The Third Section (Danilov Quintet 3)

by Jasper Kent

  Ignatyev’s face froze as all integrity was lost from the flesh of his body – he did not even have time to adopt a look of surprise. Dmitry did not wait to watch the slow collapse of his remains, but pulled the stick straight back out of him and turned towards Tyeplov.

  ‘I told you that if I saw you again, I would kill you,’ said Dmitry. When he had said it, he hadn’t known for sure whether he meant it. Now there was no doubt. If Tyeplov had left well alone, then some of the friendship – some of the love – that Dmitry had held for him might have lingered. But to come here in pursuit of him, and then to try to use Raisa as a bargaining chip, was too much.

  ‘This isn’t about you, Mitka,’ Tyeplov replied.

  Dmitry gave a curt laugh. He knew he would be a fool to allow anything to distract him from what he must do, but still there was something deep inside that forced him to engage with this creature.

  ‘It never was,’ he said. ‘You’re using Raisa to get to me now, but you only wanted me so you could take revenge on a monster as foul as yourself.’

  ‘Are we so wrong to seek vengeance?’

  Dmitry laughed again. ‘“We”?’ he sneered, glancing from side to side to emphasize the point. ‘There’s no “we” any more, Tolya. Wieczorek’s long dead. And now so’s Ignatyev.’ Even as he spoke, Dmitry realized that there was one name unaccounted for. He paused, hoping that Tyeplov might volunteer the information, but the vampire remained silent, accepting what Dmitry had said. Dmitry was forced to ask the question directly. ‘What happened to Mihailov?’

  At the words Dmitry noticed the tiniest change in Tyeplov’s demeanour – imperceptible to anyone who knew him less well. ‘Mihailov?’ the voordalak asked.

  ‘That’s right. Is he dead, or has he simply abandoned you?’

  ‘Neither.’ The curl of a smile appeared on Tyeplov’s lips.

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘He’s …’ – the smile broadened and Tyeplov’s eyes moved from Dmitry’s face to over his shoulder – ‘behind you.’

  As Tyeplov spoke, Dmitry heard the sound of heavy footsteps snapping the shards of the broken door. He spun round, his sharpened cane outstretched, ready to kill again, but found himself facing only Isaak, finally arrived to do his job of protecting the ladies who worked in the house.

  At the same time the clatter of breaking glass and splintering wood assaulted Dmitry’s ears. He turned again, but Tyeplov had needed only a moment to flee, throwing himself out through the window and landing in the street below. It took Dmitry only two paces to reach the shattered frame and, just as he had done that awful night in Sevastopol, watch Tyeplov flee into the darkness.

  ‘Voordalaki!’

  Tamara laughed briefly, but it was an instinctive reaction – a defence against superstition. She saw a similar response in Raisa. The voordalak came from stories she’d heard as a child, heard from Yelena Vadimovna and Valentin Valentinovich, but neither had given her the slightest reason to think of them as real. They went with Grimm and Perrault and all those other tales that children loved to believe, but knew to be untrue.

  But she couldn’t deny what she had seen. She had cut through what she had thought to be human flesh and seen it heal before her eyes. She’d seen the same thing when Dmitry had slashed at the creature’s hand. Most convincing of all, she had seen the monster die, and watched its body crumble to nothing.

  She could not deny that what she had witnessed defied everything that rational understanding of the world insisted to be true. But it was still a step too far to go from that to voordalaki.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked. Both Dmitry and Raisa looked at her askance. They were sitting in her office, each, like her, clutching a glass of vodka that had already been refilled more than once. ‘I mean why that word? They weren’t human, I’ll grant you that, but we can’t jump to conclusions. I mean, I didn’t see them drinking anybody’s blood.’ Even as she spoke she wondered if the michman might have been lusting after her body in a way that was quite different from what she had imagined. She shuddered.

  ‘I’ve got good reason to say it. This wasn’t some chance encounter. Why do you think they were after Raisa?’

  Tamara hadn’t had a moment to consider it.

  ‘They wanted her so they could get to me,’ continued Dmitry. He rose and took a step towards Raisa, taking her hands in his. ‘And I’m so sorry, my darling, that I ever brought you into such danger.’ She said nothing – she was even more stunned than Tamara. Dmitry kissed her on the lips and she responded. He had the romantic streak of a man half his age.

  ‘Why you?’ asked Tamara.

  ‘Because of Father – my father.’ He paused. ‘You asked me, Toma, to tell you about Aleksei Ivanovich. I’ll tell you now. It began in 1812, when Bonaparte was marching on Moscow, and nothing seemed like it could stop him.’

  Dmitry then told a fantastical story, of how his father had recruited a group of vampires to help save Moscow from the French, and how, once the French had left, they’d turned on the Russians, and begun to feast on them. He told of how, one by one, the monsters had murdered Aleksei’s comrades. They were names Tamara knew well – Maksim Sergeivich, Dmitry Fetyukovich – names that her mother had often spoken while recalling the exploits of her grandfather.

  One thing Dmitry recounted would stay with Tamara for ever.

  ‘Your grandfather, Vadim Fyodorovich, was killed by a voordalak. They hung his body from a nail on the wall and left him to rot.’

  Tamara felt her stomach tighten, but Dmitry was right not to spare them any detail.

  ‘But Aleksei dealt with them all, in the end?’ asked Raisa when Dmitry had finished.

  ‘All of the twelve, but there were other vampires – there still are.’

  ‘And the woman who was murdered here in 1812 – Margarita Kirillovna – she was killed by a vampire too?’ asked Tamara.

  ‘Papa never mentioned it, but it would make sense – especially if it was he who found the body.’

  ‘The way she died would make sense too,’ said Tamara. Then she remembered that additional wound; not to Margarita’s neck, but to her chest. ‘I think your father may have attempted to save her soul.’

  Dmitry looked at her, but didn’t ask her to explain.

  ‘And you were how old then?’ asked Raisa. ‘Five?’

  Dmitry nodded. ‘Neither of you was even born.’

  ‘And then it happened again in 1825,’ said Tamara. ‘Five deaths then.’

  ‘There were far more in 1812 – they just went unrecorded,’ said Dmitry.

  ‘And in 1825 your father was witness to one of them – outside the Maly Theatre.’

  ‘I was a witness to that too.’ Both women looked up at Dmitry as he spoke. ‘Papa thought it best to keep my name out of it.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Tamara.

  ‘A voordalak named Kyesha. He came to find Papa – to lure him south. Papa followed – I presume he dealt with him.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ asked Raisa.

  ‘When he came back he didn’t have time to tell me much. The revolt put a stop to that. Do you remember nothing of it?’

  Tamara looked up, and saw that Dmitry was addressing her, though why she should remember it, she couldn’t guess.

  ‘Me?’ said Tamara. ‘I was in Moscow, certainly. But I was only four.’

  ‘But your connections with Aleksei …’

  ‘Grandpapa was long dead by then.’

  ‘No, I meant through … your nanny.’

  Dmitry seemed flustered. It mirrored Tamara’s own confusion. ‘Nanny?’

  He paused, looking at her thoughtfully, then spoke. ‘She and Aleksei – they … knew each other. Don’t you remember?’

  Tamara laughed. ‘I don’t even remember having a nanny. What was her name?’

  Dmitry paused again. ‘I … I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What about what happened tonight?’ asked Raisa. ‘Why have they come back?’
/>   ‘They found me in Sevastopol; the two we met tonight – Tyeplov and Ignatyev – but there were others too.’

  ‘What did they want of you?’ asked Raisa.

  ‘They wanted Aleksei’s son,’ said Tamara. It was guesswork, but it made sense. ‘They wanted vengeance, even on the next generation.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Dmitry, ‘but not for that reason. They wanted revenge, but not on me, on a man called Cain. They said Aleksei had helped them defeat him once – when Kyesha had led him to the Crimea.’

  ‘You believed them?’ asked Raisa.

  ‘Perhaps I did then, but not now. Papa knew right from wrong.’

  ‘So you refused them?’ asked Tamara.

  Dmitry nodded. ‘I killed one of them.’

  ‘But they didn’t kill you.’

  ‘What good would it do them?’

  ‘It’d fill their bellies,’ said Tamara, surprised how quickly she had grown to despise these creatures.

  ‘There was plenty for them to eat in Sevastopol,’ said Dmitry.

  ‘So why have they come here?’ asked Tamara. ‘What did they want with Raisa?’

  ‘I can only guess it was to get at me through her – either they were making one last attempt to get me to help them, or they finally decided they wanted me dead.’

  Before Tamara could say anything, Raisa spoke up with a sudden firmness. ‘That’s right. That’s what they were saying. And they don’t want your help – not any more. They’re just after revenge.’

  ‘Really?’ Dmitry sounded sad. ‘Even Tyeplov?’

  ‘Especially Tyeplov.’

  ‘There’s only him left,’ observed Tamara.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Dmitry. ‘But there was one more of them in Sevastopol – Mihailov. God knows where he is.’

  ‘Did they say anything?’ Tamara addressed her question to Raisa, who shook her head. ‘So what now?’ Tamara continued. ‘Will they come for Raisa again? Or you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Now that Ignatyev is dead, Tyeplov may give up.’

  ‘He didn’t seem the type,’ said Raisa.

  ‘We’ll worry about it tomorrow,’ announced Dmitry. ‘Is it all right if I stay here tonight?’

  There was a pause and Tamara looked up to realize that Dmitry was addressing her. Although it was Raisa’s bed that he would be sleeping in, it was, in some sense at least, Tamara’s house. She glanced at Raisa, but saw no hint of objection from her. ‘Of course,’ said Tamara. ‘I’ll check the room.’

  She left Raisa and Dmitry together and went back upstairs, back to the room in which it had all happened. Isaak was just finishing off his makeshift repairs; planks across the shattered window frame. It wasn’t a great job, but at this time of year the wind did not blow too coldly, and with the curtains closed it would be difficult to tell the difference. Isaak himself had seen nothing other than Tyeplov’s hurried exit – nothing that required a supernatural explanation. The pile of men’s clothes on the floor, marking all that remained of Ignatyev, was not an incongruous sight in a house such as theirs.

  Tamara went back downstairs and told Raisa and Dmitry that the room was ready for them. Those few clients who had called that night were long gone now – and they’d admitted no newcomers after the events in Raisa’s room. All was quiet. Tamara poured herself another vodka and lit a cigarette. She knew she would not sleep. Her mind spun. She had solved them – the murders from 1812 and 1825. And it even seemed clear that one of these monsters had killed Irina Karlovna – either Tyeplov or Ignatyev or one of the others. They had come here before and … Tamara could not bring herself to think of it. It was what would have happened to Raisa if she had not intervened; what would have happened to Tamara herself if Dmitry had not saved them both. There were still questions to be answered, but the main problem had been solved. It was not a matter of who had killed Irina Karlovna, but what. And the answer to that question was a voordalak. The very idea was more than she could cope with. To even concede that such creatures might exist went against every rational instinct she possessed. The idea that they might directly threaten her and those around her was beyond terror.

  And despite the horror that she felt at the concept, and at the knowledge that Tyeplov and maybe another were still out there, she felt disappointed, as though her quest were over. But her discoveries that evening did not simply relate to the undead. Dmitry had given her one vital piece of information that might help with that other quest; the search for her parents. In 1825, when she was four, she had had a nanny. She searched her dim, early memories, but could find no trace of the woman. Her parents – the Lavrovs – had certainly never mentioned any such person.

  Then a terrible thought struck her. She did have memories of a woman who had looked after her when about that age, who had loved her and cared for her. But she’d always taken it that those recollections were of her mother. Was it possible that all along they had been images of some nanny who had left the Lavrovs’ employ when Tamara was but a tiny child? Could the whole foundation of Tamara’s understanding of her place in the world be based on so trivial a mistake?

  Tamara shook her head. There was more evidence than her own remembrances. There was the money from Volkonsky, and his letters that she had read in the archive in Petersburg, and a host of other clues. Perhaps in Tamara’s mind there had been some confusion over the images of her nanny and her mother, but she had no doubt that both existed. And though the trail might have gone cold on her parents, there was still hope of finding the nanny. And if Tamara could find that woman – if she was still alive – perhaps she would be able to unlock the secrets of Tamara’s childhood.

  CHAPTER XIX

  WHEN DMITRY AWOKE, Raisa was gone. She had left a note, but it didn’t say much – just that she had things to do. It was daylight now, so she wasn’t in danger; he’d explained all that to her. As they’d lain beside each other, he’d asked her to recount everything that Tyeplov and Ignatyev had said. It fitted completely with his suspicions. Their plan had been to get her out of the building and away to wherever it was in the city they were holed up. Thence they could summon Dmitry and once he came – and they knew, as he did, that he would have gladly thrown away his life to save her – both he and Raisa would die.

  He was genuinely surprised that they had followed him to Moscow – surprised too that they should tell Raisa the same story they had told him: that they wanted his help in taking vengeance upon Cain. Perhaps it was true. If their desire was merely to feast, then they would have done far better staying in the south. Clearly they had some particular need to pursue Dmitry across the country, and all of his encounters with them demonstrated that their motivation was not a desire to taste his blood. There was a certain nobility to it which went beyond the simple carnal lusts which Dmitry had once imagined to be all that drove the voordalak. To seek revenge required a sense of being wronged, and that required an understanding of right and wrong. And could it be true what they said, that in 1825 Dmitry’s father had been forced to make a choice, not between right and wrong, but between the lesser of two evils, and had chosen to help Tyeplov and the others to escape Cain?

  But it was too late for that. If Tyeplov had come to Moscow and again begged Dmitry’s aid, it might have worked. But they had threatened Raisa, and Tamara too, though they as little realized Dmitry’s relationship to her as she did herself. That would, to some degree, keep her safe. She had stumbled on the scene in Raisa’s room, but there was no reason that the voordalaki would come after her. Raisa was the connection to Dmitry and so it was she they would pursue, once night fell; she that Dmitry must protect. He could not do it alone, but he knew the one man in Moscow who might be able to help him – if anyone could.

  And yet what if they did learn that Tamara was Dmitry’s sister? The full horror of it suddenly hit him. It wouldn’t be a question of them using her to get to him. That she was his sister was linked inescapably to the fact that she was Aleksei’s daughter – the daughter of the three-fingered man. H
owever Dmitry might have helped with their plan of revenge, might they not think that she could also? And if she refused to help – as Dmitry could not doubt she would – what more use would they have for her?

  Dmitry sat bolt upright, remembering his conversation with Tamara and Raisa the previous night. He had told Tamara about Domnikiia, or at least told her that she had a nanny – he had never mentioned his father’s mistress’s name. He had been a fool to do it, but it had been so tempting to utter even the mildest suggestion of the relationship between them; like the thrill of mentioning a lover’s name in conversation with mutual friends who know nothing of the truth.

  She would go to her adoptive parents, the Lavrovs, and ask them, and then the truth might be revealed. And once Tamara’s parentage was out in the open, how long would it take for Tyeplov to discover it? Dmitry hadn’t seen the Lavrovs for many years, but he knew that his father had sworn them to secrecy over this. Now he must go and stand in the place of his father and tell them again, warn them that however much Tamara might plead with them, they should tell her nothing.

  But first he would ensure Raisa’s safety.

  He began to dress.

  * * *

  Dmitry tumbled down the stairs to Yudin’s office, ignoring the now slight pain in his right ankle each time it hit one of the steps. He stood still at the bottom, breathing heavily. Yudin looked up from his paperwork.

  ‘Mitka, what an unexpected pleasure. Shall I ask Gribov to bring us some tea?’

  Dmitry raised a hand to turn down the offer. Instead he slumped into the seat opposite his old friend.

  ‘Perhaps something stronger?’ suggested Yudin.

  ‘All right.’ They would both need a drink after what Dmitry had to tell him. Yudin walked over to the cabinet and poured a glass of brandy, bringing it over. He had nothing himself. When he had sat down again, Dmitry began to speak.