway.’
‘No,’ said Mihail, ‘not of Uncle Maks.’ He guessed where Dmitry was leading, and did not mind.
‘I remember,’ said Dmitry, speaking more loudly, as if this were an entirely new topic, ‘sitting in a restaurant in Moscow, many years ago – eating blini, as I recall. And I looked into the eyes of the woman opposite me – brown eyes, just like yours. She had red hair too, like yours, but brighter, more vibrant. Anyway, I looked at her and in an instant I just knew that she was my sister – a sister I hadn’t even known existed until that moment.’
Mihail kept his silence, trying not to show any reaction.
‘Tamara – that was her name.’ Dmitry looked Mihail square in the eye. ‘How is your mother?’
‘How’s yours?’ asked Mihail, brutally.
Dmitry burst into loud, mocking laughter. ‘Touché, Mihail. That would really hurt, if I cared any more about my mother than I do about yours.’
‘You cared about your father.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You didn’t want him to know what you had become.’
‘I didn’t want him to hear it from Iuda’s lips.’
‘So why are you pursuing him now?’ asked Mihail. ‘Aleksei is long dead.’
‘Does it really matter? Your reasons for finding Iuda are so much better, so much more noble, more human. You do it out of pure hatred.’
‘I don’t deny it.’
‘And that’s why you’ll succeed. For my part …’ Dmitry suddenly stopped, as though he had forgotten what he was going to say. He looked confused; deflated. Then he spoke with sudden resolve. ‘I’m going away.’
‘Away?’
‘From Russia. From Europe. To some undiscovered country. There’s a new world out there. America. Africa. Australia. America, I think.’
Mihail was astounded. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘It’s a nice long way away,’ Dmitry said simply.
‘From Iuda?’
Dmitry’s mood changed again. ‘I’m quite indifferent to Iuda. But we need what he has. That’s why we hate him.’
It was a bizarre contradiction, but it seemed like a chink in the armour.
‘And what does he have?’ Mihail asked.
‘He has our blood,’ said Dmitry.
‘Your blood?’
‘Yes!’
‘Your blood?’ Mihail switched from the plural to the singular form of ‘your’.
‘No.’ Dmitry shook his head irritably.
Again, it made little sense, except somewhere deep in Dmitry’s mind. ‘And what about Ascalon?’ Mihail asked.
Dmitry looked up at him eagerly. ‘Does he have it? Do you know where it is?’
‘You think he has it?’
Dmitry paled suddenly. His eyes flickered across every corner of the cellar. ‘He’s coming,’ he said. ‘You must go.’
‘Who’s coming?’
‘Zmyeevich. He mustn’t find you here.’
Mihail was unsurprised by the revelation; he’d always suspected it to be the explanation of the ‘we’ that Dmitry had used. He was more puzzled by Dmitry’s strange clairvoyance. ‘How do you know?’ he asked.
‘Just go!’ screamed Dmitry. As he spoke he rose up from his coffin and flung himself towards Mihail. Mihail flinched and tried to back away, but found only the wall behind him. Instinctively his finger tightened on the trigger of the crossbow and the bolt was released. For a moment he felt a pang of sorrow – he had not intended to kill Dmitry, or at least not yet decided to. It didn’t matter. He had not been aiming and the bolt embedded itself in Dmitry’s arm. His hand went to it and he pulled it out with little effort.
‘Go,’ he shouted again.
Dmitry’s conviction was compelling, his terror infectious. Mihail stood in momentary confusion, then turned and fled, fumbling to load another bolt into the arbalyet as his feet carried him involuntarily across the floor. It was only when he was in the dark tunnel that he realized he had left his lamp behind, but he dared not go back. He knew that Zmyeevich might already have entered that same passageway from the other end and if so he was trapped. He hadn’t realized that he and Dmitry had talked for so long, and that above it was now dark enough for Zmyeevich to make his way through the streets and back to his bed.
He stumbled and fell. He was at the stairs. He heard the bolt spill on to the floor, but made no attempt to find it. He scrambled up the hard stone steps, his free hand waving the crossbow in front of him, even though it was no longer loaded, ever turning to the right with the spiral of the steps. Soon he was in the upper corridor and moments later at the door. His fingers fumbled for the catch and eventually found it. He stepped out into the cathedral.
He was back outside the Nevsky Chapel. A monk was kneeling in prayer. He turned at the sound of Mihail’s arrival, but did not notice where he had come from. Mihail breathed deeply, and quickly hid the bow in his bag. There was no sign of Zmyeevich. Mihail walked briskly into the main body of the cathedral and then out on to Senate Square.
It was only then that he realized his fears had been groundless. It was still daylight. Zmyeevich could no more have been returning to the cathedral than Mihail could have flown
to the moon – Kibalchich’s rocket notwithstanding. Dmitry had been mistaken. But then Dmitry had begun to behave very strangely indeed. It was a weakness that Mihail would exploit, if he got the chance.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ Colonel Mrovinskiy’s tone was of surprise rather than disdain.
‘Yes,’ replied Mihail. ‘Expecting someone else?’
‘You want to see him?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘It won’t take long; he’s in town – they both are. Meet me in an hour in Palace Square.’
Mihail was there ten minutes early. He stared up at the angel that topped the monument to Aleksandr I, designed like Saint Isaac’s by Auguste de Montferrand, in this case in honour of the present tsar’s uncle. Mihail stopped himself; that was an odd way to put it. Mihail’s own great-uncle would be a more direct way to describe him, though it was still difficult to see him that way, even after meeting Konstantin. Mihail’s uncle on his mother’s side was a more pressing concern. He’d tried to piece together what he had learned.
It was no great revelation that Dmitry and Zmyeevich were working hand in glove. It had always been a likelihood; Mihail remembered when he had first raised the possibility to Tamara. Both vampires had reason to hate Iuda; that would be enough to draw them together. Mihail shared that common purpose, and so it might be that he too would inadvertently join that alliance. But he would be wary of Zmyeevich, even more so than of Dmitry. Dmitry had not harmed him in that chamber beneath the cathedral, but it meant nothing. Dmitry’s behaviour had been erratic; bordering on madness. Mihail tried to fathom a reason for it, but there was no explanation. He knew that he could not count on his safety next time – and yet there had to be a next time.
He saw Mrovinskiy emerge from the Winter Palace before the colonel caught sight of him. He strode over and Mrovinskiy stopped and waited. They entered by the door through which Mrovinskiy had come and he led Mihail along a narrow back corridor that seemed to run for half the length of the building. They turned left and up a flight of stairs and the passage opened up into a hall that was filled with scaffolding. No men were at work, but Mihail could see that the whole room was being repainted – in places the wall was being rebuilt.