by Jasper Kent
Tamara climbed the ladder and went back up the hidden stairs to Raisa’s room, and then back down the main stairs to the salon to see Nadia about to knock on the door of her office.
‘I’m here,’ said Tamara.
Nadia turned. ‘This was just delivered for you.’ She held out a letter.
Tamara took it. ‘Who by?’ she asked, as she broke the wax seal.
‘Just a messenger boy.’
Tamara read.
My dear Madame Komarova,
I am informed by my agents that Raisa Styepanovna is heading for the railway station with the apparent intent of catching a train to the capital. I trust this information is of interest to you.
Titular Councillor Gribov
Tamara walked briskly over to her office. She returned a moment later having acquired two items: a pistol hidden in her bag and a cane held in her hand. The cane’s tip was covered, but beneath it was still sharp enough for its purpose. It might have been Yudin, as part of his intricate deception of Dmitry, who had suggested using that combination of weapons against a voordalak, but it did not mean that they would be any less effective.
Outside the house, she turned right and headed towards Tverskaya Street. It was away from the station, but was the nearest place that she would be able to hail a carriage.
She hadn’t gone more than three paces when she felt a hand tugging at her sleeve. As she turned, she heard her name being called. ‘Toma!’
It was the old woman, Natalia Borisovna – or at least that was the name she had used when they had last met, at almost the same spot over a year before. Natalia Borisovna’s own son’s testimony, that she was long dead, had proved that this woman was not who she claimed. But could Tamara be sure of that – or of anything? Yudin had spun an impenetrable web of deceit around Dmitry – might he be doing the same with her? Had that really been Natalia’s son she had spoken to? Or perhaps all was true. Perhaps Natalia had died and this was her, risen from the grave? Bizarre though it was, it could prove the most plausible explanation.
But it was Raisa, not Natalia, who was Tamara’s primary concern. ‘Go to Hell!’ she spat, and continued on her way through the darkness. As she walked down Degtyarny Lane, towards Tverskaya Street, she heard the old woman’s shuffling footsteps, desperate to keep up with Tamara’s longer, younger stride.
‘I must speak to you,’ the old woman called out.
This time Tamara didn’t even turn. ‘I’ve no time,’ she shouted. She turned on to Tverskaya Street and saw a coach. She stopped and raised her hand.
Almost immediately the woman caught up with her. ‘Toma,’ she repeated, ‘I have to tell you.’
Tamara turned, at the same time plucking the protective cover from the end of her cane and pointing the sharpened tip towards the woman’s chest. ‘I’ve no idea who you are, but I’ve got a pretty good idea what you are, so you’ll be wise to be afraid of this.’
The woman was bewildered. She certainly had none of the arrogant self-confidence that Tamara had seen in Tyeplov and Ignatyev and even at times in Raisa. Perhaps she was mistaken, but still she had no time to consider. The coach pulled up and she climbed aboard.
The woman grabbed at her. ‘Toma!’ she cried. Tamara pushed her off, not strongly, but the old woman fell down. Tamara felt a pang of sorrow, but she knew she must not yield to it. She gave a brief, firm instruction to the driver.
‘The station – quickly.’
The coach began to move off. Tamara looked back and saw with some relief that the old woman was back on her feet. She raised her hand to her mouth to shout and at the words, Tamara froze. ‘Your father sent me to warn you!’
Tamara almost told the driver to turn back, but she would be a fool to do so. She was being manipulated, just as Dmitry had been. She had to catch up with Raisa, had to stop her, had to punish her for what she had done to Dmitry. Thinking of it, as she sat in the coach, rattling through the Moscow streets, it sounded foolhardy, but who else was there to do it? Perhaps one day she would have to kill Dmitry too, but that would be an act of mercy, not vengeance. And what of Yudin? She did not know. All that could wait. First she must deal with Raisa – or try to. If Raisa were the victor then at least Tamara would die doing something good. Luka might never hear of it, but he would have a mother that he could be proud of.
She felt a pain in her stomach again and something rising in her gullet. She thought she was going to be sick, but it was only wind. She breathed deeply. Here inside the carriage she was safe and comfortable, if only for a few minutes. She had to ready herself. Even so, she had no idea what she was actually going to do. She could not stab Raisa in the middle of the station. Or could she? There would be no body left behind, she had seen that with Ignatyev. All she needed was to find some quiet corner where no one was looking and it would be as if Raisa had never existed. If such an opportunity did not arise, Tamara could wait. She had time on her side; in around eight hours it would be dawn.
Now the station was in sight, its clock tower, topped by the Russian flag, rising above Komsomolskaya Square. The coach stopped and she paid the driver, then rushed into the station. There was only one train waiting – a mixture of freight and passenger wagons. Winter was now close enough to merit boxcars for the third-class passengers instead of open, flat trucks. Tamara walked along the train, peering through the unglazed windows, but saw no sign of her quarry. Now she was passing the second-class coaches, and the windows had glass. A flash of blonde hair was all that was needed for her to spot Raisa, her head turned away, looking out of the far side of the carriage.
Tamara doubled back and climbed on to the metal platform at the end of that carriage, standing next to the conductor. She didn’t go in yet – she didn’t want Raisa to see her and have the chance to get off. Things would be much easier once the train was moving.
‘Would you like to take your seat, madam?’ the young man asked.
‘When we get going. I just want to be able to wave goodbye.’
The conductor shrugged, but didn’t object. Tamara kept glancing into the carriage, but Raisa was still there, and had not caught sight of her. At last the whistle blew. The conductor released the brake and the train began to roll out of the station. In keeping with her story, Tamara waved towards the people who were left standing on the platform, perhaps surprising one or two who had never realized that they knew her. Finally, when they were clear of the station buildings and on open track, she went inside.
Raisa had her back to her, and that really wouldn’t do. Now that they were moving, it would be better if Raisa understood the danger she was in. Tamara walked to the front end of the coach, where there was a spare seat three rows along from Raisa. She took it and fixed her gaze on the vampire.
It was about two minutes before Raisa turned away from the window and saw her. There was no indication of shock or surprise, or even acknowledgement. There were tears in her eyes, but they had been there before she had noticed Tamara. Tamara suppressed the pity she felt at the sight. It was a human reaction to a human emotion, but she knew that whatever soul might lie within Raisa, it had long ago forgotten what humanity meant. Whatever tears she might shed now were nothing compared with what was to come. If she got off the train then Tamara would follow her and drive the wooden cane into her heart. If she remained on board then eventually the light of dawn would shine through that window and destroy her. Tamara had only to wait, but in doing so she still watched, her eyes fixed on Raisa, reminding her that there was no escape.
Raisa turned her face back to the window; as for so many of the passengers who looked out into the darkness of the night, there was nothing for her to see. At least for those others, their own reflection would be something to entertain them. In the window beside Raisa – though no one in the carriage seemed to notice it – there was reflected only an empty seat.
* * *
Dmitry was learning. It was not the taste of blood that was so wonderful, though that was pleasant. Neither was it the satia
tion of hunger, though that was necessary. Both of those would be reason enough to justify the depleted corpse that lay on the couch beside him, but they were not where the real joy of it lay.
He tried to pinpoint the moment, but realized that in fact there were several, each a little more pleasurable than the last. It had begun with the explanation that he had promised to Milan Romanovich.
‘Milan, do you know what a voordalak is?’
His friend had laughed, and Dmitry was reminded of the laughter of Tamara and Raisa when he had first introduced the subject to them. Then there had been an equal deception, but the roles had been reversed. Then he as a human had been describing to Raisa what she already was. Now it was he as a vampire who was revealing his own nature to an innocent victim.
‘Don’t be an idiot, Dmitry. I’m sure you’ve caught out a few of your friends like that, but I think you’ll find I’m not quite so gullible.’
Dmitry smiled. ‘What would convince you?’
‘A little more than your word.’
Dmitry let his lips open slightly to reveal his teeth. In honesty, they weren’t much; only a little longer than they had been in life, though far sharper. It was the hugely increased strength of his jaw that made the real difference. Even so, he detected a slight pause – a moment of doubt and hence a little fear – before Milan spoke. That was the first moment of pleasure.
‘And I think you’re going to have to do better than that too. What are they – wooden? You could at least have made them look like fangs.’
Milan had taken a step closer to look, and it gave Dmitry an easy opportunity to swing at him with the back of his hand. It was not enough to knock him unconscious, though it might well have been – Dmitry was still poor at estimating his new-found strength. It threw him back on to the couch and Dmitry had seen the wounded look in his eyes – that was the second moment of pleasure. And then the look of surprised offence had been displaced by one of fear – a connecting of Dmitry’s suggestion that he was a vampire with the unnecessary violence of the blow. That was the third.
And then Dmitry had been unable to resist. He had fallen on Milan, holding him down easily without having to exert his full strength. Milan had screamed as Dmitry’s teeth penetrated his neck, but Dmitry had quickly moved a hand over his mouth to stifle it. He had drunk only a little at first, enough to weaken Milan; enough to make him understand. There was some pleasure in it, but it was a cruel trick that nature played on the voordalak – to arrange things so that the primary mechanism of attack was one which also prevented a clear view of the victim’s face. How was Dmitry meant to know the pain he was inflicting if he could not see it written in Milan’s agonized grimace and in the expression of betrayal in his eyes?
Dmitry had taken a moment to pause – to pull away and look at Milan and enjoy what he saw. He doubted whether he was the first voordalak to understand that this was the true source of contentment, but not all would come to discover it. Yudin, he felt, surely had. What of Raisa? He tried to sense her mind, but found only confusion. It did not matter – Dmitry was quite able to enjoy this moment on his own.
Milan tried to speak, but the damage that Dmitry had already done to his voice box made it impossible. He could only guess that it was a request for some explanation, some understanding of why Dmitry had chosen to come to him. Even though the answer was simple – it had been a matter of Dmitry’s convenience – the lack of knowing would increase his suffering. People liked stories – even the stories of their own short existence – to have endings, be they sad or happy, Dmitry remembered that much. It would be far better – for Dmitry – if Milan were to die still pondering the unanswered question: why me?
But die he would. Dmitry took one last look at the man’s terrified face and then returned to his repast. He ate a little of the flesh around the man’s throat, but mostly drank. The flesh was interesting, but it had none of the immediate appeal of blood. Dmitry suspected it might be an acquired taste. He had many years before him to acquire it. He did not notice the exact moment of death. Milan had fallen into unconsciousness some time before, and so the real fun had ended. When the blood began to taste sour, he knew that life had passed. He pulled away. The blood of the dead soon became repellent; he had learned that on his first night as a vampire. Old and young, male and female, each had their own qualities, but blood that lay stagnant, unquickened by a human heart, was like dishwater. He had sat back and gazed at Milan’s body.
That must have been over an hour ago. It was a habit that Dmitry had got into, to contemplate his victims as their flesh first began its decay into nothingness. Perhaps he would grow out of it; perhaps not. Time would tell. It was a fascinating sight. Milan’s flesh was pale – waxy. The blood around his throat was dry now, but still showed, both on his skin and on his shirt. The expression on his face was relaxed; his eyes were closed as if in sleep. That was a shame, a consequence of his becoming unconscious before dying. If Dmitry could learn to kill more quickly, then he would be able to see his victim’s terror preserved on the face until nature ensured that no face remained.
A knock at the door disturbed his contemplation. It was late – past midnight – but perhaps Milan had been expecting someone. He stood and went down the stairs to the door. The knock came again.
‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘Katyusha, of course.’ A female voice – young.
‘Hang on!’
Dmitry looked around him. There was a mirror on the wall near to the door. He went over to it to check his face for stains of Milan’s blood, but realized at once the futility of it. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, looking for traces of blood. Then he opened the door and peered round.
‘Oh,’ said the girl, surprised. ‘I was here to see Milan.’ She was young, certainly not twenty, and not dressed as though she was rich. She did not look like a whore, but it was no stretch of the imagination to guess why she had come here at this time of night. As far as Dmitry could guess, she was pretty; he certainly would have thought so before. It did not matter; looking at the girl now he found her attractive in much more compelling ways. And her revulsion at discovering what had become of her lover would only add to the pleasure Dmitry would take from her.
‘He’s here,’ said Dmitry, his voice, he hoped, open and friendly. ‘He’s upstairs, waiting for you.’
Katyusha ascended. Dmitry closed the door and followed her.
The first stop had been Khimki, but Raisa had not moved from her seat. Neither had Tamara. She had remained where she was, watching. Someone, however, had got on.
It was the old woman – Natalia Borisovna, for want of a better name. She must have followed Tamara to the station and made it on to the train, but not the correct carriage. Khimki would have been her first opportunity to move up. There were no seats near Tamara and Natalia did not attempt to join her. Instead she sat at the far end of the carriage, staring at Tamara in much the same way Tamara looked at Raisa, though without the expression of hatred that Tamara knew was displayed on her own face.
The train pulled out of the station and continued on its slow journey to Petersburg. It began to shake, giving the impression of gathering speed, but Tamara knew it would never go very fast. She recalled her previous journeys on the route – all but one had been on the fast passenger train. The last trip had been to Dmitry’s funeral and back. Before then, it had been with Konstantin on the imperial train. She allowed herself a slight smile. That would not have been nearly so much fun going at this speed. She had not heard from him since, though she felt sure he would write. But that was for the future, and today it was of little interest. After she had dealt with Raisa then she could deal with the future. She felt pain in her stomach again, like indigestion. There was one matter for the very near future that did count – Aleksei Ivanovich would soon be back in Moscow. She had not heard of him directly, but there was already gossip that another Decembrist exile, Prince Sergei Grigorovich Volkonsky, would be home within days. And he h
ad settled in Siberia in the town of Irkutsk – the same place as Aleksei and Domnikiia.
Tamara was awakened from her thoughts by a disturbance further down the carriage. The conductor was standing, raising his voice to one of the passengers. Tamara craned her neck and saw that it was Natalia. She stood up, curious, and walked towards them.
‘No money, no ticket,’ said the conductor. ‘No ticket, and you’re off at the next station.’
‘Please,’ replied Natalia. ‘I have to stay on board.’
She looked at Tamara as she spoke, as if her being on the train were Tamara’s fault, which in some sense it was. She was following Tamara and Tamara had got on the train. For Tamara, even if she’d had no money, her official papers would have seen to it that the matter was ignored. Natalia did not share that privilege. Tamara did not like the idea of the old woman being dumped on the platform of a third-category station in the middle of the night. Besides, she still wanted to talk to her about Dmitry.
‘I’ll pay for her,’ she said.
The conductor looked her up and down. With anybody else, certainly any other woman, he might have refused to accept the money, but he’d seen Tamara’s passport, and knew the authority that she had behind her. ‘Where to?’ he asked Natalia.
Natalia could not answer. Instead she looked at Tamara. A smile almost passed between them as Tamara understood that since she was following Tamara it would be Tamara who knew how far they were going. But in truth Tamara didn’t know. That question could be answered only by Raisa.
‘Petersburg,’ said Tamara, knowing they could go no further than the end of the line. The conductor took her six roubles and issued Natalia with a red, second-class ticket, then moved on his way. Natalia and Tamara remained looking at each other. Tamara wondered if she should sit down now and talk. It seemed wise. There was nothing she could do while Raisa merely gazed at the window. She turned and prepared to sit, glancing over towards Raisa as she did.