by Jasper Kent
For some inexplicable reason I counted silently to three, then swiftly opened the door.
The scene beyond was just what I had expected it to be, yet still it filled me with terror and revulsion. They were kneeling on the bed, facing each other, both stripped to the waist. I could see them from the side. Anastasia was close to the man, her breasts pressed flat against his chest. The bulge of the child in her belly was clearer than it had ever been. Their arms were at their sides, but their fingers were lightly entwined. The man’s head was tilted back, his mouth opened wide in a silent scream of terrifying intensity. The cause was plain to see. Anastasia’s mouth too was wide open, her lips pressed against his neck. I could see the trickle of blood running down to his shoulder, as it pumped from him faster than she could drink it.
She must have heard me, for she raised her head and looked at me. Her eyes radiated excitement and pleasure, and a strange sense of victory. The man’s blood was smeared over her lips, cheeks and chin, as well as across his own neck, centring on the two dark holes where her teeth had penetrated his skin. I glanced in the mirror – as if further confirmation were needed – and saw nothing. Anastasia appeared to be about to speak, but I had no interest in what she might have to say. I reached out in the direction of the switch, knowing that eventually I would have to look at what I was doing, but for now unable to tear my eyes away from Anastasia’s.
Then a hand gripped my wrist. I looked in horror to see that it was Nadya, standing beside me. I tried to fathom why she should be preventing me from doing what we had planned together – what we both knew to be so necessary. Then she spoke.
‘Let me,’ she said.
Her other hand was already on the switch and she didn’t wait for my confirmation before closing it. The immediate effect was just the same as it had been the previous night. The room was filled with illumination. This time, because the main bulb had already been on, it took only moments for my eyes to adjust.
Anastasia’s reaction was quicker. I don’t know how she so readily sensed the danger from the lights, which must have been quite unknown to her, but in an instant she had grabbed a blanket from the bed and thrown it over herself as a shield from the rays. It would be a matter of little effort for me to go and rip it away from her, and a pleasure to watch as her body swiftly decayed, but for the moment I was distracted.
Anastasia was not the only one in the room to be affected by the Yablochkov Candles. The man – her victim – reacted in a way that was thrillingly familiar. The only other two vampires I had seen die this way were exposed to just a single candle and their deaths had been agonizingly – gratifyingly – slow. Here the same process was compressed into mere seconds. It was the smear of blood at his neck which erupted into flame first. I had long known that their blood was the thing most sensitive to light. His exposed skin followed suit moments later, blackening and then shrinking and peeling away to reveal the muscles and organs beneath. These didn’t even have time to burn, but simply transformed into a grey dust which for a moment occupied the space in the air where his upper body had once been. His legs and midriff were protected by his trousers and were not so instantly destroyed. They fell forward on to the bed and began to smoke as the light penetrated them from the opening at the top, where he had effectively been cut in two. The dust of his upper half, buoyed by the air, fell more slowly and the echo they had left in the shape of his body smoothly dissolved to nothing.
The whole process had caused hardly a sound to be emitted, but now the silence was broken by the shattering of glass and the splintering of wood. A cold breeze suddenly filled the room. I looked and saw the window smashed. Hanging from the remnants of the frame was the blanket that Anastasia had used to protect herself. I ran over and looked down on to the street. There she was, splayed out in the snow, face down, her hair cascading over her naked back. I could see wisps of smoke rising from where the light had caught her. From what I could make out, most of her left hand was missing, but that would soon regrow. A few passers-by were already forming a circle around her. Some approached to see if she was dead, others looked up at the window from which she had fallen – and therefore at me.
But before any of them could do very much she was on her feet. Upon some leftover human instinct she raised her arms to cover her naked breasts. I could clearly see that only the thumb of her left hand remained. The rest of it must have been exposed as she clutched the blanket to her. She looked up at me, but her eyes showed no hatred, merely that sense of victory I had witnessed before, though stronger now.
Then she ran.
CHAPTER IX
I WAS OUT on the street in seconds and running in the direction she had gone – back towards the Fontanka. I clutched my sharpened cane in my hand. It was only when I reached the Panteleimonovsky Bridge that I noticed Polkan running beside me. He should have been safely locked away with Nadya at the top of the house, but they’d both proved to be as disobedient as each other.
I stood on the bridge and looked around, fearing that the chase was cold already, but then I saw her. She had got down on to the ice and was running – or trying to run – along the surface of the Moika. Her gait was a pathetic, shambling limp and I could see that her left leg was shorter than the right. It too must have been burned in the light. Like her fingers, it would regrow, but slowly under the stress of her escape. I needed to catch her while she was weak.
I found an iron ladder fixed to the wall and climbed quickly down to the level of the river, then ran as best as I could after her. My winter boots had cleats to prevent me slipping in the snow and they gave me reasonable grip on the ice. Polkan could find no way down, but kept level with me on the embankment.
The route that Anastasia was taking was by no means certain. Even if she decided not to climb back up to street level, there were many branches in the network of rivers and canals she could choose to take. When I’d seen her she had already been beyond the mouth of the Lebyazhya Canal, but then the Moika kinked to the right and she was out of sight. The next point for her to turn off was along the Yekaterininsky Canal. I looked down it, but it ran dead straight for almost a verst and was well lit. The only place to hide was behind the slight protrusion of the Church on Spilled Blood. It was a possibility, but if I’d been in her shoes I’d have stayed on the Moika which here began a curve to the left that I knew would eventually take it through a full semicircle. Even if she kept only slightly ahead, it would be a long time before I caught sight of her again. She must have understood that much herself, and therefore that would be the way she would go.
By now I had slowed to a walk – I’d be flattering myself even to apply an adjective such as brisk. I followed the curve of the river round, with ever decreasing confidence that I would be able to find her. Whenever I glanced up I could see Polkan, but he was no bloodhound and his only interest seemed in keeping close to me. As I walked I considered what I had seen in Anastasia’s room – and what I had not seen. I’d taken a brief glance in the mirror to confirm that she had no reflection, but I’d also seen nothing of the man she was with on the bed. I’d scarcely had time to take that in before I saw a much clearer proof that he was a vampire – his destruction by the light of the Yablochkov Candles. It was beyond doubt; Anastasia had been drinking the blood of a fellow vampire – and I was certain that later, had events not interceded, he would have drunk hers.
I’d witnessed the same thing years before between Dmitry and Zmyeevich, and I knew the consequence. If two vampires exchanged blood then their minds would gradually become one – and the stronger mind would take control. That could only ever have been Zmyeevich. But in this case who possessed the stronger mind: Anastasia or the voordalak she had been with? The answer was obvious enough. When I had first seen her she had been with another voordalak: Ilya, Nadya’s brother. What I’d witnessed then was just what I’d seen tonight. Anastasia could hardly be handing over possession of her mind to two of them. It must have been she who was doing the taking. I remembered how I’d
asked Dmitry about Ilya’s seemingly brutish character – how like the oprichniki he was. That was easily explained if he and Anastasia had been exchanging blood for long enough. And Ilya wasn’t the only one of them who had displayed that base, bestial attitude. How many others of them might Anastasia be trying to control? The vampire she had been with tonight had been dressed in the uniform of a soldier. Could he have been another of Dmitry’s elite brigade?
If so, what was her reason for it? It could be for simple pleasure, but I felt sure it must be more than that. She wanted power over other vampires – at least two of them, perhaps more. Was she trying to take over from Dmitry, to take them away from his command? She must have known of him and what he was doing; she’d have learned that from Ilya. Or was she working for Dmitry? I had no reason to trust him when he said he didn’t know her. Perhaps after his own experiences he was too squeamish to exchange blood with them for himself. It might be easier to take control of them through her. But it would be a risk; how could one voordalak ever trust another? It was all speculation. I was confident that I understood what Anastasia had been doing, but I had little concept as to why.
I was close to the Hermitage now. To the right another branch of the canal network – the Winter Ditch – led directly to the nearby Neva. Again I had to put myself in her shoes and guess whether she would go that way for the greater chance of freedom. On the other hand, ahead lay the Pevchesky Bridge, so wide that it was more of a tunnel than a bridge. It was the perfect dark, dank hideaway in which a voordalak might lurk and allow its wounds to heal.
Polkan made the decision for me. He stood with his hind legs on the embankment and his forepaws resting on the railing, barking into the darkness beneath the bridge in front of me. It was undoubtedly her domain rather than mine, but she was weakened and this might be my only chance. I reached into my pocket and drew out the torch, twisting it to turn it on. The light did not penetrate far into the shadows. I scanned it from side to side, then took a few steps forward.
‘I’ll warm those up for you if you like, sweetheart!’ The shout, from somewhere above and behind me, was followed by a salacious laugh, which was instantly echoed by others. There was nothing special about it – the nights were full of such catcalls, with so many out on the streets and so much drink inside them. Even so, it was enough to distract me slightly from peering into the darkness, and make me wonder what the man might have meant. I tried to push it from my mind, afraid that any lack of attention would make me vulnerable. But then suddenly I understood.
I turned and saw Anastasia climbing up the embankment. A man – I guessed the one whom I’d heard – was reaching down to help her, leering at her naked breasts. I could see her bare foot, its toes finding purchase in the gaps between the heavy stones that kept the river in its channel. Clearly that wound had healed. She was reaching up to the man with her left hand. He was about to grasp it but then his face fell. He muttered the words ‘Jesus Christ’ and stepped back from the railing, leaving Anastasia hanging there with an outstretched arm. I could now see what he had seen; that her fingers were still not fully formed. Her thumb and little finger reached out for help, but there was nothing between them – they were merely a pincer, like the tail of an earwig. It meant she could not climb as well as she might have. It was my chance to strike.
I ran across the ice and leapt up to grab her ankle. She was taken by surprise and couldn’t maintain her grip. We both fell back on to the ice, skidding across to the middle of the river. She was on her feet quicker than me and at the next moment was standing over me. She cut a bizarre figure, though none the less terrifying for it. Her body was as puny as it had ever been, and semi-naked as she was, she might have appeared utterly vulnerable. One foot was booted, the other bare. I could only presume that the light of the Yablochkov Candles had caught her around the calf and completely severed one leg, boot and all, which had now regrown. Her hand was still mutilated, but even now I could see three tiny, wiggling stumps of fingers which had not been there before. Her face was still smeared with blood and she bared her fangs to reveal more. Her eyes bore down on me with anger and hatred as she prepared to pounce.
I held the point of my cane out towards her, bracing the other end against my chest. It was enough to make her wary. She stepped to one side and I ensured that the sharp tip followed her. I pushed against the ice with my feet and gradually slid across to the other side of the river, but she walked forwards and kept a constant distance from me. Behind her, on the bank, I could see spectators gathering, but no one tried to intervene. They must have been wondering what to make of it.
When Anastasia finally made her move it was swift and devastating. She threw herself sideways, her hands stretched out towards the ice as if she were about to perform a cartwheel. But instead of swinging her legs over her, she let them scythe horizontally, catching the cane just above where I gripped it and knocking it from my hand. Then she pushed off with her hands and almost bounded the few feet towards me. From somewhere I heard a cheer; the watching crowds were impressed by her move. In an instant she was on top of me, her hands on my wrists pinning me down, her mouth open and bloody, her eyes searching my throat, seeking out the point at which she would bite. I kicked out, trying to shake her off me. Despite her strength, she was no heavier than a living child of her age would have been, and so I was able to move my body with surprising ease. It was enough to distract her, if only slightly. However, she had a solution.
She raised her knee sharply between my legs. The pain was excruciating, but it didn’t stop me hearing the laughter of our audience. I saw stars before my eyes and felt the urge to vomit. It lasted only moments, but it was enough for her to push my chin back and lower her face towards my neck. I felt her tongue against my skin.
Then, suddenly I was free. She had rolled away from me, to the right. I looked and saw her on her back, a white figure pressing her into the ice, just as she had held me down. Its teeth were at her throat just as hers had been at mine. It was Polkan. I don’t know how he’d got down on to the ice – perhaps he’d simply jumped – but he had taken Anastasia entirely by surprise. It didn’t last. With a sharp twist of her body she hurled him through the air and against the wall. He let out a brief yelp, but was up again in an instant and bounding back towards her, greeted by enthusiastic shouts from the crowd. She was already on her feet, but his impact knocked her down again – he must have been almost as heavy as she was. He continued past her, unable to get much grip, but eventually he turned to face her, snarling.
By now quite an assembly had formed around us, watching the fight. They were on both sides of the river, leaning against the railing and looking down as though we were in a bear pit. No one did anything to stop us. Perhaps if I were to gain the upper hand then someone would come to the defence of the innocent young girl, but it seemed unlikely. I tried to stand, but did not have the strength. My chest was tight and my breathing short. However bravely Polkan might attempt to defend me, he could only fail. Then it would be merely a question of whether it was Anastasia or my own weak heart that ultimately did for me.
Polkan ran towards her, gaining speed as he did and preparing to leap and knock her down once again. Then I saw the glint of something in her hand. It was the switchblade she had shown me in her bedroom. She held it low as if she were in a street fight, ready to drive it upwards under her opponent’s ribcage. It wasn’t a tactic that required much adaptation if that opponent happened to be a dog. Polkan had no idea of the danger and continued his charge.
I shouted to him, ‘Polkan!’ but it made no difference. He launched himself from the ice and flew through the air towards her. The moment his paws left the ground, when it was too late for him to alter his motion, she stepped to one side – no human could have timed the manoeuvre so precisely. As he went past her hand jerked towards him and I heard him yelp again. He hit the ice without any attempt to place his paws and slid until his body came to a natural halt.
Anastasia turned again to m
e and began to approach. She folded the knife closed and pocketed it, baring her teeth once more. At that moment the ice shook, as if some heavy weight had landed on it. I saw nothing, and could only guess it had happened behind me. Anastasia most certainly saw it. She froze, but only for a moment. Then she turned and fled, the disappointed jeers of the crowd around us ringing in her ears. She headed down the Winter Ditch, towards the Neva. I didn’t have the strength to follow, nor the inclination.
I was still unable to get to my feet. I could scarcely breathe except in short, painful rasps. I swivelled myself around on the ice to see what was behind me. I shouldn’t have been surprised; it was Dmitry. Even if she had never met him, she had seen him through the eyes of Ilya and others. He was a huge man; she would not have stood a chance against him in a fight.
‘That’s her, I take it,’ he said.
I tried to speak, but my lungs would not respond. I reached into my coat and searched for my silver pillbox. I found it at last and took out a tablet, slipping it into my mouth. Dmitry came over and grabbed the collar of my shirt, hauling me over to the edge of the river so I could lean back against the wall. It must have been an odd sight, but the audience had already begun to disperse. Nothing was going to live up to what they’d just witnessed.
‘What are those?’ Dmitry asked.
‘Pills – for my heart.’ I was pleased that the power of speech had returned, though I immediately regretted revealing my weakness to him. He sat down beside me, leaning against the wall as I was.