Authors: Jasper Kent
‘Murder is murder,’ said Tamara, ‘however long ago it happened.’ She glanced over at Raisa as she spoke and then unaccountably laughed. Dmitry turned back to Raisa and saw why. A large blob of whipped cream adorned the tip of her nose. Dmitry tried not to laugh but smiled broadly as Raisa looked from one to the other, unaware of the cause of their amusement. Tamara rubbed her nose to mimic how Raisa should remove the unwanted item, but still she didn’t catch on. Eventually, Dmitry picked up his napkin and leaned over towards her to wipe the cream away. He was almost touching her face when she took the napkin from him. He felt her fingers briefly come into contact with his.
‘Dmitry Alekseevich,’ she said jokingly, smiling into his eyes, ‘you presume too much.’ She began to clean the cream away for herself, but her voice and her eyes had suggested to Dmitry that there might be far more he could presume, given the chance.
They left soon after. Dmitry paid for the meal and outside hailed a sled and saw them on their way. Moments later he too was snuggled under the furs in the back of a sleigh and was heading for his hotel. He smiled to himself, feeling happier than he had for many years. Raisa’s flirtation was pleasant, if meaningless, but it was nothing to do with how he felt. That was down to something quite different.
Tamara had no idea. Neither had he until that evening. It should have been obvious, but his father was a clever liar. And when both he and Domnikiia had gone to Siberia and left Tamara in Moscow, they had put everyone off the scent, including Tamara herself, the poor little girl. He laughed. Not a girl any more. It was her face that had given it away. He was surprised no one else had noticed, but who knew Aleksei’s face better than he did? He even remembered Domnikiia’s, just as he had last seen it, on a cold winter’s evening much like this, outside the Lavrovs’ house, as little Tamara waited inside.
Tamara’s nose was Domnikiia’s; her jaw Aleksei’s. It was strong for a woman, but it suited her. The Lavrovs must know, of course,
and
they would probably see it in her, even while they raised her as their own. But Tamara had never been their natural child. Her mother had been the woman who had posed merely as her nanny – Domnikiia Semyonovna. Once that fact was established, then, even without other evidence, her father became obvious: Domnikiia’s lover, Aleksei Ivanovich. They had taken their secret with them into exile, and not even told their daughter. Nor had Aleksei told his son, and Dmitry could well understand why. At the time, Dmitry, with a priggishness that can only be found in the young, had been outraged at his father’s betrayal of his wife, Dmitry’s mother, Marfa. To reveal that there was a child would have been foolhardy. But now Marfa was dead and Aleksei was as good as, and until today Dmitry had believed that with regard to family he was alone in the world.
But now that had changed. Dmitry smiled even more broadly and wrapped himself tighter in the furs, relishing the concept. He even said it out loud, though not so as the driver would be able to hear him. The words sounded wondrous on his lips.
‘She’s my sister.’
IT WAS THE
most wonderful night of the year, at least to Yudin’s mind; the winter solstice – the longest night. The night he felt most free. If vampires were not such solitary creatures, then today they would throw a party; they would join their brethren on city streets across the world – across the northern hemisphere – and feast on the living, secure in the knowledge that dawn was as far distant as it could ever be. The humans celebrated their festivals, be they pagan or Christian, a few days later, when they first noticed that the days were getting longer and the sun was beginning to rise from its nadir. In Russia, where the misunderstanding of priests was favoured over the calculation of scientists, Christmas followed the solstice by an even greater gap, but no amount of prayer could change the path of the Earth around the Sun and so the shortest day fell, as Yudin could easily predict, just when it should.
It was a little after four in the afternoon now, and the sky was dark. It would not be light again until past eight the following morning. And Dmitry was in Petersburg, so Yudin had no immediate concern about appearing too young to his friend. Tonight he deserved to indulge himself. Tonight was Yudin’s Christmas.
He had only just left the Kremlin. He wore a coat and hat, not for warmth – simply to fit in. In his hand he grasped a small black-leather case, in which he carried a selection of instruments that might bring greater enjoyment to the evening. Red Square was full of people, some up to their knees in the snow, but still happy to be in Moscow in the heart of winter. The lamps had been lit so that all could see where they were going as they travelled home
from
work, or out to visit the shops, or to take tea with friends. Yudin looked to the south and saw Saint Vasiliy’s, and before it the Lobnoye Mesto. That was where one of those deaths had occurred in 1825. Yudin could not guess what had happened back then, but he had no doubt that a
voordalak
had been involved, and so too had Aleksei.
It would be tempting to re-create that night’s events, but also foolish. It would quieten down here later, but so close to where he worked there was always the chance that someone glimpsing his face would begin a trail of discovery that would eventually unveil the truth about him. He had been cautious for almost thirty years, and was not going to be stupid now.
He turned left and passed under the Resurrection Gate, glancing up, but not pausing, to note the mosaic of George slaying the dragon that had been cemented above the archway. Everywhere, there were reminders for Zmyeevich, should he choose to return.
He made for the station – a good place for anyone in search of the innocent and naive. It was where Raisa had found a new girl to replace Irina Karlovna at the brothel, fresh off the train from Petersburg and looking to start a new life. It served also as a reminder of England; not the station itself – Yudin had left the country of his birth long before Stephenson had come up with his first locomotive. It was the Russian word for it –
vokzal
– not too dissimilar from ‘Vauxhall’ in south London, an easy ride from his family home in Surrey. Some said there was a connection between the two words. The story relied, as so often, on the assumed stupidity of Tsar Nikolai. He had been in London in the 1840s and seen Vauxhall railway station and – ignorant buffoon that he was renowned to be – assumed that the word meant ‘railway station’. And none of his entourage was brave enough to contradict him. In truth, Nikolai was a long way from being a buffoon, but there were always those, even within Yudin’s own department, who liked to portray him as such.
They should read their Pushkin. ‘At fêtes and in
vokzals
, I’ve been flitting like a gentle Zephyrus.’ He wrote that in 1813 and meant by it a sort of public park. And there was one such park at Tsarskoye Selo, which was the destination of Russia’s first ever railway, back in the 1830s. Hence the name. But Yudin
remembered
the beautiful public gardens in Vauxhall that he’d visited as a boy, so maybe there was a connection. He smiled to himself. He remembered them as being beautiful – he did not remember them and judge them as beautiful; he was no longer capable of that.
It was then that he saw them – the ideal victims: a man and a woman walking through the snow, and between them, clasping each of their hands, a child, certainly no more than ten years old. The child was so well wrapped up that he couldn’t guess its sex, but that did not matter – it would not be the focus of events. It was the emotions that would be roused in its parents on seeing it suffer as Yudin slowly fed upon it that would most thrill him; would make their blood all the richer when he got to them, the woman first, and then the man. He smiled to himself – that was fanciful. Their blood would not be transformed in any way by their terror, but Yudin’s appreciation of it would be.
From their dress and the district they were travelling through, Yudin guessed they were not poor. That could mean they had servants – easy enough to deal with. He followed at a safe distance and within a few minutes the family arrived at their house. They went inside. Yudin saw no sign of anyone receiving them at the door, but that was not enough to be certain. Even if there were no staff, there could be other family members in there. But there was a long night ahead and Yudin could afford to wait and watch. He glanced up and down the street, but there was no suitable place to hide. His mind stepped back to 1812 when, though he had not then been a vampire, he had stalked men through these same city streets. Back then, with Moscow deserted, it had been easy to simply hide in a doorway and wait, but today anyone passing would think it suspicious. The best thing to do was to patrol.
He walked down the street, turning right at the end, circling his prey, looking for any other entrance through which he might get at them or by which they might escape. There was nothing; the block was a single edifice of houses, built side by side and back to back. He would enter through the front door, and they would be trapped. He imagined them, sitting happily now beside a warming fire, and then later cowering, pleading. What would they offer him to spare their child? What would he take? How
long
would he let them believe that he had shown compassion before they witnessed its little body being desecrated and destroyed? He had the whole long night.
Within minutes he was at the front of the house again, eager now to get in there, to begin turning his imaginings into reality. But he was not so overwhelmed by his desires to forget to take one final circumspect glance up and down the street. It was then that he realized he was not the only hunter abroad in Moscow that night. On the corner at the end of the block stood a figure. It was too far to make out the face, but he was tall and his stature was recognizable enough for Yudin to remember seeing him before, at the other end of this same street and earlier in the evening as well. He couldn’t be sure, but he could soon find out.
He turned and went back the way he had come till he reached the next junction. Now he was at the opposite corner of the block from where he had last seen the figure. He crossed so as to get a better view of both streets, along one of which he expected to see that same man approaching. He did not have to wait. The figure came into view and then instantly stepped back, catching sight of Yudin.
Now Yudin began to walk swiftly, but not too swiftly – he did not want to lose the man completely. As prey he needed somewhere crowded, just as when he had been predator he had sought isolation. He turned south-west and headed back towards Lubyanka Square. As he walked, he listened, but the snow dampened the sound of any footsteps. Even so, he felt confident his pursuer would not have given up.
Despite the snow and the darkness, there was a cheerful mood to the crowds of people who crossed the square from all directions. A number of stalls selling food and drinks were doing a reasonable trade. Yudin made a sharp sidestep behind one of them and waited. It was not long before a tall figure walked past that could only be the man who had been following him. It would be easy to lose him now and resume his planned activities for the evening, but Yudin was not so short-sighted. If this man – or whatever manner of creature it might be – had found him tonight, he could find him again. And even tonight, he might not be alone. Yudin needed to discover more.
Moments later, the figure walked past the gap between the two stalls, his long legs moving him swiftly forward and his head scanning from side to side in search of Yudin. There was no chance to see his face. Yudin stepped back out into the square and watched his pursuer walk on a little further and then stop opposite a stand selling
pelmeni
. Yudin ducked away again and ran along behind the little wooden stalls, counting them off as he passed. The one belonging to the
pelmeni
vendor had no back to it, but was hung with various vegetables and preserved meats, there to act as decoration as much as ingredients. Yudin stood a little way back, hoping that the darkness would hide him.
The man remained, still looking south across the square, still trying to discover where Yudin might have gone, little knowing how close he was. Finally he turned and stared towards the stall, gazing almost directly at Yudin. Whether he saw anything, Yudin couldn’t tell, and for the moment didn’t much care. More important was what Yudin himself had seen: a face from the past, and with it a dozen memories, memories of an ingenious torture, of a
voordalak
chained to a wall, of the sun rising and falling as the Earth spun. But what came back to him most clearly of all was a name. It had been a joke at the time, but now there was little for Yudin to laugh at.
The name was Prometheus.
Even after arriving in Petersburg, Dmitry had hesitated to go home. He’d had a slow, lonely lunch at a restaurant near the station, and then hired a sled to take him to Senate Square. He stood now where he had stood then, thirty years ago – or it would be in five days’ time. He smiled. Tsar Nikolai had not made it; he had not even managed thirty years of power. Dmitry had survived him, as had Yudin. Even Aleksei had lived longer, if the fate that Nikolai had condemned him to could be called a life. A man on the train had said he reckoned that the new tsar would pardon all those who had plotted against his father – those who were left. Tsar Aleksandr II had been lucky enough to know his father – to be there at his deathbed. Would he grant Dmitry the same privilege with Aleksei? There was always hope.
And that would mean that Tamara would also have a chance
to
meet her father. There was nothing to suggest she knew the truth. Should he tell her? It surprised him that he felt no resentment towards her. Thirty years ago he would have. Thirty years ago he had hit Tamara’s mother across the face out of frustration when he saw that he could never tear his father away from her. It was laughable – childish. He understood Aleksei better now, as with each year the son became more like the father. How could Dmitry pass judgement on a man’s infidelities? And even if some vestige of hatred remained for the way that Aleksei had betrayed his mother, he could not see how that should be passed on to the daughter. None of it was her fault. And however much he tried to rouse his feelings of antipathy, he couldn’t escape the warm sensation of brotherly affection that he had felt since the moment he had realized who she was.