by Jasper Kent
They certainly did leave it late. It was only a few minutes before sunrise when Yudin heard a key rattle in the door and the two other vampires entered. Between them they carried a bundle that might be mistaken for many things, but that Yudin could easily guess was a body – unconscious, but not dead. Tyeplov was instantly recognizable by his height, even before Yudin could clearly see his face, and so by elimination the other creature was Ignatyev.
‘Take that down, quickly,’ said Tyeplov, dropping his end of the body. Ignatyev began to drag the load towards the stairs of the crypt. Only then did Tyeplov turn and see the state of the church.
He surveyed the scene for a moment, not looking up towards where Yudin was perched, and then shouted.
‘Mihailov!’
Mihailov stirred in Yudin’s arms, but did not respond. Tyeplov approached the body of the drunk, still close to the iconostasis. The man’s face was to the floor. Tyeplov prodded it with the toe of his boot. The man awoke suddenly and tried to stand; only as he felt the pain shooting through his legs did he remember that he could not. He wailed incoherently and pointed upwards, straight towards where Yudin and Mihailov were perched, where he had earlier watched Yudin make his preparations.
Fortunately Tyeplov’s wrath denied him the chance of learning anything that might be useful. He kicked the drunk hard in the temple and the man’s head flipped in an instant to one side. Yudin fancied he heard the click of his neck breaking. He certainly remained quite still after that. It was a pity to see him put out of his misery so swiftly.
‘Put that down,’ said Tyeplov. Ignatyev dropped the bundle he had been dragging and came over. The two of them stared at what was the most obvious incongruity in the church: the fallen horos. As though they were marionettes, controlled by the same set of strings, their heads rose in unison to follow the rope that still stretched upwards from the horos and towards the ceiling. Yudin had little time now. He reached for his knife and, holding Mihailov’s head with a hand across his mouth, used the sharp, parallel blades to cut into his throat. Normally with a vampire it was an insipid form of torture; either the wound would heal or the head would be severed and the creature would die. But with Mihailov weakened as he was, although the wound would heal, it would heal slowly. Yudin cut right back until he felt bone. It was all quite unnecessary, but it added piquancy. For the others to see one of their own kind unable to repair such a horrible wound would introduce one more stratum of fear.
Throughout, Yudin kept his eyes on the two vampires below. In the time it had taken him to cut Mihailov’s throat they had traced the rope to an anchor at the apex of the church’s ceiling, then followed it down, across the emptiness beneath the vault to where Yudin sat.
As their eyes fell upon him Yudin pushed Mihailov away. The body swung in a slight ellipse, going out just to the right of its pivot in the ceiling and coming back an equal distance to the left. The head, inverted, was almost exactly at the level of the voordalaki standing beneath. All the way, it spewed out blood from the gaping wound to its throat, not a huge amount, for it could not manufacture very much, but sufficient for both to be splattered with a little of it as it passed. As they watched its graceful orbit, they didn’t appear to notice Yudin, still at the window. That would come.
‘Don’t just stand there; get him down!’ shouted Tyeplov. Ignatyev raced over to where the rope was fastened to the horos and started to chew at it with his fangs. Tyeplov grabbed at Mihailov to try and stop his motion, and perhaps bring him down. The only effect this had was to tear open the wound at Mihailov’s neck, and Tyeplov let go, as if stung. Mihailov began a new orbit, a different ellipse, but around the same centre.
Yudin could sense now that sunrise was very close. Those below would know it too, distracted though they were, but would not fear it too much inside the building, with the crypt so close. Yudin pictured the Earth turning in space and remembered a recent experiment he had read of, conducted by a Frenchman named Foucault who had used the movement of the plane of a pendulum as the day passed to demonstrate the Earth’s rotation. It would have appealed to both sides of Yudin’s character to stay and watch Mihailov’s body precess around the nave of the church, but there were other laws of nature that prevented it.
‘Prometheus!’ he shouted. The vampire turned and looked straight at him. There was recognition in his eyes, not just of Yudin’s face but also of his handiwork. Their stares locked for only a moment, but it was all that Yudin required.
He dropped down into the churchyard, his feet kicking occasionally against the wall to slow his descent. As soon as he hit the ground he began to run. He only needed to go a little way before he reached the vault. Where he had earlier dug at the earth, a brick arch was revealed, like the upper part of the eye of a toad, peering out of a bog. He slipped inside and peeped through the opening, back in the direction he had come. He had chosen this tomb in particular because it was due east of the church. Thus when the sun rose, it would be behind him. He would be protected from it by the back wall of the vault, but would still be able to see its effects before him.
Seconds later, the sun did rise. Yudin could see the shadows of the graves as it cast them against the side of the church. Higher up the wall, free of shadow, the sun’s illumination was clear, as it was upon the church’s wooden roof.
It was Mihailov’s screams that Yudin heard first, if only by a fraction of a second. His throat must have healed well for him to be able to make such a noise. He wondered if they had managed to get him down. If so, his sudden agony would be even more bewildering to them.
It was only a moment later that the roof erupted in flame. It was soaked in Mihailov’s blood. Yudin had dragged the font right to the very top and emptied it down the slope. The snow had soaked it up, red streaks running through it like a raspberry sauce on an iced dessert. It was all to the good, holding the blood in place. Some made it down to the gutters, but at this time of year the drains were blocked with ice, so it could not escape. The blood itself would have frozen quickly, but that would make no difference to the sun’s effect on it.
As the blood began to boil and combust, Mihailov would feel the pain as though it were still running in his own veins. It was a trick Yudin had employed more than once before, but in those cases the amount of blood involved had been just a smear. Here, with the entire body’s blood supply exposed to the sunlight in a single instant, the pain would be unimaginable. Yudin could only guess that it would be the equivalent of walking into the daylight and exposing one’s body. Except that in that case pain would end in moments with death. Here it would last, until all the blood had burned.
Only then would follow the full exposure to the sun’s rays.
That stage was almost upon them. Yudin could see from the colour and height of the flames on the church roof that it was now mostly wood that was burning, rather than blood. From within, Mihailov’s screams had subsided. When, Yudin wondered, would they realize? They must be aware by now that the roof was ablaze. They wouldn’t dare leave – it was far too light outside. They would make for the crypt, hoping that the flames would not penetrate so far down. Only then would they discover the door blocked. Perhaps they would break through, perhaps not. Yudin cared little.
With a huge crunch, part of the roof caved in. Yudin heard a scream, loud but suddenly curtailed. It could have been any of them. Then another segment collapsed. Now the whole of the nave would be filled with light. He imagined them in there, scrabbling for any bit of shadow, fighting among themselves for a dark corner where the sun did not penetrate. They might find something, but it would not stay safe. The sun would move throughout the day, and what had been in shadow would be restored to light and what had lurked therein would be no more. It was just a shame that the sun was so low in the sky at this time of year.
Yudin stood and watched until almost midday, when the sun at last became a danger to him. The hue and cry was soon raised, and groups of men came and threw water on the fire. They managed to put it out, bu
t it would have consumed itself eventually. None of the men went inside – they would be afraid of the walls collapsing. It happened a little later; the eastern wall fell inwards, no longer able to lean against the roof. Yudin slunk back into the tomb. There were two coffins in there, and he lay between them to sleep.
It had been fun – much better than anything he had planned at the beginning of the night. That couple with their little child would have come nowhere near it. But there had been a purpose to it as well. It was a warning. Why warn creatures that would minutes later be dead? Why not kill them more simply and more certainly? The answer was straightforward. It was none of the three voordalaki who had perished in that church that he was attempting to warn, but a fourth such creature, many versts away.
Zmyeevich could see through Tyeplov’s eyes, and Tyeplov through his. That was how Tyeplov had known where to locate Yudin – and Raisa and Dmitry. And that meant that Zmyeevich would have seen all of this, and heard it, and hopefully felt it. He needed reminding of just how resourceful an opponent Yudin could be. It would be no more than a bee sting to him; but it might make him keep away from bees.
But as Yudin fell into slumber, there was one question that still puzzled him. Tyeplov had brought the others to Moscow because he had known that Yudin was there. Tyeplov had known because, through their joined minds, Zmyeevich had told him. But that was not the end of the chain, only a link in it.
Zmyeevich might have informed Tyeplov, but how did Zmyeevich know?
1856
CHAPTER XVI
DMITRY REMINDED HIMSELF of his father. He itched to be in Moscow again. He yearned for it. And soon he would be there. Aleksei had been just the same, although at first Dmitry had been too young to realize it. As a boy, he’d been sad whenever his father had left their home in Petersburg, but he’d understood that it was necessary. Aleksei had hugged him, and kissed Marfa, and promised to write and promised to be home as soon as he could possibly manage, and to a growing boy it had all appeared genuine.
It was only on that last trip, in 1825, when Dmitry had been eighteen and off to join the cavalry and he and his father had travelled down together, that he understood the truth. Although Aleksei had displayed the same emotions as ever to Marfa when they left – and she had been sadder still for also losing a son – once they were en route, Aleksei had cheered up no end. As they arrived in the city, Aleksei had been scarcely able to contain his enthusiasm. Then, of course, his father had had to put up with a journey of four days on the stagecoach, whereas Dmitry could achieve it in less than one. There was something to be said for the old ways, though. He remembered the coach taking them right into the heart of the city and how Aleksei had chattered incessantly, pointing out every sight. The train’s approach, though faster, came through the dreary outskirts, and would deposit its passengers on the very rim of civilization. There was nothing to tantalize Dmitry, except in his own mind.
Even back then, in 1825, Dmitry had known the primary reason for Aleksei’s zeal. He had a mistress in the city, a former prostitute by the name of Domnikiia. It was Yudin who had warned Dmitry of her existence. At the time, he despised his father for it, and hated the woman more. Eventually – thankfully before he and Aleksei had parted for ever – he had grown to see that his father’s weaknesses vanished to nothing when set beside his strengths. And as Dmitry had grown older he had learned that few men were in a position to judge their fellows. Dmitry was not one of the few.
The train was slowing now. Dmitry looked out of the window at the buildings rolling past. Some were familiar, others less so. They passed the remains of a church – no more than a burnt-out ruin – and Dmitry tried to remember whether it had been like that when he left, at the end of the previous year. Whatever the changes, this was Moscow. He didn’t stand yet, but sat up a little straighter, his cane pressed between his knees. His ankle was almost healed now, but he kept the stick as an affectation. He could even pedal at the piano, though it would ache if he forgot himself and played for too long. That would pass.
But whatever reasons Dmitry might personally have to embrace the future with excited anticipation, he was not alone in his optimism. It was mid-March now and spring was here – not just as a season of the year, but for the whole of Europe; the whole of the world.
The war was over. Many – himself included – had said it was over on that terrible day in August when the French had taken the Malakhov, but it had gone on a little longer in the eyes of the leaders of Russia, Britain and France. The last major action, an attempt by the Russians to retake southern Sevastopol, had failed in January. February had seen an armistice and a peace conference opening in Paris. The latest news was that a treaty would be signed within days. The terms were intended more to humiliate Russia than to enfeeble her. The loss of southern Bessarabia was a petty territorial adjustment. The destruction of the Black Sea fleet was an unprecedented act of vindictiveness. But neither of them justified a war so long, so bloody and so brutal. At least the French emperor had what he wanted: revenge for Russia’s humiliation of his uncle, four decades before. But in the end, for all sides, peace was a greater booty than any territorial gain. Peace was what Russia needed; what Europe needed.
But in that regard, there was one new cloud on the horizon. Napoleon III, warmonger and self-appointed emperor of the French, now had a son to continue his dynasty. He had, of course, been named Napoleon. One day, just like his father and his great-uncle before him, he would grow up to plunge the whole of Europe into a pointless war. Dmitry felt sure of it. He wondered if he would live to see the day.
He was old already; older than he had been three days ago. That had been his birthday; his forty-ninth. He’d stayed in Petersburg just long enough to celebrate it with Svetlana. Then he had been off to Moscow, feeling as though he were nothing like that old, and with a wealth of ideas for how to prove it – ideas and an enthusiasm that he wished he had possessed as a younger man. He’d landed a convenient posting – a place on a committee to organize the cavalry parades for His Majesty’s forthcoming coronation. It was the best he could hope for with his injury, but it meant he would be in Moscow. Just as his father had been drawn to the old capital, so now was he.
And, of course, back in 1825 there had been one other reason that Aleksei was so thrilled to return to Moscow – one of which, at the time, Dmitry had been totally unaware. If he had, back then, known of that reason – that person – he would have despised her perhaps more than he did her mother. Thankfully, Dmitry had changed. Aleksei had travelled to the old capital to visit his daughter, and now Dmitry would be able to visit his sister. In each case, it was the same individual: Tamara Valentinovna.
The year so far had been busy. The end of the war, though not yet formalized, allowed the passions of the soldier to be directed more towards his fellow woman than against his fellow man. For the most part, Tamara had managed to avoid being the object of that passion herself, but had still found her time fully occupied organizing the other girls, buying wine, vodka and food for the clients, stocking up on willow leaves as a prevention and pennyroyal as a cure. Over the whole year she had been at Degtyarny Lane, there had been only three suspected pregnancies. Most of the girls used a pessary soaked in vinegar in addition to the willow leaves. Some of them had their own methods, but where possible, Tamara ensured that those were additional to what she told them to use. She’d learned it herself from Vitya – a doctor naturally knew these things – when they’d decided that with three children their family was perfect and complete.
Of the three girls who had fallen pregnant, one had proved to have been imagining it, and one had been dealt with successfully using pennyroyal. The third had gone back to her family to bear the child, and had returned to work within two months, explaining that she had left the little boy in the care of her sister. Tamara hoped she could believe it.
It was only Raisa who made no specific efforts at all towards avoiding the risk that came with her profession. Tamara had asked her abo
ut it.
‘I can’t,’ Raisa said.
‘Can’t take willow leaf?’ Tamara replied.
‘Can’t have children.’
‘You’re sure?’
Raisa had nodded sadly. Tamara grasped her hand. ‘I became pregnant when I was very young,’ Raisa continued. ‘My father was horrified. He sent a woman to me. She removed the baby – and more besides.’ Raisa had looked up at Tamara and blinked, but no tears formed in her eyes. ‘It’s a blessing in this job,’ she concluded. Tamara couldn’t imagine anything more awful.
Today though, for the first time in many months, Tamara had managed to go back to the archives and continue her research. There was a specific reason for it – a note from Gribov telling her he had discovered something. It seemed he had taken pity on her, watching her plough through the reams of paper with little success, and had asked her who and what most interested her. She had drawn a blank on Aleksei, but her visit to Petersburg had brought up the name of Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov, so she’d asked Gribov if he could follow that up. Then, for want of any other names, she had mentioned to him Natalia Borisovna Papanova, the old woman who had first set Tamara down the path of investigating the original murder at Degtyarny Lane – the one in 1812.
It was a fine afternoon when Gribov met her beside the tapestry behind which the stairs to the archives descended. A little snow remained, scattered in a few patches around the Kremlin, but it seemed that spring was truly upon them. He picked up a lamp and led her down the steps, along the dark, low corridor and, once they had entered the library, to a table where several papers had been laid out.
‘You don’t come up with easy requests, Madame Komarova.’
‘You wouldn’t have it any other way,’ she teased.
‘I do enjoy a challenge,’ he said, allowing a rare hint of emotion to creep into his voice. ‘Let us deal first with Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov.’