Authors: Jasper Kent
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 satiation 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 had 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.
Raisa was gone. She must have been more alert than Tamara had given her credit for, and used the few moments of distraction to make her move. She could not have got past Tamara and the conductor as they stood in the centre aisle, so she must have gone the other way. Tamara ran along to the door at the end and opened it. In an instant she was out in the cold night air, standing on the metal platform at the end of the carriage. The moment she
arrived
, Raisa leapt. Tamara got just a glimpse of her hair and skirts as she landed beside the track and rolled away, but then she vanished from sight as the train moved on.
Tamara cursed her stupidity. For a human, such a jump might not prove fatal, but the risk of injury would be enough to put anyone off. For a
voordalak
there was no risk and no fear. Any injury would soon heal. She leaned over the rail and looked back. She could just see Raisa, bright in the darkness. She wondered whether she too should risk the fall, but watching the ground speed by she thought it too dangerous. Even if she survived, she might break a limb; or be knocked out, and find herself at the mercy of Raisa.
Then she heard the train whistle blow three times – they were stopping. She looked up and saw the green lanterns which marked the beginning of a bridge ahead; the one across the Skhodnya. Two trains were not allowed on a bridge at the same time, so it must be that another was crossing towards them, and that this one would have to wait.
She let the train slow, but did not wait for it to stop before jumping to the ground, running as she landed so as to keep upright. The conductor was too busy at the other end of the carriage operating the brake to notice her. The moon had set, but there was sufficient light from the train to see by, and Raisa made an easy target. She was only the train’s length away, walking back alongside the track, as if hoping to return to Moscow. The train had halted completely now, and stood there, waiting until the bridge was clear. Tamara walked briskly. The ground was too uneven for her to run, but even so she would soon catch Raisa.
Tamara called out to her, but it had no effect. She waited until she was a little closer and then called again. This time Raisa turned, looking straight back towards her. Then Tamara saw her body drop down a little as she simply sat beside the tracks, waiting for Tamara to catch up. Tamara slowed to a steady walk. She reached for the cap that covered the tip of her cane and threw it to one side. Then she drew the pistol from her bag.
It was when she cleared the last coach of the waiting train that Tamara realized they were not alone. On the other side of the
track
, someone else was walking, mirroring Tamara’s movements. For a moment she supposed that it was one of the conductors, come to see why two women had chosen to throw themselves from the train, but it was not. Once again, it was the woman who called herself Natalia, sticking to Tamara like a shadow.