Authors: Jasper Kent
‘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.
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. However 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.
‘Vasya,’ he said. ‘You and I have been friends for many years.’
Yudin nodded.
‘You’ve always known me to be rational – level-headed.’
‘You take after your father in that respect.’
Dmitry smiled to himself. It was appropriate that Yudin should raise the similarity. He took a deep breath and then spoke. ‘Vasya, do you know what a
voordalak
is?’
Yudin looked at him in surprise. He pressed his lips tightly together, but could not restrain himself. He laughed loudly and broadly.
‘This is no joke, Vasiliy,’ said Dmitry firmly. ‘I’m not some mad old starets. These things are real. I know it. I’ve met them – so did my father.’
Yudin calmed himself. He reached forward with his hand and laid it on Dmitry’s. ‘Forgive me.’ He laughed again – unable to help himself. ‘I’m not doubting you. If anything, I’m laughing because I’m relieved.’
‘Relieved?’ Dmitry was aghast.
‘Mitka – I know. I’ve known for years. I know about vampires. I know that your father fought them – defeated them.’ He went back over to the cabinet and fetched the brandy, refilling Dmitry’s glass and this time pouring himself one.
‘How long have you known?’ asked Dmitry.
‘Since the war – since 1812.’
‘You fought them, alongside Papa?’
‘I’d hardly say that. I certainly didn’t manage to kill any – that was all down to Lyosha.’ His voice became more subdued. ‘But I saw what they were; what they could do.’
‘Why did you never say? Why didn’t Papa?’
‘You were very young then, Mitka. Lyosha made me promise. He said he didn’t want you ever to have to share in what we’d been through. Then, of course, we fell out, and in those few minutes we had together in Senate Square to make our peace – well, there were more pressing matters to consider.’