by Jasper Kent
Ilya held the bowl under my bare forearm, still kept outstretched by the rope. Anastasia rested the blade of her knife against my skin and began to press hard. Even so the skin did not break, not until she dragged the blade swiftly downwards. I winced. Blood spurted out under pressure, splattering across the marble floor, but then began to flow more smoothly. Ilya managed to catch most of it. I wondered why they had chosen to use a knife rather than their teeth, but I thought it wiser not to ask. Soon there was plenty in the bowl – more than in the vial containing Zmyeevich’s blood. Anastasia already had a strip of cloth to hand and used it to bandage the wound. A red stain spread across its surface, then came to a halt. I could feel the vein throbbing beneath, but it was enough to stop me losing any more blood.
‘We don’t want you dying on us, now do we?’ clucked Anastasia.
She took the bowl from Ilya and held it under her face, inhaling it as though it were a warming broth. She dipped her forefinger into it then opened her lips to press it against her tongue, dragging her finger downwards to leave a slight stain across her chin.
‘Tasty,’ she said.
She walked over towards the iconostasis and put the bowl down in front of it. Then she took the vial. She held it up to a candle, judging how much was in there, then bent back down to the bowl, tipping a little of its contents away, which cascaded down the steps. Now she uncorked the vial and poured Zmyeevich’s blood into mine. She picked the bowl up again and swilled it around to mix the dark liquids together. Again she held it close to her face, but this time she did not taste it. She glanced around her five accomplices. ‘You all ready? You know what to do?’
There were general nods and murmurs of affirmation, but one of them, the one who had come at me from behind, had a question. ‘Where will he appear?’
‘I don’t know. The writings aren’t clear on that.’ She was flustered at having to reveal her ignorance. ‘But don’t worry – you won’t mistake him. Fetch the vessel.’
Ilya came forward carrying an ornate chalice. It looked to me like the sort of thing from which I was accustomed to drinking communion wine. It could have been pilfered from any church – most likely the one in which we stood. Anastasia poured half the contents of the bowl into it, then returned to the iconostasis, placing the bowl in front of the altar, in the arch of the Beautiful Gate itself. She took another vial from her pocket and poured a little of its contents into the blood. The she turned to face me.
‘Begin!’ she commanded.
Ilya came towards me with the chalice, offering it to me as if to drink, but I kept my mouth firmly shut. They might have as much of my blood as they needed, but they had no more of Zmyeevich’s to waste. If they had to force it down me, I might be able to make sure enough fell on to the floor. But they had clearly thought about it and weren’t taking risks.
One of them grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. Another had his hands on my jaws, prising them apart. For a human it would be an almost impossible achievement, but his vampire strength made it easy. He held them open while Ilya poured the liquid into my mouth. I tried to shake my head from side to side, but the grip was too strong. I flicked my tongue back and forth, but could only displace a few drops. I felt fingers squeezing my nostrils closed. I tried not to breathe, and managed for perhaps half a minute, but then I could resist no more. I used my tongue to push the liquid away from the back of my mouth, to keep my airway clear, but it was impossible. Finally I made the decision – I would suffocate rather than swallow the revolting draught. But nature was stronger. My body rebelled against my will, and at last I swallowed, a moment later taking in great whoops of air.
It had become darker. I looked around to see Anastasia in the process of extinguishing all but a few of the candles. The cathedral was notable for having been built from the beginning with electric light, but evidently this ceremony required something more sombre. As she said, she had no idea what was necessary to the ritual and what was adornment, so she had to follow every detail she knew to the letter.
She plucked one candle from its holder and went back over to the altar. She held the candle close to the surface of the liquid in the bowl and it erupted in flame. Sparks leapt on to the stone floor and smoke billowed upwards. Whatever chemical had been in that second vial had made the blood burn readily. She walked back, positioning herself at the halfway point between me and the burning blood. Around us the five vampires prowled anticlockwise, outside of the pillars to which I was lashed. I could imagine them as wolves around a campfire, fearful of the flames but hungry for the flesh of the humans who sat beside it. Again I was reminded of what Dmitry had told me of The Rite of Spring, and I wondered whether he would be judging how this awful but genuine rite lived up to the fakery he had witnessed in a Parisian theatre.
Anastasia began to speak.
‘Simili modo, postquam cenatum est, accipiens et calicem, iterum gratias agens dedit discipulis suis, dicens, “Accipite et bibite ex eo omnes. Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei novi et aeterni testamenti, qui pro vobis et pro multis effundetur in celebrationem peccatorum. Hoc facite in meam commemorationem.” ’
I didn’t speak much Latin, but I knew enough to work out that this was the text used in the West for the sacrament of the Eucharist, or some obscene variation of it. The voordalaki circling around me began to chant in soft voices.
‘Mortem tuam annuntiamus, Domine, et tuam resurrectionem confitemur, donec venias.
‘Mortem tuam annuntiamus, Domine, et tuam resurrectionem confitemur, donec venias.
‘Mortem tuam annuntiamus, Domine, et tuam resurrectionem confitemur, donec venias.’
I tried to prepare myself for what was to come. The metallic taste of blood – my own and Zmyeevich’s – still clung to my tongue. I could feel the liquid in my stomach, but I couldn’t tell whether the sensation of nausea that had begun to fill me was a physical reaction to it, or merely the result of my knowledge of what it was. I looked into the darkness of the church and the world around me began to blur. The processing figures of the vampires became just dancing shadows, revealing and obscuring the light of the candles beyond them. The faces in the icons on the walls began to stare at me, and then to laugh. The white beards of the saints vanished to become long moustaches of iron-grey that hung from beneath arched nostrils. Every one of them – male or female – had been transformed. I flung my head back to look up at the face of Christ on the inside of the cupola, but it too had distorted into the image of Zmyeevich.
Anastasia had been silent for a while, but now she began again, louder this time, repeating the words she had spoken before. ‘“Accipite et bibite ex eo omnes. Hic est enim calix sanguinis …”’ Beneath her the voordalaki continued their sinister mantra. I looked beyond them into the shadows of the church and saw a tall figure, whose face I could not make out. I could not see his eyes, but I knew they were staring at me, burning into me. He began to pace slowly forward.
I looked down at Dmitry, but he didn’t notice me. His eyes flicked around the room, looking to discover what the effect of the ritual would be, but from what I could glean from his expression, seeing nothing untoward. The blood in my stomach burned in sympathy with the portion that had been separated from it and was being consumed in fire before the altar. Anastasia began to recite again, shouting this time. I looked back at the dark figure. Still it seemed to approach, without ever getting closer.
Then the nave became fractionally darker. Anastasia turned away from me and walked up the steps towards the Beautiful Gate. She looked down. The bowl was no longer alight. She picked it up and shook it and it spluttered briefly with flame and sparks, but they quickly vanished. Its fuel had been consumed. She held the bowl high in her hand and let its contents fall on to the altar, but all that descended was dark, powdered ash which dispersed in the air. I could tell from her face that this was not a part of the rite – this was the act of a disappointed woman, unable to comprehend the fact that her magic had failed.
The voordalaki s
aw it too. One by one they drew to a halt. The chanting stopped. I looked at the faces in the mosaics and all were as they should be, benignly looking down on me. The figure in the shadows had vanished – if it had ever been there.
‘Shit!’ said Anastasia.
‘Where is he?’ asked Ilya. He looked around, as did the others. If they hadn’t been so totally under her thrall I might have suspected they were mocking her.
‘It hasn’t worked,’ she spat.
‘I told you,’ said Ilya. ‘He has to die. It’s obvious.’
‘It’s not obvious at all.’ Then she calmed. ‘But it was always a possibility. It’s the only chance we have.’ She walked towards me, her knife already in her hand. Although the ceremony was over, my stomach still burned, worse now than it had before. I glanced down at the bulge of the child she carried and felt a sudden, all-consuming despair at the thought that this whole ceremony might have succeeded to the extent that it had left me in a similar state. The pain inside me grew, as if some monster lay within, clawing to get out; as if Zmyeevich had been conceived anew and was now desperate to be born.
Anastasia held the knife low, ready to stab me in the heart, but I felt certain now that she would do better to slash my belly open and unleash whatever was inside me. The pain was so great I was tempted to beg her to.
And then the church was filled with light. There was a shout from behind me.
‘There they are. I told you. Fucking burzhooi.’
I tried to turn and look. They’d come in through the main door and turned on the electric light. They were only Swan bulbs, too dim to do the vampires harm, but the brightness was enough to startle them, dazzling them momentarily. A crowd of perhaps thirty poured into the nave – Red Guards by the look of them. At their head was Louis – Dmitry’s henchman, whom I’d last seen being flung into the Neva. He made straight for Dmitry, trying to release him, while the others engaged the five voordalaki. They could have little idea what they were facing, but with such overwhelming numbers they might stand a chance – particularly if Dmitry was free to join them.
No one paid any attention to Anastasia. She had been momentarily fazed by the invasion, but now she turned her attention back to me. I could understand her reasoning. If my death would bring Zmyeevich back, then now might be her last chance. She drew back the knife.
Then Louis appeared between us. Anastasia’s knife plunged into his stomach, but to no effect. He swung at her with the back of his hand and sent her across the church, smashing into the iconostasis. He turned to face me. I tried to speak but could not; the pain in my stomach was beyond endurance. I pulled at the ropes to indicate he should free me, but he focused on something behind me and his face dropped.
He just managed to form a shout. ‘Look out!’
Then something hard and heavy hit me on the back of the head. My vision blurred. I tried to force myself to remain standing, but the agony in my stomach was already overcoming me. I slumped forwards, dangling from the ropes, and for the second time that night collapsed into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER XIII
‘DOMINIQUE.’
I heard the word and realized moments later that I had spoken it myself, though I had no concept as to why. I opened my eyes. It was dark, but not pitch black. I sensed that I was indoors. The back of my head throbbed. I lifted my hands to rub my face, but felt that they were restrained. I pulled again and found that I was not bound tightly. There were ropes tied around my wrists, but fixed to nothing at the other end. My arms were hindered only by the weight of them dragging across the cold stone floor. I touched my head where the pain was, and realized it was better to leave it alone. I rubbed my face and eyes. My skin felt strange, but I could not place what was wrong with it. I was almost clean shaven, which suggested I hadn’t been out for very long. As my arms came into contact with my chest I realized that I was naked from the waist up. My right forearm was bandaged. I looked in all directions, taking in my surroundings.
I was in a church. I didn’t recognize it, but then I was hardly familiar with all the churches and cathedrals in Petersburg. Who could be, with so many of them? It was an assumption even that I was in Petersburg, though it seemed likely. That was where I had been, as far as I could recall. My memories – particularly those of the immediate past – felt vague; distant.
There were only a few candles to light the nave, but they were enough to see the mosaic icons that covered every inch of the walls and pillars. It was an impressive piece of work. I was lying in the very centre of the building. Columns soared above me, up to a cupola from which the image of Christ stared back down, unnerving me. I sat up. Around me the floor seemed uneven; undulating in the flickering candlelight. I felt for the ropes around my wrists and tugged at them, but they would not yield. I unpicked the knots with my fingers and threw the ropes to one side. I stood.
The reason for the strange shape of the floor became clear now. There were bodies, seven of them, strewn about the place. Two were on the steps leading up to the iconostasis. One was sprawled over the gate of some little chapel or shrine directly opposite – and therefore presumably to the west. The others were on the floor. I examined them; five had the unmistakable signs of having been killed by the teeth of a vampire. Of the others one had a broken neck and the other a stab wound to the heart. I also came across two empty sets of clothes – both men’s – from which a little dust escaped as I kicked them. It seemed that in whatever battle had taken place between men and vampires there had been casualties on both sides. I could only count myself lucky that I was not among them.
I grabbed the shirt, jacket and overcoat that had belonged to one of the vampires and shook them to clear as much of the dust as I could. There was a hole in the cotton where a wooden blade had pierced the creature’s heart, but it wouldn’t be seen and the outer clothes were intact. I felt an unaccustomed distaste at the prospect of donning clothes that had so recently been worn by the undead, but on looking around the chamber could see nothing better. I put them on, then looked for a way out. Typically the main door would be to the west, away from the altar, and in this church it was no exception. There were windows high in the walls, but no light penetrated. That probably meant it was night, but they might have been curtained or painted over. I opened the door only a fraction at first and felt a cool breeze flow through. Still there was no sign of daylight.
I opened the door wider and stepped outside. It was certainly night, but not as dark as I had expected. The streetlights seemed brighter than usual, but that was not an immediate concern. I tried to sense exactly what time it was, but I could not. Sometime in the small hours was all I could guess. I looked around me. This certainly felt like Petersburg, but I could not fathom where exactly I was. I turned to look back at the church from which I’d emerged. Perhaps it might be more familiar to me from outside than it had been from within.
It stirred memories, though the place it reminded me of was in a quite different city – Moscow. And despite the similar style, there were obvious differences between this and Saint Vasiliy’s. This, it seemed to me, was a poor imitation. I walked around it and eventually, on the far side, discovered that it had been built to abut a long, straight canal. Now at last I recognized where I was.
It was most definitely Petersburg. This was the Yekaterininsky Canal – the northern end of it, close to the Field of Mars. I felt a strange sense of comfort wash over me, a feeling of familiarity that managed to soothe the unease I’d been experiencing since I had awoken. I walked a little way along the embankment and then turned to look back at the church. That was one thing that was neither familiar nor comfortable. It should not have been there. That was more than the assertion of my memory. The church simply didn’t fit. It stuck out into the canal, which had clearly been narrowed at one point to accommodate it. No one would ever have reason to build a church there – no architect would ever consider it. But beyond that was the simple fact that a church did not exist at that particular location in the city. I’
d walked alongside the canal often enough to know.
Two possibilities, both implausible, came to mind. The first was that this was not in truth Petersburg, but some counterfeit, assembled like a Potemkin village with the intention to deceive. If I were to go to one of the buildings on either side of the canal and knock on its door and go inside, I would find that there was no inside, that they were empty façades, constructed only to confuse. Tsaritsa Yekaterina had never bothered to inspect the illusions that Prince Potemkin had created for her. Perhaps I would, but not yet. The whole idea was preposterous. Why create so accurate a facsimile and then ruin everything by putting that church there?
The other explanation was only a little more credible: that I had been unconscious for far longer than I’d guessed – for a matter of years rather than hours, long enough for that building to have been raised up from nothing. It would have taken years; decades. And still that didn’t explain why it was built in so preposterous a location, forced upon an embankment where it simply didn’t fit. Even so, it was the best explanation I could come up with for now. I tried to recall what I had been doing before I lost consciousness, but could remember nothing beyond an overarching sense of pain and fear.
The embankment was empty of people, but even if there had been anyone, I wasn’t sure I would have approached them with a question such as what year it was, or who was tsar. How could I trust their answer? If this whole city was a fake, then wouldn’t those who populated it be creations also – actors trained to maintain the deception? I’d do better to behave as I had always done and rely upon my own wits. I would unearth the truth, once I had gathered sufficient evidence.
I walked on alongside the canal. Ahead of me I could see the lights of Nevsky Prospekt, and from what I could make out the slight movement of people and carriages. A man brushed past me, running towards the prospekt. He slowed for a moment and turned, walking backwards so that he could address me.