by Jasper Kent
‘But now he will never come,’ said Dmitry.
‘Never,’ I replied with a smile. ‘A year before Nikolai came to the throne the curse that Pyotr brought upon his family was lifted.’
‘You’re sure Zmyeevich is dead?’
‘I saw it with my own eyes. From the moment I drank his blood I began to see what Zmyeevich saw. Not always. Sometimes when he wanted me to. Sometimes when he felt an intense emotion, like fear as he died. It must be the same for you – you’ve shared blood with him.’
Dmitry nodded sombrely. ‘Tell me what you saw.’
‘You didn’t experience it for yourself?’
He did not answer my question, other than to gaze at me with a sense of urgency and say simply, ‘Please.’
I wasn’t going to deny him; it was a memory that would be a pleasure for me to recall. I took a deep breath.
‘I remember it very clearly. The twenty-fifth of October 1893. I was in Moscow, sitting in a tea shop on Tverskaya Street. It was early evening – the sun had just set, though it would not yet be dark everywhere in Europe. For several days before I had been experiencing glimpses and visions that I knew were not mine, but came to me from Zmyeevich. Nothing had been very clear, but I was aware that I – he – had travelled a great distance, first by sea and then by land and that we were going home – a destination that would soon be reached. But I’d experienced nothing for a couple of days.
‘Suddenly, I awoke. I couldn’t recall falling asleep. My last memory was of the table where I sat in Moscow. Now I was in total darkness, lying on my back. I was moving with great speed. The road I was on must have been rough as I was bumped and jostled around, but I did not care. I knew that haste was essential. My pursuers were close and if they could catch me they would try to kill me, but if I could only gain a little time on them, I would be safe.
‘The cart went over some great bump and I was flung into the air. My cheek banged against something hard and rough – wooden. I put my hands up to brace myself and realized with horror that I was inside a coffin. No, not a coffin, simply a crate. That was why it was dark. This was a safe means of transportation. Outside it was still daylight, though it would not be for long. There was something soft beneath my back, something strangely comforting. I lowered my hands and pressed my fingers into it. It was soil – the soil of my homeland. I felt safe at the touch of it, though I knew it was a mere luxury – inessential to my survival. But it gave me comfort.
‘I assessed my chances. I wasn’t sure how many of them were pursuing me; perhaps six in total, though one was a woman and another old. And I was not alone. I listened. I could hear the sound of the wagon’s wheels turning beneath me, and of the pounding hooves of the horses pulling it. Around me there were more horses, and riders, men that would be faithful to me. I’d hired them, local Szgany with instructions to take me home. I couldn’t tell how many; perhaps a dozen. In the distance I heard the howl of a wolf, soon joined by another. They would protect me too, if they could reach me in time.
‘But perhaps I wouldn’t need protecting. The castle must have been close by now. If we could make it through the gates and inside then I would be safe. They might follow me in, but if they did, they would not come out again alive. And dark as it was inside the crate, I could sense that outside the sun was about to go down. We were in the Borgo Pass, and the mountains would be towering above us, meaning that the sun would set earlier than if we had been on the open plain. Once it vanished behind their peaks I would be strong again, and they would not defeat me, not six of them. Not sixty. But that was still minutes away, and I had to survive until then.
‘I heard a shout outside. “Halt!” It was in English – two men speaking in unison. None of the Szgany could have understood what the word meant, but the fools stopped anyway. I heard their horses’ hooves stamping against the ground to slow them, and felt the wagon come to a standstill. I waited. I could have flung myself from the crate and fought them there and then, but I was still weak from the daylight. I might even have found myself unable to prise the lid open. Better to let them cut through each layer of defence I had placed around myself. The Szgany, the wolves if they could reach us, even the wood of the crate might delay them by a few seconds, and then the sun would be gone, and they would wish they had let me be.
‘I heard the sound of a lash against a horse’s rump and a flurry of hooves and knew that the Szgany were preparing to defend me. Then there was the cocking of a rifle and all became calm again. My defenders were not armed with guns, but I knew they would fight with what weapons they had. One of them issued a command: “Omorâţi-i!” It was in a language I didn’t understand, yet the meaning came to me clearly: “Kill them!”
‘A battle ensued, though fists and blades were the weapons I could hear – my English pursuers regarded themselves too much as gentlemen to use rifles against a foe who was not equally armed. I began to doubt whether I would even need to rise up and lay a hand on any of them in my own defence. But I hoped that the Szgany would not be too brutal in their task, and that some of my enemies would still be alive once the sun had set so that I could bring death to them in the way which I would most enjoy, and which they would most abhor. I particularly hoped that the woman would survive. She was to be mine. I had already tasted her blood, and it was sweet.
‘Then suddenly I heard two thumps in rapid succession and the wagon shook beneath me. Someone had jumped up on to it, their feet landing one after the other. I steeled myself, waiting for the lid to be ripped away, knowing the sun would fall upon me, but knowing also that, unlike most of my kind, I was strong enough to survive its rays. And moments later the sun would set, and I would be reinvigorated, and would kill whoever it was had dared to disturb me.
‘But the lid did not open. Instead I felt the whole crate being lifted up. If there was only one of them doing it then his hatred of me had given him preternatural strength. I felt for a moment weightless as the crate and I inside it flew through the air, then we hit the ground, tumbling over and over until at last coming to a halt. I had landed in the same orientation I’d been on the wagon, lying on my back and facing the sky, though now the earth on which I had been resting was scattered everywhere. I heard a scream that sounded more as if it came from an Englishman than a Szgany. I hoped that I’d judged correctly. Still I waited. It was a matter of seconds now before the sun vanished from the sky.
‘Then they were upon me. A chink of light appeared at the joining of the lid and the side as a huge steel blade slid between them. It was not intended to do me any harm, not yet, but as it pulled against the wood the gap widened and more light entered. I felt an instinctive fear at it, but it was weak and I knew it could do me no harm. Then the knife was joined by a second, this one with a smaller blade and entering further down, towards my knees. Together they strained against the lid, but it was nailed firmly in place. One knife alone would not have succeeded in opening it, but in combination they would do so eventually. With luck they would not need to. Once the sun went down then it would be I who would open the crate, smashing its flimsy lid with a single blow.
‘But with each twist of the blades the chink of light widened. Now the gap was wide enough to reach through. Fingers penetrated the breach and began to pull. For a moment the nails resisted, but then with a tearing screech they gave way and the lid was thrown back. I had only an instant to take in my surroundings.
‘It was snowing. The land all around was blanketed in white, and flakes were buffeted in the air. Above me – a thousand feet above me – towered my castle, the precipice of its walls unassailable from any of the mountains around it. I was so nearly there, and yet I sensed that there was something wrong. My home had been entered, desecrated, despoiled. Clearly to pursue me as I lay helpless upon the wagon had not been their only line of attack.
‘Around me the battle had come to an end. I saw two of the Szgany with their hands raised, one allowing his sword to drop on to the ground. I could not see any further, but gu
essed that there were rifles aimed at them, and they had finally realized that they could not win.
‘Two faces loomed above me. I recognized them both. One was the American, the other was the Englishman, the solicitor who had so cruelly abused the hospitality I offered him at my castle. Each of them held in his hand a knife. The Englishman’s was an ugly thing, pilfered from one of their colonies in the east, with a long blade that curved inwards. The American’s was more mundane, but I feared neither of them. The men exchanged glances and grinned with a shared lust to kill. Both raised their weapons, the Englishman’s high behind his head, silhouetted against the mountains, and the American’s hovering above my heart. But it was too late for either of them.
‘At that moment the sun vanished behind the mountaintop. I felt strength flood into me; it would take only seconds for my potency to return and for my body to be revivified. A sense of triumph surged through me. My eyes widened and I began to smile, pushing myself up from where I lay.
‘The two blades fell in unison. The American’s knife pierced my heart. It was a fascinating sensation. A sudden burning, which almost immediately subsided as I began to heal. It was only steel, and could do me no harm. But the other blade was different. The Englishman was lucky. He brought it down on my throat and dragged it across, pushing down hard. Perhaps I was weakened by the blow to my heart, but the weapon cut deep, deeper than I could imagine. The man was filled with an insane hatred and vented it in his unquenchable desire to see my head severed from my body.
‘And in that desire he succeeded. I felt little pain after the first incision, but he pushed and pushed and at last, with a slight click, he was through. My body was separated from me and I felt my face fall away. My senses abandoned me one by one and I could no longer smell, nor feel, nor hear, nor see. Nor could I taste my own blood upon my lips. And yet still I was capable of thought, of sensation, of memory.
‘And then …’
CHAPTER V
‘… I WAS back in the tea shop in Moscow. Zmyeevich was dead and I could no longer perceive his thoughts. It was quite a relief, I can tell you.’
I hadn’t been looking at Dmitry as I spoke, but I raised my head to face him now. He was enthralled, transported, the very image of how I’d imagined him to be as he’d sat there watching The Rite of Spring for the first time. But it couldn’t have been new to him.
‘Didn’t you experience it too?’ I asked. ‘Just like me?’
‘I did, but not as you did. Whenever I began to see through his eyes I tried to push him away from me. I knew I’d be tempted to go back to him – wherever he was, whatever continents and oceans might separate us – and share his blood once more. I saw what you saw, but not as clearly. If I’d known it was to be a vision of his death, I’d have treasured the moment more.’
‘You look as if you enjoyed hearing me tell it.’
‘I did. I did. It’s safe now; he’s gone. I can’t go back, however much I’m tempted.’
‘Do you know what happened?’ I asked. ‘How he got to that point?’
Dmitry nodded. ‘I can make a few guesses. You said they were English; Zmyeevich had good reason to go to England.’
‘Which was?’
‘That was where Iuda had hidden the things that he’d stolen from Zmyeevich, assuming Iuda could be believed: the last sample of his blood and, of course, Ascalon.’
‘The sword that Saint George used to slay the dragon.’
‘More of a lance than a sword,’ explained Dmitry.
‘Did Zmyeevich find it? In England, I mean?’
‘Does it matter? Did he have it when he died?’
I searched my memories, but could find no trace of anything that might resemble a lance. I shook my head.
‘I think you’d have known,’ said Dmitry. ‘It was very dear to him.’
‘Why?’
‘I never knew. He hid that from me. I asked him once, and he told me it merely had sentimental value.’
‘That doesn’t sound like him.’
Dmitry chuckled. ‘Oh, you’d be surprised.’
‘Maybe, but he went to a huge effort to get Ascalon back – you did too; digging down to the tunnels under the Armenian Church. It must have some real value – some power.’
‘Even now Zmyeevich is no more?’
‘I’d still feel safer to know where it is – to destroy it.’
Dmitry breathed in deeply through his nostrils. He shivered. ‘Then you will have to do so without my help. I don’t even want to be near it. It would remind me too much … of him.’
I didn’t try to argue. I understood what an effort it had been for him to break away from Zmyeevich in the first place. We sat in silence for a few moments, then Dmitry spoke. ‘Of course, if you do want to find Ascalon, you know who to ask.’
‘Who?’
Dmitry looked at me, puzzled. ‘Who else is left? Papa killed eleven of the oprichniki when they came to Russia in 1812. Now Zmyeevich is dead. That only leaves one.’
Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘Iuda? No, Iuda’s been dead even longer than Zmyeevich.’
‘What?’
‘He died the same day as Aleksandr II, at almost the same moment, down there in the chambers beneath Malaya Sadovaya Street, where Ascalon once was hidden.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because I killed him.’ I tried to control the pride that forced its way into my voice.
‘That can’t have been easy.’
I let my mind slip back. In the end it had been very simple: the mere flick of a switch to allow the flow of electricity through a new kind of arc light. But only years of preparation had made the final act so uncomplicated; years of research and experimentation – Mama and I working together – to find the most effective weapon against a vampire; years of investigation to track Iuda down under whatever alias he might be using; and finally months to close in on him, to lure him down to those tunnels beneath the streets of Petersburg – the very same tunnels in which Ascalon had once been hidden. He thought it was I who was walking into the trap, but I had merely been the bait to bring him down there.
I recalled Iuda’s reaction to the bright light, as I had done so many times before, and the pleasure I had taken from it. He had been confused at first, not realizing the danger but sensing the discomfort that would gradually transform into pain and then agony. As his flesh began to smoulder he had tried to flee, but I was too quick for him. I cut the clothes from him using his own double-bladed knife, so that the light could permeate every inch of his skin. I’d watched as his limbs became dust and as his eyeballs burst into flame. But that was only at the end. Something else had happened, before that.
‘He fought back,’ I told Dmitry. ‘Managed to bite me, but it was too late for him.’ I remembered the sensation of his teeth penetrating my throat, of the blood being drawn from me. But that hadn’t been the worst of it.
‘He bit you? So … you shared his mind.’
‘Briefly.’ The memory of it was utterly lucid, undiminished after all those years – worse than the feeling of his teeth in me, worse than the sound of his lapping at my blood: the presence of his thoughts mingled with mine. ‘It was strange,’ I said, ‘as though there were something very precise he wanted to communicate to me, something that didn’t make sense, though I could understand the words as clearly as if he had been speaking to me.’
‘What were they?’
‘He said, “Tell Lyosha. It was …”’
‘It was what?’
‘That was all,’ I explained. ‘He died before he could say any more.’
‘And by Lyosha, he meant Papa?’
‘I always assumed so. It’s a common enough diminutive for Aleksei.’
Dmitry nodded. ‘It’s how Iuda always used to refer to him.’
‘Mean anything to you?’ I tried not to sound too eager. Over the years I’d pondered what Iuda could have meant, but with no conclusion. I’d largely given up caring, but there was always the cha
nce that Dmitry might be able to make some sense of it.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. “Tell Lyosha it was all my fault”? Seems unlikely.’
I chuckled. ‘I’ve never come up with anything that really made sense.’
Dmitry slapped his hands against his thighs and then stood, as if suddenly ready for action. ‘All in the past now,’ he said. ‘We should be worrying about the present. We’re on the same side, Mihail; with regard to the revolution at any rate.’
I stood up and faced him. He was inches taller than me. ‘We’re hoping for the same outcome,’ I conceded.
‘And will we get that outcome if Nikolai orders the troops to gun down the strikers? Even if we do, should we ask them to make that sacrifice, if it can be prevented?’
‘What do you propose?’
‘We’ll be out there. There’ll be battles in the streets – there already are – we can turn them in the right direction. The deaths of a few reactionary officers could save hundreds of lives.’
I laughed loudly. ‘Don’t pretend you care.’
‘What does it matter if I care? You do. That’s why you’ll help us.’
‘Help you? How?’
‘The same way Papa helped the oprichniki. Be our eyes and ears during the day. Devise our strategy. Use us as a weapon.’
I looked up into his eyes and could see nothing but sincerity. Or perhaps I simply saw nothing. But whatever his motivation, his logic was sound. He – they – could change the course of the revolution.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. ‘I’ll meet you this evening. Not here, though.’
‘No.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Beside the Bronze Horseman. Half past nine.’
It was an entirely appropriate location. I offered him my hand, but before taking it he reached down to the ground and picked something out of the snow. It was my cane – its sharpened tip still exposed. He examined it, smiling wistfully – a strange expression for a vampire holding something so clearly intended to bring about the death of its kind.
