by Jasper Kent
‘Untie his hands,’ she said.
Behind me I felt the pressure of a blade against the ropes that bound me, then I was free. I raised a hand to my face and rubbed my cheek and chin. There was a practical purpose to it; I felt very little stubble – I could not have been unconscious for more than a few hours, if that.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Don’t,’ she replied. She signalled to two of the others, who walked over to two of the four main columns, diagonally opposite each other, and picked up ropes that had been bound around them. Then they came over to me. They tied my wrists with the two ropes, which trailed loosely across the geometric patterns of the marble floor. Then they went back to the columns, and behind them so that I couldn’t see what they were doing. Whatever it was had an immediate effect. The ropes began to tighten and I was pulled into the middle of the church. There was little point in offering resistance. Soon I was standing on the circle of black marble – shot with browns and whites – that marked the very centre, gazing upwards like a great eye, zigzag circles of orange and pink radiating from it. Above me, far above, was the Christ Pantocrator, both hands raised, each forming the symbol of the troyeperstiy – two fingers folded down in preparation to make the sign of the cross. On the three visible arms of the cross on his halo were written the Greek letters ‘O ω N’ – omicron, omega and nu, meaning ‘The one who is.’
I could move a little, but not much. My arms were stretched out horizontally, as if I were being crucified, but thankfully I didn’t have to bear my weight on them – not so far. Dmitry was directly in front of me, as unable to move as I was; he did not look me in the eye. I turned my head to see Anastasia, but she walked around me until she was standing between me and Dmitry. In her hand she was carrying a flimsy exercise book.
‘You recognize this?’
I had done so instantly, but I said nothing.
‘You should. It was in your house – not that it belonged to you. It was the property of a fascinating man by the name of Richard Llywelyn Cain. He made it his life’s work to study and understand our kind, and even became like us. He tortured and killed more vampires than any human in history – far more than your grandfather ever did, and he managed a few. But Cain learned a lot about us – information that could be useful to friend or foe. And then, about forty years ago, he simply disappeared. His last known whereabouts were in this city and then – nothing. Not a hint of his existence on the face of the Earth.’
‘I killed him,’ I said.
She tilted her head to one side and smiled. ‘Really? We suspected as much. One of you was bound to kill the other. That then was the first great service you performed for us.’
Her use of ‘us’ and ‘we’ was quite deliberate and I could tell that they were not intended to include the vampires who now so happily served her. I couldn’t help but remember a conversation I’d once had with Dmitry, years before in a cellar beneath Senate Square, when he’d also talked of ‘we’. But the other half of the partnership then could not be the same as whoever Anastasia was referring to. Then it had been Zmyeevich, and he was long dead. I felt a shiver run through me. It was 25 October; twenty-four years to the day since I had witnessed – had experienced – his death.
‘Let me read you something of Cain’s work,’ Anastasia continued. She flicked through to a page she had marked and began to read out loud. The text itself was in English, and that was the language she spoke in. As far as I could tell her accent was perfect, better than anything I’d ever been able to achieve, even though I spoke the language fluently.
‘“On Anastasis.
‘“I have recently heard of a legend not uncommon among Wallachian vampires, though less widespread elsewhere, which, if true, would add another level to the bond between a human and a vampire in the circumstances of the Romanovs and Zmyeevich, or indeed any other pairing where the human’s blood has been drunk by the vampire, either directly or through descent …”’
She paused and looked at me intently for a moment, then returned to the text.
‘“… either directly or through descent, but for whom the process of induction has not been completed. I have long known that if the vampire were then to die there is still the possibility (as I am the living proof) that induction may be achieved, but equally the human, if left unmolested, may go on to experience a natural death. However, it seems that under certain conditions the human may be susceptible to drinking the vampire’s blood not to the end of themselves becoming transformed but of bringing about a form of parousia with regard to the dead creature. This seems to be a very ancient story, going back to before the time even of Zmyeevich’s human existence as Ţepeş, and I can find no vampire who has been eyewitness to it. However, it is an intriguing possibility and clearly an apt subject for experimentation, when circumstances next permit.”’
She looked at me, smiling. ‘He could have put it more simply, couldn’t he?’
I didn’t respond.
‘And what’s wrong with plain English? Why all this Greek? “Anastasis” and “parousia”. Still, I suppose that’s the way he was brought up. You know what they mean, I take it.’
I nodded. They had made no sense to me when I’d first read them, but over the years I’d dissected every word of Cain’s – Iuda’s – writings, and it hadn’t taken me too long to discover what those two meant. In the end they amounted to the same thing. Parousia was the more obscure. Literally it meant the physical presence or arrival of a person, but it had a frequent and specific use in the gospels. Seventeen times it was used to refer to the arrival of one particular individual, Christ Himself, and not to His arrival into Jerusalem, nor even His entry into this world at Bethlehem. All referred to His second coming, after He had already died.
The word ‘anastasis’ had a more simple, direct translation. It was the root of the name Anastasia. Tsar Nikolai had chosen it for his youngest daughter, but I couldn’t help but suspect that the Anastasia who stood before me had chosen it for herself, in honour of this time and this place, which – to her as much as to me – must have seemed the moment of her destiny. The entire concept could be expressed in a single word, which I spoke out loud, hoping to hide my fear at its import.
‘Resurrection.’
‘Very good. So perhaps you’d care to summarize what Cain, in his tortuous, roundabout way, is trying to say?’
‘He’s saying,’ I replied, ‘that he’s heard a rumour that, if true, would mean that even though Zmyeevich is dead, he might be resurrected, with the help of a member of the Romanov family.’
Dmitry gasped. He had more than most to fear from Zmyeevich. I was less concerned. I’d understood the meaning of what Iuda had written for a long time and there were so many steps to be completed along the way that its realization seemed preposterously unlikely, even if it was indeed anything more than a rumour. But the fact that Anastasia seemed to believe it unnerved me.
‘It’s quite a concept, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘A myth,’ I replied.
‘A myth? Like the three-fingered man?’
‘What do you know about that?’
‘More than you’d think.’ She put down Iuda’s journal and walked out of my view for a few seconds. She returned carrying a leather bag – a sort of satchel. ‘It was a three-fingered man, your grandfather, Aleksei, who freed dozens of vampires that Cain had been holding captive at Chufut Kalye. He became something of a legend amongst our kind, but its basis was entirely true. We honour him for that, if not his other actions. Look!’
She reached into the satchel and brought out a small, flat piece of wood, no bigger than a book. She hugged it close to her, hiding one side of it, and approached me. When she was only a few feet away she held it out, so I could see the side she had been concealing.
I recognized them instantly: the bones of my grandfather’s two missing fingers – the ones she had stolen from our house. They’d been mounted on the wood somehow, in just the position they would have been
in life. The shape of the living fingers had been drawn around them in pencil, which continued to outline the entire hand, as if waiting for the remaining bones to be added. There was one other addition, one other item that had been stolen from me. Zmyeevich’s ring was there too – the golden dragon. Its emerald eyes gleamed at me in the candlelight. Its red tongue stretched forward as if trying to taste the air. It was mounted just as would be expected, on Aleksei’s ring finger.
‘Zmyeevich wore this ring for as long as anyone knew,’ Anastasia explained. ‘Some people think it has magical powers – rings are often supposed to. Even I half believed that when I placed it on Aleksei’s dead finger, the flesh might begin to regrow – Zmyeevich’s flesh on your grandfather’s bones. What might that have been like, I wonder – the intertwining of Danilov and Ţepeş? But nothing came of it, so perhaps we shall never know.’ She put the mounted bones back into her bag.
‘Zmyeevich must have made quite an impression on you,’ I said.
She smiled briefly, but could not disguise the look of genuine melancholy that crossed her brow. I might even have caught a glimpse of a tear in her eye, though it was probably my imagination.
‘Oh, he did. I’m sure he made an impression upon you, though not in the same way – you are not a voordalak. But for someone like, say, Dmitry here, he was the greatest creature that ever walked the Earth. I was devastated when they killed him – but not despondent.’
‘You don’t stand a chance of bringing him back.’
‘Don’t I? As you said, the first thing I need is a Romanov. Zmyeevich drank the blood of Peter the Great, and now all Pyotr’s descendants are ripe to fall under his dominion. That’s why I came to Russia. Pyotr’s line has been fruitful, and there are plenty of Romanovs to choose from. Even an illegitimate child would do, but how could one be sure of his parentage? My first idea was to get at that little weakling Aleksei, the tsarevich. I got close to him, after a fashion. By the end that lunatic Rasputin would do whatever I told him. But they killed him before we could get what we needed.
‘And then you stumbled across me and Ilya together, you remember? Just over there.’ She pointed vaguely over my shoulder. ‘You think Ilya didn’t recognize you? Didn’t tell me who you were? He had no idea how much you might be able to help, but I wasn’t going to forget all that Zmyeevich had told me about you; and he told me so, so much. After that it was easy enough to find out where you lived, and then to make sure your mistress Nadya discovered me, shivering in the snow, and took me in. You think I wouldn’t have killed you both on the first night if I hadn’t had a far greater purpose in mind for you?’
I closed my eyes briefly. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me – why else would I have been brought here?
‘Mihail Konstantinovich Danilov,’ Anastasia continued. ‘And not just a Danilov, but a Romanov too. There’s no doubting it. You demonstrated the fact very clearly to Zmyeevich when you swallowed his blood and stole his chances of ruling over any of your Romanov cousins. You’ll do very well for what Cain described. You should regard yourself as honoured; to be the one chosen for a moment such as this.’
Dmitry let out a sound that was half a sigh, half laughter. I understood what he was thinking. He had spoken of the ‘Chosen One’ when telling me of The Rite of Spring.
I still thought Anastasia was overreaching herself. ‘Cain described nothing,’ I told her. ‘He talked of a legend, no more. Even if it’s true, you’ve no idea how to carry it out.’
‘Oh, but I have. Zmyeevich himself understood the process perfectly well. That word Cain used – “parousia” – it was very apt. In the Bible it generally refers to the second coming of Christ, but there’s one passage where it describes the arrival of someone else: the Man of Sin; the Lawless One. Who else could that mean but Zmyeevich? He explained the formalities. It has to be on consecrated ground.’ She paused and looked around her. ‘The sacrifice, the chosen one, need only be of the correct bloodline – he can be willing or unwilling. He must be bled and his blood mixed with that of the vampire to be resurrected. Then half that mixture must be burned and half drunk by the sacrifice himself. Some ancient words must be spoken. And then the reincarnated body will appear.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Dmitry. ‘Sure you’ve not missed something?’
Anastasia laughed. ‘Oh, Dmitry Alekseevich – you’re just what he said you were. A believer. Zmyeevich understood. It’s not a question of what is needed, but what can be discarded. He’d never seen the ceremony performed, but he had unearthed several texts on it. He felt confident that it could work, but he knew how superstitious even vampires can be. Some of it – most of it – is undoubtedly nonsense, but which parts? The burning of the blood? The location? The recitation? Why take the risk? If we include every detail, then we can guarantee to have those pieces which are essential.’
‘There’s one piece you don’t have,’ I said. ‘Zmyeevich’s blood.’ Even as I spoke, I felt I was on thin ice.
Anastasia turned away from me and began to wander around the nave, staring up at the mosaic walls and arches. ‘I didn’t know Zmyeevich for long. I met him when he came to England. He shouldn’t have come. He didn’t understand just how resourceful we English can be. I had so little time with him, but I grew to admire him – to love him. But his journey wasn’t simply a whim. He had to visit England. Dmitry knows why.’
She turned and looked at Dmitry, who gazed up at her for a few moments. It seemed to be reverence rather than defiance that delayed his response. ‘Iuda had taken two things which belonged to Zmyeevich. As far as we knew he’d hidden them in England – somewhere.’
Anastasia picked up the story. ‘Cain had two properties in England: one in London, on Piccadilly, the other in a town called Purfleet. Zmyeevich came to take back what was his, but he never managed it. After his death I succeeded where he had failed.’
‘And what was it that Iuda had stolen?’ I already knew.
Anastasia reached into her bag again. She brought out another piece of wood, but of a quite different shape. This was cylindrical; about a foot long. One end was sharpened to a point, while the other was roughly splintered as though it had been broken over someone’s knee to separate it from a longer shaft. It was unmistakably the tip of a spear. Its wood was darkened with age, but even darker stains were still visible on it.
‘Ascalon,’ whispered Dmitry. His eyes were wide.
‘Ascalon,’ Anastasia repeated. ‘The spear with which Saint George slew the dragon, the relic that Zmyeevich kept always close to his heart, until it was stolen from him.’
‘Why not use that to bring him back?’ asked Dmitry. I scowled at him – she didn’t need our help.
‘That would be a different magic,’ she said. ‘One of which we have no need. Ascalon is merely … his. I shall be proud to have the honour of giving it back to him when he returns.’
‘And what was the second thing you found in England?’ I asked. I saw no reason to delay the inevitable.
‘This,’ she said. At the same moment she fetched from her bag a glass vial, small enough that I could have hidden it in my closed fist – though her dainty hand would not entirely have concealed it. Inside was a thick dark liquid – unmistakably blood. She held it close to my face. There was a label on it, written in the Latin alphabet. ‘Read it,’ she said.
‘Zmyeevich.’ The handwriting was unquestionably Iuda’s; the same as in his notebooks.
‘Cain must have taken this sample from Zmyeevich in 1825, when they were allies and trying to convert Aleksandr I to their cause. He took many samples – he’d found a way of preventing the blood from congealing. This, as far as I know, is the only one that remains. You destroyed one of them yourself when you drank it.’
‘It tasted rancid.’
She smiled. ‘Then what is to come will be even more unpleasant for you than I’d hoped. Cain was meticulous – a true scientist. I broke into his house on Piccadilly, disarmed his traps and finally entered
his inner sanctum. There were more notebooks there, and shelf upon shelf of blood samples, each neatly labelled with the name of its source. I was afraid that at any moment Cain would return and prevent me from taking this precious blood, or worse destroy it – destroy the last earthly remnant of Zmyeevich’s existence. But I didn’t know then what I know now – that you had killed Cain years before. Did you ever think you would live to regret it?’
‘I don’t regret it. So what if you manage to bring Zmyeevich back? He won’t thank you for it. You’ll have raised him from the dead only to look upon what he can never have: Russia. For two centuries his only desire was to rule the tsar and thereby rule the nation. Well he can do what he likes to the Romanovs now. They have no power. Everything Zmyeevich ever wanted is lost to him.’
‘We’ll let him be the judge of that, don’t you think? England overthrew her king, and then begged to have his son restored. And much the same happened in France, for a while at least. Nikolai lost Russia because he was weak and inconstant, like his ancestor Pyotr. With Zmyeevich’s help he can be a powerful tsar once again – or if not him then his son, or any of them.’
‘You think Russia will accept a tsar again?’ asked Dmitry.
Anastasia’s eyes gleamed, making her appear again more like a young girl. ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’
I didn’t even see her move, but in an instant she had her switchblade open in her hand. She signalled to Ilya who picked up from the floor something I couldn’t see. Both of them approached me. Ilya was carrying a small granite bowl. My coat and jacket had been removed before I’d come to, but I was still wearing my shirt. Anastasia tugged at the front of it and the buttons popped away. Then she held on to the collar and cut across the chest and along the arm, splitting it open. She repeated the action on the other side and the shirt fell away to the floor. She had been clinically precise, ensuring that at no point did the blade cut my skin. That was not to remain the case for long.