The People's Will (47 page)

They carried on walking and soon the street opened out into a broad, paved square. At its centre was a monument – a tall, round stone plinth topped with a bronze soldier on horseback. This wasn’t the statue of Pyotr the Great – Halvard had seen that. There was an inscription on the plinth, but he wasn’t going to waste time looking at it. The girl led him onwards, across the square towards an even more impressive construction – a great cathedral with a shining golden dome, grander than that of Hedvig Eleonora in Stockholm – more like Saint Paul’s in London.

She led him towards the cathedral, but avoided mounting its
steps, instead going around the side of them. Finally she stopped, in a corner shadowed by the building.

‘Here we are,’ she said.

‘I thought you said somewhere warm,’ he grumbled.

‘It is.’ She pointed downwards and beneath her feet he saw an iron manhole cover. She stepped back and pulled it open on a hinge, revealing a set of steps. ‘It’s lovely down there.’

It was not tempting. ‘Sod this,’ he growled and made as if to go, but she grabbed him and kissed him hard on the lips. He felt her hand rubbing his crotch and felt himself respond. He let her continue for a few seconds, imagining how her hand would feel against his naked flesh, knowing now that he wouldn’t be going back to find an alternative. He grinned at her. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I can tell you want it.’

He went down first and she pulled the cover closed after her. A lighted lamp hung from the wall – clearly she kept the place ready. And she was right, it was warmer down here. He began to unbutton his coat. She kissed him again, and her fingers unfastened the laces of his shirt, pulling it open. Her hands caressed his chest and neck.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

She looked at him for a moment, and then smiled. ‘Susanna,’ she said. It was obviously a lie. He did not mind. It was a nice name – the same in Swedish as in Russian.

‘You got a mattress or something down here, Susanna?’

She nodded. ‘That way. And grab the lamp.’

He did as he was told. There was a slight smell of the sewers, but it wouldn’t put him off. He began to imagine what was to come, what he would do to her, picturing the little body that was hidden beneath all those clothes.

And then he saw it.

At first he thought it was a corpse, half covered in a blanket so that nothing showed below the waist. But he was wrong. Nothing covered the body’s legs – there simply were no legs. It was a man – as well as Halvard could guess. The chest showed no hint of breasts, but the genitals were malformed – either mutilated or undeveloped. It was impossible to make out what they were supposed to be. The upper body was fine, the head with its blond
hair; the left arm. The right arm was not quite there – the hand had been cut off – blood, sinew and bone were visible at the wrist.

Further down he seemed to have been roughly hacked through at about the level of his waist, but at an angle. There was the stump of one thigh, but on the other side his hip and belly were not complete. Halvard could see the organs within, intestines and more that he could not name, which churned and seethed as the man drew breath.

Jesus Christ! He was alive. Compassion and revulsion tore Halvard in two, but it was compassion that won. He knelt down, leaning over the man’s face.

‘What’s happened to you?’ he asked, only to realize there was little chance that the man understood Swedish. Even so, the pathetic figure pushed its head up, trying to speak, reaching out with its good arm. Halvard leaned closer.

Then he felt a shove from behind. He had forgotten about Susanna and now it was too late. He fell forward and felt the wretch’s arms around him, pulling him closer. Then he felt a terrible pain in the side of his neck as the creature bit. The sound of his own scream, echoing in the sewer, filled Halvard’s ears.

It was mid-afternoon when Mihail returned to the Novodyevichye Cemetery, a day and a half since he had followed Dmitry there. He was as prepared as he would ever be. Even in daylight it was tricky to find the sepulchre until he was almost upon it. Fortunately, he still remembered the landmarks by which he had navigated.

The door was closed. Mihail could see no lock or handle by which he might open it, nor anything on which he could find purchase. He reached into his knapsack and brought out a crowbar, slipping its tip into the crack between door and frame. If he had not previously seen the door ajar he would not have known which side was hinged and which opened. There was no resistance to his leverage and soon the great slab of bronze had moved far enough for him to curl his fingers around it and pull it ajar. Light spilled inside, which was a good thing, but he did not want it to go too far. He wanted to talk to Dmitry – not kill him.

The stairs he had seen before were now covered with a sheet of grubby tarpaulin held in place by stones. Evidently the tomb’s
inhabitants also feared light accidentally spilling upon them. Mihail quickly moved it aside. Below, the chamber was much as he remembered. The two coffins lay parallel, pointing away from him – one open and empty, the other closed. That was to the good. If the slumbering occupant of that one coffin was Zmyeevich then it would be Mihail’s best chance to deal with him; if Dmitry, they would have an opportunity to talk. The sunlight just clipped the foot of the closed casket, but penetrated no deeper. With the sun now past its zenith the light would get no further. Mihail unpacked what he needed from his bag and went down the steps. He tentatively lifted the coffin lid.

Inside lay Dmitry. Mihail let the wooden lid fall to the ground with a loud clatter, then sat back on the steps, safe in the sunlight, his loaded
arbalyet
in his hand, his two swords – of steel and wood – at his side.

Dmitry did not move. Mihail took his sabre and poked Dmitry in the leg with it. Still there was no response, so he jabbed harder. He suspected Dmitry was only feigning sleep, but either way the vampire began to stir. Mihail raised the crossbow and aimed it, but he doubted he would need to shoot.

‘It’s you,’ said Dmitry once he had sat up.

‘It’s me,’ Mihail confirmed. He stared at Dmitry. There was only one reason he had come here – one topic that he wanted to discuss – but now he shied away from it, almost embarrassed. Of all the foulness that had ever been perpetrated by Dmitry, this seemed a matter that was above all his own private concern. And yet as he looked into his uncle’s face Mihail saw a reluctant expectation of what was to come. He could only be direct.

‘I saw you and Zmyeevich,’ he said, ‘saw what you were doing.’

‘I know.’ Dmitry’s voice expressed none of the pride that Mihail had seen in his eyes while the events were actually taking place.

‘Do you know what you were doing?’ Mihail asked.

‘Having fun,’ replied Dmitry, bitterly.

Mihail shook his head. ‘Perhaps Zmyeevich was, but not you. Or if you were, then you’re a fool – and I don’t believe there are any fools in our family.’

‘What would you know?’

‘More importantly, what would Iuda know?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve read his journals,’ explained Mihail. ‘I’ve stolen his knowledge. And he understands more of vampires than even Zmyeevich – at least he thinks so.’

‘He didn’t know Zmyeevich could walk in daylight,’ scoffed Dmitry.

‘No, that’s true. Zmyeevich has kept things from both of you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You remember the
oprichniki
? At least, how your father described them.’

‘Of course; brutish creatures.’

‘Not like you, or Zmyeevich, or Kyesha, or a dozen others I’m sure you’ve met in your time. You ever wondered why?’

‘It’s a big world,’ said Dmitry. ‘I’ve known humans who were as base as the
oprichniki
.’

‘But they’ve not always been so. Take Pyetr, for example, their leader. According to Iuda he was a priest in his former life – an intelligent and well-read man. And as a
voordalak
he remained the same. Until he met Zmyeevich.’

Mihail paused, allowing Dmitry to consider his own existence since he had formed his partnership with Zmyeevich.

‘Go on,’ said Dmitry.

‘Iuda wasn’t able to find out about all of them, but there were similar stories for many. You’re right; some of them started out as peasants – but they
all
ended up like that. And then, of course, Iuda was able to conduct experiments.’

‘He was a monster before he became a vampire.’

Mihail could not disagree, but for once Iuda was not his primary concern. ‘How long have you known Zmyeevich?’ he asked.

‘Almost two decades.’

‘And when did you begin to exchange blood?’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘It’s complicated.’ Dmitry would not look Mihail in the eye.

‘Do you like the taste?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Do you think it’s right?’ Mihail fired the questions off quickly now, pressing his advantage.

‘Right?’

‘Morally.’

‘A
voordalak
has no God – why should he have morals?’

‘What does your gut say? Does it tell you that this is what you should be doing rather than drinking down the fresh, living blood of a human?’

‘Of course not!’ Dmitry shouted. ‘That’s what makes it …’ His voice petered out.

‘What?’

‘That’s what makes it fun.’ Dmitry was calmer now. ‘Doing something that’s wrong – just for its own sake.’

Mihail pressed on with his interrogation. ‘And it was soon after – after you and Zmyeevich first exchanged blood – that you started to feel … different?’

‘Yes.’ Dmitry gazed down sullenly, then looked directly at Mihail. ‘How did you know?’

‘You’re an orphan, aren’t you, Dmitry – in vampire terms?’

‘If you mean the vampire who created me is dead – murdered – then yes.’

‘Murdered?’

‘Raisa – she was killed by Iuda.’ He spoke in a growl, suppressing a visceral anger.

That wasn’t how Mihail had heard it. His mother had witnessed Raisa’s death, and it was the hands of Domnikiia – Mihail’s grandmother – which had forced Raisa’s head into the path of the train’s wheels. But ultimately Mihail could not disagree that Iuda was to blame for it all. For now though, it was a distraction.

‘Being an orphan, apparently, makes it easier,’ he said.

‘Easier?’ asked Dmitry.

He was vulnerable enough now to hear the truth. ‘When you became a vampire and exchanged blood with Raisa, the two of you formed a mental bond. You knew each other’s minds.’

‘That’s right. That’s how a newborn vampire learns.’

‘And when you exchange blood again, with a different vampire, don’t you suppose that a very similar process occurs?’

‘I … I don’t know.’

‘I think you do. You share a part of your mind with Zmyeevich.
You could tell he was returning the other day when we spoke beneath Saint Isaac’s. How could you know that?’

‘I won’t deny it. We share. It’s useful. We’re partners.’ There was a reluctant pride in his voice that had not been there before.

‘But who has the stronger mind, Dmitry? You or he?’

‘I’m not a fool.’

‘Pyetr was not a fool, but his mind rotted through sharing his blood with Zmyeevich. Look at all the
oprichniki
– mindless animals whose will was sucked out by Zmyeevich. How do you think Zmyeevich has grown to be so old and so strong? How do you think he can walk in sunlight?’ Mihail was speculating now. He saw a defiant smile forming on Dmitry’s lips, but he continued to press the point. ‘Feeding off humans is no longer enough for him; he must feed off vampires too – not their blood but their minds. All that’s left is base animals who crave flesh and do his will. I don’t know how long it will take, Dmitry, but one day, if Zmyeevich has his way, that will be you.’

As he spoke, Mihail watched carefully, trying to gauge the reaction as Dmitry began to understand the degradation into which he was descending. But with each word Dmitry seemed to grow stronger and more confident, as if succoured by an external presence. When he spoke, he was a changed man.

‘And why should I care?’ he asked, his voice cold and calm. He was no longer looking at Mihail but above him, up the steps and out to the graveyard. Mihail stood and turned.

Silhouetted in the doorway stood a familiar hunched figure; pale wrinkled skin, a white moustache, hollowed cheeks. Mihail knew just how dangerous Zmyeevich could be even in daylight, but he was now at his weakest. Mihail raised the crossbow, at the same time noticing that while he had been talking to Dmitry the sun had moved on and he himself was now in shade.

It was too late. Dmitry’s arms clasped Mihail around the chest – pinning his hands to his sides and knocking his weapon to the floor. Had Mihail misjudged just how far Zmyeevich’s power over Dmitry had developed? Or was this simply a rational decision of Dmitry’s own free will, deciding that it was still best for him to side with his master? It made no difference to the position in which Mihail found himself.

Dmitry dragged him backwards across the tomb; away from the light. Mihail’s heels flailed uselessly against the flagstones until eventually they came to a halt, Dmitry’s back pressed against the wall. Zmyeevich slowly descended the stairs. Before reaching the bottom he had stepped into shadow and his transformation into a younger man began. By the time he was standing between the two coffins his back was straight, his skin was taut, his moustache and hair were iron-grey. His eyes blazed.

‘So – the last surviving Danilov,’ he said. Then he smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Dmitry. The last
living
Danilov.’

‘Dmitry told you who I am, then,’ said Mihail.

‘As you’ve so ably deduced, he did not need to. I know his mind.’

‘You don’t rule him yet.’

Zmyeevich remained silent for a moment, considering Mihail. Then his eyes flared and at the same moment Mihail felt Dmitry’s grip upon him tighten, squeezing a little of the breath out of him.

‘You see?’ said Zmyeevich. ‘Our relationship is a sound one. We need go no further.’

‘You won’t be able to stop yourself.’ Mihail spoke through gritted teeth, his words more for Dmitry’s benefit than Zmyeevich’s. ‘And why should you? Once you’ve used up Dmitry, there are plenty of others out there.’