Authors: Jasper Kent
It was a disappointment that Mihailov would perceive so little of what was going on. Dmitry had described in a letter how the doctors had used ether to reduce the pain as they set his ankle. In a human, Yudin supposed, there was some sense in it. Too much pain could kill a man, however strong or brave. The same was not true of a
voordalak
, and so Yudin found that, though he enjoyed their suffering less than that of a human, he could indulge himself in the infliction of it with less need for restraint. But it was time for Mihailov to recover a little. Yudin plucked the catheter from his thigh and threw it over his shoulder into the churchyard. The wound healed slowly, and blood still dripped for a few moments, but at last the tiny puncture sealed itself. Now, as Mihailov’s body continued to manufacture blood, it would at least be of benefit to him. But he would not grow strong enough to be a danger to Yudin – not before dawn.
The building began to shake, not violently, but enough to make Yudin tighten his grip on Mihailov. It was only a train passing on the track nearby, something that Russians – the whole world – would have to get accustomed to. Again it reminded him that the city outside was awakening.
‘I take it they’ll be coming here,’ he whispered in Mihailov’s ear.
‘They’ll come,’ said Mihailov sleepily. ‘They like to leave it late.’
‘Proving to each other how brave they are.’
‘I suppose,’ said Mihailov. Yudin put a hand to his cheek. Already it was a little warmer, and the colour was returning. Yudin would have to be careful. He glanced sideways and verified that his knife was to hand.
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, but 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?
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.