The Last Rite (Danilov Quintet 5)

by Jasper Kent

  But the first step towards any solution to our problems was to gather information, and I knew where it could be found. I left the house without any plans to return – the food was gone and the likelihood was that the bodies would be found. I’d changed my suit of yesterday for something a little more sober from the professor’s wardrobe. It didn’t fit quite as well, but would be more appropriate for life in the new Russia.

  I took a different route back to the heart of the city, just in case I was recognized, crossing the new bridge near the Winter Palace, then turned back towards Saint Isaac’s.

  It was as I walked along the Admiralty Quay that I realized it was I who was once again holding the reins of my body. I considered breaking into a run, taking Iuda by surprise and hurling myself into the wide blue waters of the Neva, but I knew it was foolish. I sensed, as he had done, that he would always be able to prevent my suicide. Certainly an attempt to drown myself would prove futile. Even if he didn’t prevent the initial plunge into the waves, he would have plenty of time to swim back to shore.

  And he was right too that there were better solutions to our problem, though he misjudged me in what I would find acceptable; it would be pointless not to admit it. If he were to find some other body as the dwelling place for his soul, then the question arose of what happened to the previous occupant. I would not tolerate the death of another – or, worse, another being forced to live the dual life that I now suffered – merely to alleviate my discomfort. And if he did manage to reanimate some cadaver whose former spirit had no further use for it, then I would make it my duty to ensure that the duration of the second life of that body was mercifully short. I had killed Iuda in 1881. Why did he suppose that I would not try to do the same again now?

  But with regard to our immediate course of action, I was in agreement with him. We needed to find Anastasia. I didn’t even break step, but carried on along the quay in the direction Iuda had been heading. Perhaps a sharp-eyed observer might have noticed a change in my gait or posture, but it would have been nothing remarkable. I carried on, then turned across Senate Square and entered the cathedral through the same door we had used the night before.

  It was a little busier than it had been then. There was no service taking place, nor any sign of a priest, but a few people were silently praying in front of the iconostasis. They were probably wise to do so now while they still could. I’d heard nothing definite, but from all that I’d read about the Bolsheviks their belief was that religion was merely another way for those in power to perpetuate their control over the poor. What place could prayer have in their new society – indeed, who would need it once a perfect state of human existence had been achieved? It wouldn’t last, though. They tried it in France during that revolution, and soon realized that God was the only tyrant from Whom most people did not want to be freed.

  I realized now that I had a problem. I had no idea how to get down to the chambers below. There was only one route I had ever known and it was unlikely to be of much use. I went over to the corner of the nave, beside the entrance to the Nevsky Chapel, and looked up at the mosaic of Saint Paul. It hadn’t changed since I had first stood there as a young man. There was no one near by. I reached out and rested my thumbs against each of the saint’s big toes, trying to remember the precise location of the mechanism. I quickly found it and pushed. The switches were stiffer than I remembered them, but eventually yielded. The panel swung open, but I looked beyond to see what I had suspected – what I had been told by my father.

  Where once the passageway had stretched out ahead and into darkness, now it managed only a few feet – ending abruptly in a brick wall that appeared both new and solid. I leaned forward and put my hand against it. It felt quite impenetrable. After the murder of Aleksandr II I’d spoken to my father, the late emperor’s brother Konstantin, and told him everything I knew – of the tunnels beneath Malaya Sadovaya Street and of those here. He had promised to ensure that they were sealed, that no one – neither man nor vampire – could ever make use of them again. He had been as good as his word, but he could only seal the entrances he knew about.

  Dmitry had shown us the spiral staircase that he had seen Ilya use. I went over to it and began to climb up. I didn’t get far. The way was blocked by a locked iron gate. I could only presume Ilya had a key. I went back down. No doubt there were other paths to the tunnels below, but I was not aware of them. Iuda was and he had come here with confidence that he would find a way. He had helped to design the building, a century before, and would know every hidden entrance to the passageways below. I needed his guidance and I could only wait for it.

  I sat down on one of the wooden chairs that faced the iconostasis and tried to empty my mind. Then I remembered that there was a favour I needed to do for Iuda. I reached into my pocket and took out the electric torch. It switched on in the same way as my own, by twisting the metal cap at the bulb end. I turned it on and off twice, so that he would get the idea, then put it back in my pocket. I relaxed again, waiting for him to come, but he remained lurking in the dark shadows of my mind, unwilling or unable to take centre stage. I bent forward, as if in prayer, though I could find no words to offer the Lord. If He was there, He knew my predicament. He didn’t need my pleas to tell Him what to do.

  I sat for almost an hour, then stood, crossed the nave and went back outside.

  The gate across the spiral staircase was a new addition. Evidently Konstantin had known more than his son supposed and realized that there were other routes to the world below. Or perhaps he was just being circumspect. Either way, his precautions had proved fruitless. Somehow Ilya, or Anastasia, had got hold of a key. If we had been able to get beyond that gate then we would have eventually come to a short corridor, paved with flagstones. Levering up the third one along would have revealed an iron ladder, no doubt rusted by now, leading down. How Anastasia knew all that I could only guess. It would have taken her weeks of investigation. Perhaps Zmyeevich had discovered something. He’d known about the entrance through the icon of Saint Paul. He’d slept here for several nights. He could well have explored further and told Anastasia of what he had learned.

  I would have to use a more humble entrance. I went round the cathedral to the south side, looking on to Saint Isaac’s Square. I walked across the grass until I was close to the cathedral wall. The iron manhole cover was still there, just as I remembered it. I pulled it up and went down the staircase beneath. The stench of the city’s sewers flooded over me. It seemed fouler than when I had last been here; no doubt as the city had grown so had the amount of filth they tried to wash away. But there were other explanations. Then I had been in no good state to perceive anything. After my battle with Zmyeevich it was to here that I had been forced to slink and lick my wounds – to grow back a body from almost nothing. And I had been a vampire. Compared with the nostrils of a human my senses had then probably been more acute, but also less discerning – less repelled by the knowledge of what caused those odours.

  But it was not the sewers that I wanted to inspect. Back then I had crawled here from one of the tunnels beneath the cathedral. Today I would make the reverse journey. I got the torch out of my pocket and imitated Danilov’s actions in turning it on. It worked. I shone the beam around the chamber, then walked along a little way until the wall turned sharply left. I pointed the torch up into the shadows where the wall and the ceiling joined. Even then it was difficult to make out: a dark gap, the height of just three or four rows of brick, at the very top of the wall. I turned off the torch and put it back in my pocket, then raised both arms above my head.

  I jumped, grabbing the top of the wall as I did and pulling myself up, trying to get my whole arm over. It was too high. I fell back and waited a few seconds to catch my breath. Then I tried again; this time I made it. I got my right arm over the wall and held on with my left. The tip of my boot scraped against the bricks as I tried to raise it, and finally I had it resting on the top of the wall, able to take the majority of my weight. Again
I took a few moments to rest, hanging there with one leg dangling vertically below me like the pendulum of a clock. It was not a comfortable position, but it required no real energy to maintain. Once I was recovered I pulled myself up completely and slipped into the recess at the top of the wall, scarcely big enough to house a human body.

  It was pitch dark without the torch, but I knew my way. I crawled forwards and soon the gap in the wall by which I had entered was replaced by solid brick. A few feet later the wall on my right opened up, yielding to empty space. On this side the arrangement was just the same as on the other: a recess at the top of the wall, scarcely noticeable. I felt a slight breeze in my face. I could have continued further, pushed open a small grille and found myself in the nave again, almost at the point I’d come from. But I wouldn’t have been able to get through. The gap was too small, and yet that was the way I had escaped; the few bones and organs of my body that remained had slipped through quite comfortably. I could scarcely believe that with my one remaining hand I had pulled myself along this tunnel, my fingernails clawing against the brickwork. But the terror I felt at the thought of Zmyeevich catching up with me was ample motivation. Today, though, I had a different route to take.

  I switched the torch back on and lowered myself down. The passage was long and straight, going directly under the nave from the southwest corner to the northeast, and a little beyond. I followed it quickly. Another corridor joined from the left – that was the way Ilya would have come once he had descended that ladder. All the way the path had been sloping downwards, but now finally it came to an end with a curved stone wall – the outside of the shaft of another spiral staircase. It was not, however, complete; there was a gap at one side, narrow, and about half my height. I crouched down and slipped through to find myself facing the underside of the staircase, at the very bottom.

  I braced my back against the wall behind me and pushed at the stairs. They swung forward easily, pivoting on the spindle of the spiral itself. It was no surprise that the mechanism was still working so well. This was the route that Ilya and Anastasia must take each time they entered or left, so it was well used.

  I closed the hidden door behind me and the bottom four steps were soon indistinguishable from those that rose above them. Up there was the brick wall we had found behind the icon of Saint Paul. Ahead of me stretched a passage that led to the main chamber of this warren. That was the direction I took.

  It ended in a wooden door. I was well beyond the foundations of the cathedral now. I reached for the handle and opened it. It was not locked. The room I entered was entirely familiar, despite the changes that had been made to it. This ancient chamber had been unearthed when the foundations of the cathedral were being dug; it had been easy for me as a senior figure of His Majesty’s secret police to ensure that it was buried again, leaving entrances of which only I was aware. The arched ceiling was about twice my height, supported on eight brick columns, lighted candles fixed to each of them. I switched off the torch. In the centre of the space, where a ninth column might have been expected, was a raised circular structure, looking a little like a well, which in some sense it once had been. I went over to it. At one time it had been filled with water, fed by the Neva itself through a pipe that stretched out beneath my feet. But things had changed. There was no pool here now, just a pile of dirt and bricks and rubble that had been used to block off that particular route of egress. More of Konstantin’s work, I suspected; we were fortunate his men hadn’t noticed the secret door at the foot of the staircase. On the walls there had once been cupboards containing my work – books and samples. They were gone too – the cupboards as well as their contents. I wondered why he hadn’t just caved in the whole chamber and the passageway that led to it. But that would have been dangerous. Somewhere above us stood the statue of Peter the Great, mounted on its colossal stone pedestal. It would not have been a pleasant omen to see that sinking into a gaping hole in Senate Square, though a portentous one.

  At the far end of the chamber lay two coffins, side by side, both closed. I went over to open them. The first was empty. In the second lay a male vampire, sleeping. I didn’t recognize him. I lowered the lid gently back into place. It would be better not to wake him. What I had to say would convince Anastasia, I felt sure, but the others might not even let me get as far as speaking to her. She wasn’t here. Still, there were plenty of other places within these tunnels where she might be found.

  I turned to go and search them, but did not need to. She was standing in the doorway, watching me with an expression of detached amusement on her face. I felt suddenly cold. My blood seemed to drain from me and my stomach felt as though I had eaten a rock. I staggered backwards, almost tripping over the coffins, finally finding the wall behind me and leaning against it for support. She looked just as beautiful as the last time I had seen her. Her flaxen hair shone even in the dim candlelight, cascading over her shoulders. Her eyes still retained the glint of mischief that I had known as a boy. It must have been 125 years since I had seen that face. That she was the woman that Dmitry had referred to as Anastasia I had no doubt, but I knew her real name. Involuntarily I spoke it.

  ‘Susanna!’

  Whatever surprise I might feel at the fact that she was here, now, in Petrograd, one thing came to me as nothing more than a confirmation of what I already suspected: she was a vampire. And that was entirely my fault.

  She had been my first love, and my first lover. Our sole physical encounter, lying between the pews of my father’s church, had always been a pleasant memory, but it had had one troublesome side effect. She had fallen pregnant. Young as I was, that didn’t fit in with my plans, and I knew I had to get rid of them both. Fortunately I had the means to do it. Even as our exertions on the floor of the church created new life, so beneath that floor, in the crypt, I kept a prisoner – a vampire, the first I’d ever encountered. His name was Honoré, or more formally Honoré Philippe Louis d’Évreux, Vicomte de Nemours. I’d managed to trap him, and to study him, and kept him nourished by occasionally feeding him one of my school friends. But I’d never imagined I would do that with Susanna, not until the wretched baby came along.

  I’d lured her down with the promise of discovering something fascinating – her curiosity was almost as insatiable as mine – and let her walk in there, quite unwitting. I remembered the white of her dress disappearing into the darkness. Then I’d heard the sound of Honoré pouncing, and I’d locked the gate and run away.

  But that was not the end of it. I didn’t know much about vampires then, not compared with what I’ve learned since. I understood that they could transform humans into their own kind, but I hadn’t determined how. The very last time I went down to visit Honoré, to let him free in exchange for his promise to kill my father, I saw her. Behind him, in the gloom, I’d caught a glimpse of the pale, delightful face that had once smiled down on me in the moment that our bodies became one flesh. I’d suspected it to be a figment of my imagination, spurred on by my guilt – I’d hoped that it was.

  Now, however, I was sure. There she was, standing in front of me, the same as the day she died – the day I had killed her. And she would have no reason to regard me with anything but hatred. My only hope was to stick to my original plan – though now the danger I faced if that plan failed was greater than ever. I tried to think how he would behave. I’d already made the mistake of calling her Susanna – I’d have to stick with it. I opened my arms widely, welcomingly, and then spoke.

  ‘Susanna! You are a genius.’

  She was clearly taken aback. ‘What?’

  I took a step forward. ‘I understand. I understand. I’m still unrecognizable in this ridiculous body. But look through that and you will surely recognize me.’

  She narrowed her eyes, assessing me. ‘You’ve got quite a nerve, Mihail Konstantinovich.’

  ‘Is that whose body this is?’ I pretended to be thinking for a moment. ‘Not Mihail Konstantinovich Danilov?’ I laughed heartily. ‘Well, I suppose i
t could have been any Romanov, but somehow it seems fitting that it was him.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘The ceremony. My blood. The anastasis.’

  ‘The ceremony was a disaster. I did it all wrong.’

  ‘No, Susanna, you did it beautifully. I have returned, just as you hoped. I am he. I am Zmyeevich. I am Ţepeş. I am … Dracula.’

  She stared at me for several seconds, then began to clap her hands slowly. ‘You almost had me,’ she said.

  I took a step towards her, my arms reaching out, pleading, but I felt myself suddenly restrained. Someone had grabbed my shoulders from behind and pulled me back. The vampire in the coffin had awoken and was ready to protect his mistress.

  ‘Kill him,’ she said brusquely. As she spoke an expression of pain crossed her face. She put her hand to her stomach and turned away. I felt the vampire’s hand at my chin, forcing my head up as he prepared to bite.

  ‘If you kill me, you’ll regret it for ever,’ I shouted after her, scarcely able to move my jaw. ‘Think about it, Susanna. You know it’s me. How else would I know your real name?’

  She paused and turned back to me. ‘Anyone could know that.’

  ‘You never told Danilov that, though, did you?’ I was guessing, but I felt I was on solid ground. ‘You told me years ago. You think I’d forget it? Forget you?’

  It was a desperate gamble, but from what I could glean of their relationship she would surely have told Zmyeevich the truth. She stood gazing at me, her body shaking, as if she were standing out in the snow. She took a step forward, then stopped, then took another.