The Third Section (Danilov Quintet 3)

by Jasper Kent

  ‘No,’ he said weakly, but she did not listen. She pushed him down on to the bed with a strength he could never have guessed she owned. One hand pressed down on his forehead and the other on his chest as her mouth returned to the still-fresh wound that she had created and began to drink once more.

  Still the music grew louder, as did the laughter, even though there was no chance now for it to escape her mouth. But it did not come from her mouth; it came from her mind. Dmitry felt her grip on him relax and tried to move, but he was too weak. He raised his hand just a few inches and looked down on it. It was pale and thin. He could not hold it there for more than a moment and was forced to let it drop.

  He saw Raisa’s face above him again. His blood was now spread over her cheeks and neck. She was panting – pleased with herself. It was only a respite. Her teeth went down on him once more and he felt her tearing at his flesh, turning now to that as his blood ran short.

  The music grew ever louder, though the sound of her laughter was gone, and Dmitry realized that he had no feeling in his limbs. It was as if he had no arms and no legs, and the sensation continued to work its way up his body until only his head existed, then only his face, then only his eyes.

  Then the music stopped.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THEY FOUND THE body beside the river, a little way out of town, downstream, two days after the coronation. He hadn’t been that difficult to identify – he was wearing the uniform of a cavalry major, and the word was already out that Major Dmitry Alekseevich Danilov had failed to report for duty on the morning of His Majesty’s great day. There was no clear idea of precisely when he had died, but the speculation was that it had occurred the night before the coronation. No one knew why Major Danilov might have wandered into a rough part of town, but there seemed little doubt that vagabonds had fallen upon him and had cut his throat – quite brutally, as reports were keen to point out.

  Tamara knew differently. Nadia had told her that Dmitry had called on Raisa, and that she had seen neither of them leave – a puzzle in itself. But both were gone. The reason for Dmitry’s absence was soon revealed, but of Raisa there had been no further sign. Until Tamara heard the news, she had suspected they might have eloped – hoped it at least. After she learned about the state of Dmitry’s body her first guess was that the one remaining vampire, Mihailov, must have come upon the two of them in Raisa’s room and slain them both. She had no doubt that before very long on some other riverbank or remote spot Raisa’s body would be found, and that the newspapers would linger with similar glee over the details of the wound to her neck – though few would be smart enough to make a connection with Dmitry.

  Then the letter had arrived.

  Yudin had made most of the arrangements for the funeral. It was to be in Petersburg, on Vasilievskiy Island. Then, on the evening before they were due to travel up, Yudin had announced to Tamara that he would not be attending the ceremony. He told her that he felt responsible for Dmitry’s death, and that he could not put Svetlana Nikitichna through the agony of seeing him and blaming him. It seemed more like a way to assuage his own conscience than to save Svetlana pain, but there was nothing Tamara could do about it.

  That morning, as she had been about to set out to catch the train, she had found the letter. It had been slipped under the door by an unknown messenger some time in the small hours. She picked it up, but did not have time to look at it until she was on the train to Petersburg. The text was not long.

  My dear Tamara Valentinovna,

  By the time you receive this, I shall be gone. Whether I shall be dead is a matter for fate to decide. And on this occasion, fate will take the form of our mutual friend, Raisa Styepanovna. I will not bore you with detailed explanations. Suffice it to say that I did not make it to Klin in time, and before I could reach Raisa, Tyeplov had converted her into a creature like himself. The fact that I was fully aware that such a transformation could only be enacted upon a willing supplicant made her actions all the more a betrayal. I was destroyed.

  And yet out of my misery came hope. I learned of her consumptive state, and her plan to defeat it by allowing, more than that, by asking Tyeplov to make her into a vampire. I also learned of her hope, so I choose to see it, that I too would follow her down that path. I suspect that I will. I shall call on her and ask her what it is she wants from me. If I am right, then we shall be together. If I am wrong, then who knows? I cannot ask you to pray that I am right, but I do ask that you will pray for God to guide me.

  You may ask why I should choose to reveal all this to you, an acquaintance whom I have known for less than a year, and who in that time I have met but rarely. As I think you guess, my dear Toma, I know your secret, even though you do not. I know who your parents are. I would dearly love to reveal it to you here and now, but it is not my decision to take and even if it were, I would not commit it to the same pages upon which I have revealed an intention which, I have no doubt, will make you despise me.

  Suffice it to say that, as you guessed, Domnikiia Semyonovna knows the truth, as does Papa. They will be returning soon, thanks to His Majesty’s pardon. Ask them to tell you. Let them know that I insisted they hold nothing back from you. But please, Toma, tell my father nothing of what has become of me. He would no more accept it than you do.

  To have at last met you has been one of the greatest joys of my life.

  Yours eternally,

  Dmitry Alekseevich Danilov

  It was a bizarre letter, from a man, Tamara deduced, with only a tenuous grip on his wits. But his message was clear, the first part of it at least. Raisa had become a voordalak. When Tamara had met her on her return to Degtyarny Lane, when she had said that Dmitry had saved her from Tyeplov, it had been a lie. Tyeplov had made her into one of his own. Tamara had seen no change in her, but what should she see? It was only by daylight that her altered nature would be revealed.

  But worse than that, she had tricked Dmitry. Where was the need for such cruelty? Perhaps that was the tell-tale sign of her new nature. But she could feed on anyone. Why pretend to him that she would make him like her? Dmitry was right; Tamara was revolted by the idea, and if she’d had the chance she would have screamed at him to be revolted too. But Raisa had not allowed Dmitry to live on by her side. She had waited until he had come willingly to her, and then devoured him. Did that make his blood taste all the sweeter, the fact that she’d played him for a fool in order to get it?

  The most generous light it could be seen in was that something had gone wrong – that Raisa had tried to make Dmitry like her, but had failed. Either way, Dmitry’s corpse, drained of blood, lying on the bank of the Moskva was ample proof that for him there was no life after death. Out there, somewhere, Raisa still roamed, still feasted upon the blood of the living, but for Dmitry there was nothing.

  But it was the second part of Dmitry’s letter that thrilled her. The knowledge he had of her parents. He had given her hope; hope that was more substantial than anything she had encountered on her long quest. The news of the pardon would have reached Siberia by now. Aleksei and Domnikiia might travel quickly or slowly, but they would come, Tamara felt sure of it. And when they did, they would know the truth. That had been Dmitry’s promise.

  The burial took place the day Tamara arrived in Petersburg. Dmitry’s coffin had travelled by the same modern means as Tamara – the railway – a few days before. It had been carried over to Vasilievskiy Island by another example of Russia’s surge into the nineteenth century, the Nikolaievsky Bridge. Konstantin had told her that his father had ordered it to be erected so far downstream so that the imperial family would not be able to see the endless funeral cortèges crossing it from the window of the Winter Palace. She thought he had been joking, but now was less sure.

  It was a reasonable turnout; a good military presence, a large contingent of Svetlana’s family, and even a few from Dmitry’s – cousins with whom, she discovered, he rarely communicated. A few months before she would have had so many questions for
them, but now there was little she did not know about the deaths in 1812 and 1825 and Aleksei’s involvement in them. She could have told his family that, despite his exile, he was a hero, but soon she would have the honour of telling Aleksei himself, face to face.

  Svetlana had been polite, almost effusive towards Tamara, considering how icy their last encounter had been. At least Tamara had bothered to come. There were few other representatives of Dmitry’s friends in Moscow.

  ‘Actual State Councillor Yudin asked me personally to send his apologies,’ Tamara said, by way of explanation. ‘He has so much to do with all the reforms His Majesty is putting into place.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ said Svetlana. ‘He organized all this; paid for it. It’s so like Vasiliy Denisovich to hide away from the occasion itself.’

  It was a simple mistake over the patronymic – Denisovich for Innokyentievich. Svetlana had clearly been thinking of another absentee: Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov. One had organized this funeral; the other managed the rental of her former home. And yet neither had made it here.

  The most surprising face Tamara saw was that of her brother, Rodion Valentinovich.

  ‘You knew Dmitry?’ she asked.

  ‘Very slightly. Years ago, when he was young and I was younger – before you were born. He used to visit with his parents. Mama insisted I come here. To honour Grandpapa. He and Aleksei Ivanovich were so close.’

  Rodion left soon after, saying he had to be back on duty. Tamara didn’t even have a chance to thank him for giving her the name of her nanny.

  She left Petersburg on the train the following morning. Konstantin was not in the city, but she would not have tried to contact him even if he had been. That could wait. For now there was only one thought on her mind: the return of the Decembrists.

  There was no music. There was no light. There was neither cold nor warmth, neither pain nor comfort, neither pleasure nor sorrow. The only sound was that of a sudden, laboured breathing; of lungs that had lain empty for days at last filling. The only knowledge was the understanding of the mind of another.

  The breathing was Dmitry’s own. This had been no gradual restoration to life, no transition from death to slumber and from slumber to wakefulness. His body’s need for air had arisen in the same instant as his mind’s awareness of it. The first few breaths were desperate and deep, accentuated by the emerging sense of enclosure. An early thought was that there was little air for him to breathe; a later one that he had little need for it.

  His next perception was Raisa’s mind. A human child might look forward to a decade and a half in which his parents would pass down the knowledge learned from their own parents, plus a little more that had been accumulated during their lives. They might even employ others to assist in the process. A voordalak could not risk such a slow transference of information so vital to survival; it was like a newborn foal that must learn to stand on its own feet within hours, or perish. Thus the mind of the parent vampire was shared with that of the child.

  Like him, Raisa was awake – newly awake as night had just fallen. She was in a dark place, as was he. She knew he was there. She was in a coffin. She hungered. The wood of the lid above her face meant that she could feel the warmth of her breath blowing back on her. Dmitry could feel the same. She pushed at it and it yielded. Dmitry pushed, but there was no movement. He tried again, but still his coffin remained a prison. He prepared for that awful sense of being trapped to come upon him – the claustrophobia he always felt when his sizeable frame could not stretch to its fullest. But the sensation did not come. Instead he felt … safe. He searched Raisa’s mind for help, back to the time when she had first awoken as a vampire, after Tyeplov had made her into one. In understanding her first moments of this new life – her rebirth – he hoped to better make sense of his own.

  Raisa was walking now, down a flight of stone steps and into a dark, low corridor. She offered no resistance to his mind, as she had done when last they had been together. Even that, she revealed to him, had been longer ago than he would have guessed. He had been dead for three weeks – buried for two. But his curiosity was directed towards the past, not the present. He searched her mind for the memory of her own rebirth.

  Weeks turned into months and months into years, and yet still he could not locate the moment of her resurrection. He quickly found the cemetery in Klin where he had seen her dead. She remembered waiting there, standing beside Tyeplov as they both watched. Then she had seen him – Dmitry – and they had moved swiftly. Tyeplov had bitten at her throat and she had cut his chest. Each had smeared the other’s blood across their mouths, steeling themselves against the repugnant taste of the blood of another vampire. Then Raisa had lain down on the grave, in desperate concentration to prevent her wounds from healing, waiting for Dmitry to arrive. She had heard noises, but could not make sense of them. It was only when Tyeplov had kicked at her prone body that she had opened her eyes and seen Dmitry unconscious beside her. She and Tyeplov had fled.

  She had been a voordalak even then. She had been a voordalak when Tyeplov and Mihailov had confronted her at the brothel, when she had first met Dmitry, when she had first met Tamara, when she had come to Degtyarny Lane.

  Years rolled back. 1848 – the cholera – the famine – the foreign revolutions. 1831 – the Polish uprising – a revolution against the Turks. 1826 – Nikolai’s coronation. Even 1825 and the Decembrist Revolt; she remembered it, though she had not been there. And soon before that deep in a cave – a chain around her neck – his father’s face! And then at last he found the moment: her sense of the new, her search for the mind of the one who had created her. Dmitry recognized him – Kyesha, the vampire he and his father had hunted in Moscow; the one who had transformed Raisa into a creature like himself.

  And then knowledge poured in. Everything had been intended to deceive him. It was no lie that she was a vampire, but not for a matter of mere months; her transformation had occurred thirty years before. Everything that had taken place between her and Dmitry had been to that one end: to persuade him to become like her – persuade him because he could not be forced; only the willing would receive that which they desired. And yet, the prime motivation had not been hers. It had come from a man who had watched even as Kyesha had drunk her blood and she his; a man she had known as Cain. But now he was no longer a man. He was a voordalak too. And his name was no longer Cain; it was Yudin.

  Dmitry had been deceived; tricked, seduced and exploited. Raisa had been the primary agent of it, but its cause and its motivation had been Yudin. His reasons were a closed book to Dmitry; Raisa did not know them, and Dmitry had no power to perceive what she could not. And yet he felt no sense of betrayal at any of it. He was not happy to be in his present state, but neither was he disturbed by it. It was what he was, and to reject it would be to reject himself. He knew with utter certainty that the Dmitry of before would have been sickened to know what had become of him, but that was not enough to make him care. The Dmitry of old was like a former friend; a friend who had been close, but for whom one little cared. If he despised the new Dmitry then it only demonstrated what a fool he had been.

  Raisa had now come to a wooden door. She had a key to it, which she hesitated to use. Her hunger overwhelmed her, but she knew how wonderful the cessation of that hunger would be. She did not want to rush into it. Dmitry felt the same hunger, but had none of the desire to delay its sating. He kicked hard at the wooden lid above him, again and again, and eventually it splintered. He revelled in his new-found strength, and began to beat against the wooden lid with his feet and knees. Soon it was a mess of shards. Some of the earth above fell into the coffin, but it did not matter. In moments he was digging his way through it, ever upwards to the surface, pushing earth aside like a mole, unconcerned as to the lasting integrity of his tunnel.

  At last he was breathing the cool night air. That it was cool was of no greater cheer to him than that it had been warm below – it merely gave him a greater sense of where he was, and
of where his prey was. The scent of human blood wafted to him on the breeze. It was everywhere – a hundred odours merged into a single melange. He knew that he must learn to distinguish them.

  In his hunger he had forgotten his exploration of Raisa’s mind, but now it forced itself upon him in a single image – one that was both surprising and familiar. That Raisa should have held in her memory the distant image of Dmitry’s father from years ago made some sense. They must have met. Dmitry felt confident that he would, on further reflection, understand it fully. But that his mother’s aged face should at this moment be in the forefront of Raisa’s mind was a matter of complete puzzlement.

  It was of little concern. Hunger was an issue of greater immediacy. Through the tangled mixture of scents, the blood of one now stood out. Dmitry could only determine that it was human; male or female, young or old, he could not tell. He felt sure that such discrimination would come to him with practice, but for now the scent only told him that the body which carried that blood was close. And he was oh, so hungry. He paused, listening for the sound of any music that his mind might generate to accompany the sensation, but none came. It was unnerving, but he would get used to it. Hunger was a more beguiling seductress than any music he could conjure.

  He scuttled across the graveyard, his nostrils leading him where they would.

  ‘Did you have to kill him?’

  Tamara remained on the stairway, fearful and ready to run. There was still some daylight up above, though whether it would be enough to protect her, Tamara could only guess. It was only a guess that Raisa could not throw herself across the room in the time it took for Tamara to climb but a few steps. Then there would be nothing to save her from the same fate that had already befallen Dmitry.