Authors: Jasper Kent
‘My dear Mitka, he’s the reason for it all. He was what was on my mind, back in 1812, when I first met you and your mother. I remember so clearly thinking to myself, I am going to destroy these people, and I’m going to make Aleksei watch it.’
‘Why do you hate him so?’ There was no rebuke in Dmitry’s question, merely enquiry.
‘Hate him? I wouldn’t go that far. Now, of course, hatred is lost to me, but even then, even when a human, I don’t think I ever hated your father. Perhaps on brief occasions, when he thwarted me, but on the whole, no. He merely stood against me. He offered himself as an opponent and I accepted him. If the stakes have become higher than he originally supposed, then that merely makes the game more exciting.’
‘I imagine he must hate you.’
Yudin considered, and then nodded. ‘Then I have won,’ he said.
‘You failed to destroy my mother in front of him.’
‘Did I? You never knew that your mother and I were sleeping together, did you?’
‘You surprise me.’ Dmitry’s words were uttered with none of the emotion that might be expected to accompany them. It was news to him, but he was not upset.
‘We surprised Aleksei when he found us together. And then when he discovered the influence I’d had on you throughout your life, the set was complete. I had stolen his entire family.’
‘Stolen, but not destroyed.’
‘There was still time.’
‘But with my mother, cholera beat you to it.’
‘Really?’ asked Yudin.
‘I’m sure Papa was upset, but he could hardly have blamed you. He was more likely relieved she was free of you.’
Yudin smiled. ‘Come with me,’ he said.
He went over to the door by which he had entered his office moments earlier and opened it. Dmitry followed him as he descended the stairs. Where they forked, Yudin nodded to the right.
‘There are two coffins down there,’ he explained. ‘One is mine; the other was where Raisa Styepanovna sometimes slept. You’re
welcome
to it now. There’s a tunnel beyond to the river, if you can’t get through the Kremlin.’
Dmitry looked in the direction Yudin had indicated, but made no comment. Yudin felt no particular desire for company as he slept, but neither did he shun it. The suggestion was purely practical. It was in Yudin’s interests that Dmitry lived, and any extra hiding place he might know in Moscow would increase the chances of it.
They continued down the stone stairway and were soon in the short, low corridor with the six cells leading off. Dmitry had to stoop to walk through it, his shoulders almost filling the arch of the ceiling. From the grille in the door on the far right, a light shone, but at the moment there was no sound from within, save for the ever-present dribble of water. They would go there soon, but not now. For now, Yudin’s goal was the seventh door, the one at the very end of the passageway. He put the key into the lock and turned it, then drew back the three heavy bolts. It was built to be strong enough to hold a
voordalak
, though that was not its present use. Before opening it, he turned back to face Dmitry.
‘Raisa and I lived in Moscow for many years,’ he said. ‘But no one ever sought us out. How much blood do you suppose we drank in that time? How many bodies did we drain? And yet where were the reports of missing persons? Where were the remains that revealed the tell-tale signs of a
voordalak
at table? Why did no mobs descend on the Kremlin, baying for revenge?’
‘I imagine in your position you could suppress any such discoveries – prevent gossip from becoming widespread.’
‘You overestimate me, though you’re right in part. Those disappearances that were necessary were kept quiet. But there were few bodies.’
He opened the door and stepped through. Dmitry followed. Beyond was a room, no taller than the corridor from which they had come, but wider. In the centre was a table, with food on it – fresh food that Yudin had recently put there. Along the wall on each side were two doors, bolted shut. Yudin walked over to each of the four doors and drew the bolts, knowing that the noise they made would be enough to rouse those who were concealed
behind
them. Then he went back and stood beside Dmitry at the main entrance.
It was the one nearest to them on the left that opened first. A man emerged. He glanced around furtively, seeing that Yudin and Dmitry were there, but also seeing the food. He was Yudin’s most recent acquisition – kept down here for less than two years. He was somewhere in his thirties, and his blood was still rich and vigorous. He scampered over to the table, revealing the chain that stretched out beside him and back into his cell. Close to him, it split into three strands, two shackled to his ankles and one to an iron ring about his neck. It was just long enough for him to reach the table. He began to eat hungrily, stuffing the cold meat, bread, cabbage and beetroot into his mouth. It was a diet that had been carefully selected by Yudin and honed over the years to its present form. It was not intended to be flavoursome, or to provide strength. Its twin goals were merely to sustain life, and to sweeten the blood.
Once the first one had begun to eat, the others came quickly – as quickly as they could. They did not want to lose out on their meal. There were two more men, both older than the first, and from the far right-hand cell a woman, who was by a long way the oldest of all. All were fettered in a similar fashion.
‘Occasionally they die,’ explained Yudin. ‘Usually of disease, although sometimes as the result of overindulgence on my part – or Raisa’s.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And then there’s always suicide.’
He took a step into the room and grabbed the chain of the youngest man, pulling him close. ‘This one’s called Bogdan,’ he said. Bogdan had learned by now that it was futile to defy Yudin’s strength and so did not try to struggle. Instead he grabbed a few last morsels of food and shoved them into his mouth. Once he was close, Yudin offered the chain to Dmitry. ‘Hold him!’ Dmitry complied.
Yudin grabbed Bogdan’s arm and rolled up his sleeve. There were two wounds revealed on the inside of his forearm. One was almost healed, the other still had a fresh scab on it.
‘The risk of death is too great if we drink from the neck,’ Yudin explained. Bogdan eyed him as he spoke, quite able to understand him, but quite uninterested. He had heard it all before. Yudin
made
very sure that everything was explained. It was best if Bogdan and the others understood the reason that they were still alive.
Yudin pressed his lips against a clear patch of skin on Bogdan’s arm, between the two wounds, and bit. In the early days, the man would have pulled away, hit him, tried to fight him off, but his spirit was broken now. Even if it hadn’t been, the fact that Dmitry was there would dampen any thoughts of resistance. It was when Yudin came alone that they were most restive, thinking that they might be able to overcome him. That had been one of the benefits of having Raisa at his side. Those who did not know thought she would be weak – an easy victory. She soon disabused them of the idea.
Yudin drank, but not for long. He raised his head and took the chain from Dmitry, wrapping it once around his wrist. ‘Enjoy,’ he said.
Dmitry gave him a brief glance, seeking confirmation, and when he got it, he bent forward, sucking from the wound that Yudin had already created. As he did so, Yudin looked into Bogdan’s face. This was another benefit of there being two of them here. The man’s eyes were blank. They met Yudin’s without fear, but without hatred either – though perhaps there was a little of that, or the memory of it, hidden in there somewhere. But most of all, it was a look of acceptance; acceptance both of his situation, and of his lack of power to do anything about it. It was the look of the dairy cow to the milkmaid – hiding the secret hope that soon it would be taken to slaughter.
Dmitry raised his head. He seemed unimpressed. ‘I suppose you get used to it,’ he said.
Yudin understood him. The experience was not the best. Drinking from the arm, or anywhere on the body other than the neck – and Yudin had tried most places in the never-ending search for a fresh patch of skin – was not the same. And the restraint of drinking but not killing was a tiresome burden. But this way was far less risky.
‘It ensures that you live long enough
to
get used to it,’ he said.
Dmitry nodded non-committally, and Yudin released the chain. Bogdan gave them each a brief glance and then hurried
back
to the table, eager to eat before the food was all gone. The four humans didn’t talk to each other. Yudin had done nothing to stop them, but, with every one of those he had kept down here, it seemed to come naturally. They didn’t want him to hear. When they were in their cells and didn’t know he was outside listening, they would talk. Occasionally one of them – invariably a newcomer – would try and inspire the others with some plan of escape, but it was never taken up. Yudin was always careful. No one new was ever brought in until those there were well and truly broken.
Yudin began to walk around the side of the room, avoiding disturbing the four figures at the table, until he was behind the old woman in the far right-hand corner. Dmitry followed him. Yudin lifted up her chain and pulled her towards them. She offered no resistance; she had hardly been eating anyway. She would be dead soon; that was Yudin’s guess. Even now she was too weak to raise her head and look either of them in the face. It was lucky that events had timed themselves so perfectly.
Yudin grabbed her arm as he had done with Bogdan, but this time offered it straight to Dmitry. ‘I think you’ll find this one interesting,’ he said.
Dmitry appeared unconvinced, but even so he bent forward and placed his lips against her skin. He was right to be dubious. Yudin had not got much sustenance from this old woman in a long time. But that was not the point. And anyway, Dmitry seemed to be doing a good job. Yudin could see smears of blood emerging from beneath his lips, and could only guess that at least a taste was getting into his mouth. Still, there was no need for further delay.
‘This one’s called Marfa,’ he said. Dmitry did not react. He continued to drink. ‘Marfa Mihailovna,’ Yudin added. He sensed the slight movement of Dmitry’s head cease. For a second or two, all was still, with Dmitry remaining bent forward. If his lips had been touching the back of her hand rather than the inside of her forearm, it might almost have mimicked a formal introduction at a ball. But these two had no need to be introduced.
Finally, Dmitry straightened up and Yudin pulled on the chain at Marfa’s neck to bring her head up and make her face Dmitry. For himself, Yudin did not know which way to look. He was like
a
child outside a toyshop window, trying to take in everything. His eyes darted between the two faces in front of him as one broke into an expression of amused surprise and the other, slowly emerging from a pall of broken acceptance, revealed that a woman who had learned to live with so many horrors could discover that there were still things in this world that could make her weep for her very existence.
It was a touching moment, and one which Yudin found delightful. They had not seen each other in a decade. One had thought the other to be dead. But now, thanks to him, mother and son were finally reunited.
MARFA’S LIPS MOVED
, but emitted no sound. Her face was pale and the skin was drawn tight over her skull, hollow at her cheeks. She was seventy-one years old, though in her bedraggled state she appeared older. As a loving son, Dmitry should have recognized her the moment she stepped into the cell, however much she had changed in the ten years since he had seen her. But he was no longer any such thing. Whether or not he was her son was a matter of philosophical debate. That he did not love her was a fact of undeniable certainty.
It was only when Yudin had spoken her patronymic that Dmitry had even begun to guess the truth, but then realization had come to him quickly. When he looked at her face, it was obvious who she was, and as he gazed at her, impassively, he had the privilege of seeing two waves of understanding come over her almost simultaneously: the first that he was her son; the second that he was a vampire.
She seemed very small. She had been a plump sixty-year-old when he had last seen her, her girth increasing consistently with her age, but that was all gone now. She seemed smaller in every way. She kept her eyes on him as they filled with tears, her hands, once he had released her arm, hanging down limply in front of her. The little blood that Dmitry had been able to find in her had already ceased to flow.
‘She didn’t die then?’ he said, speaking to Yudin but still looking at his mother.
‘She wasn’t even ill. She merely noted one day that I never seemed to age, and that could only lead to her realizing the truth.
I
knew it would happen eventually, and with you in Bessarabia it was the ideal time. I suggested we take a trip to Moscow together, and she never came back. It was surprisingly easy to make everything official.’
‘And she’s been here ever since?’ said Dmitry. ‘Eight years?’
‘I’m amazed she lasted, but something kept her going. Hoping that Aleksei would come along and rescue her, I dare say – or perhaps you.’
Dmitry spoke now to his mother. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m sure I would have done, had I known.’ He wondered why he should want to console her.
‘And now?’ she asked, finally finding her voice, a shallow whisper.