The People's Will

Chapter XIII



LUKA’S DEATH MADE the newspapers on thursday, the day after his body was found. Mihail had suspected something. He’d called on Luka several times and never found him home. On Wednesday evening he saw gendarmes standing at the door of the house on Maksimilianovsky Lane, and walked on by. On Thursday he learned the truth.

The reports were guarded, but one thing was thankfully clear: Luka had not been killed by a vampire. The wounds did not match up; the bullet to the head was not the ultimate cause of death, but neither that nor the actual drowning could be the handiwork of Zmyeevich, Dmitry or Iuda.

It was only by luck that the body had been found. It should either have been washed out to sea or remained shrouded by the frozen river until spring, but there were always a few holes in the ice, and the corpse had snagged against one of them, just where the Great Nevka split away from the Neva. Whoever had killed him had not wanted the body to be found. To Mihail’s mind there were two possibilities: either Luka had been running from the Ohrana and their attempts to capture him had gone too far, or he had been killed by his own side – either rightly or falsely taken for a police informer. They were quite capable of it. Mihail remembered hearing a few years before of a government informer called Gorinovich. They’d lured him to a railway siding in Odessa where they’d stabbed him and then poured quicklime on his face so that he wouldn’t be recognized. But he’d survived and staggered to safety, the label they’d pinned to his chest still clear to read: ‘Witness the fate of a spy.’ If it was the People’s Will who’d killed Luka then they’d been more efficient and less ostentatious about it.

But whatever the direct cause, Mihail could see how convenient Luka’s death was for Iuda, eliminating one of the few people who knew anything about him. Iuda was locked away in the Peter and Paul Fortress, but Mihail knew that would be little hindrance to his achieving what he wanted. Luka had visited Iuda the day before his death; he would have spoken of Mihail and his questions. Had it been enough for Iuda to realize the danger that Luka might pose to him?

If that were the case then Mihail was responsible for Luka’s murder. In the space of just a few weeks he’d lost a mother and a brother. He searched his heart to find true sorrow at Luka’s death, but he could not. He pitied him as a stranger, a man he had met just twice. It went against his point of view, the one he’d pressed when talking to Luka, that blood – the family bond – was the strongest tie in existence. He should have told Luka the truth – told him that they were brothers. Then at least they’d have been able to judge each other fairly. Perhaps Mihail would still have felt none of the affection that one brother should hold for another, but at least he would have been certain.

The Ohrana had spent all of Thursday and most of Friday searching the apartment, preventing Mihail from making his own investigation. Instead, he’d followed up another unlikely lead – the apartment on Konyushennaya Street. The bookshop underneath that Tamara had spoken of was still there, but neither its proprietor nor the new tenants above had heard of Iuda, by any of his names. It had never been likely, but it was best to be certain. Luka’s rooms would be of far greater interest.

Now, on the Friday afternoon, all was quiet on Maksimilianovsky Lane. A solitary gendarme stood guard at the door, chatting occasionally to the dvornik. It was possible that there were still other police up there, but no one had gone in or out for a very long time.

Mihail walked boldly down the street and then mounted the steps of the building; not of number 15, but number 17, next door. He was in luck. The dvornik there was asleep, his snoring wafting gently across the hallway. If he’d been awake Mihail had a story about a romantic liaison worked out, and the bribe to back it up, but it proved unnecessary. The house was the mirror image of its neighbour. Mihail climbed the stairs up to the first half-landing. There, just as he’d expected, was a small window looking out behind the building. It opened easily. Beyond was a tiny yard, the overgrown weeds punctuated only by rubbish from the stacked apartments on all four sides. Everything covered with undisturbed snow.

Mihail stuck his head and shoulders through the small gap and looked right towards number 15. The equivalent window was there, just as he’d remembered it, but the wall between them was flat and smooth, and there was no way he could climb across. He pulled himself back in and ascended two more flights. Here, on the half-landing, was a similar window. Looking out he saw that it was directly above the first, with another in between. He reached into his bag and brought out a rope, securing it to the banister. He threw it out and watched it fall and dangle, just outside the first window.

He crept back downstairs and climbed out, using the rope to support himself, then, hanging from it, traversed across the featureless wall until his toes were perched on the window ledge of number 15. He brought out a knife and eased the sash up a little. It wasn’t locked. Soon he had it open and was inside. He pulled the rope in afterwards so that it could not swing back without him. He went down a few steps and peeked round the corner. He could see the gendarme standing in the doorway, performing his duty to protect the building from unauthorized entrants.

Mihail tiptoed up to apartment 7. There was no guard on the door here. In truth, there was not much of a door. The ohraniki had evidently taken an axe to it in order to gain access, and had not bothered to replace it.

Inside it seemed they had been thorough but tidy in their search. The chairs and other furniture were roughly where Mihail had seen them before, but the fabric of the divan had been slashed open to allow a hand to delve inside in search of whatever secrets might be found there. Tufts of stuffing were scattered sparsely across the floor. The samovar had been moved to the other end of the table. As Mihail had noted on his first visit, there was quite deliberately little to find in this place.

He looked into the other two rooms. Both were bedrooms. The one on the left was as unlived-in as the main room. There was a bed, but the bedding had been thrown on the floor. It was rumpled, but seemed clean. There was a wardrobe and a washstand, but nothing that hinted of a personal effect. He opened the window. It looked out on to that same yard. From above hung his rope, stretching diagonally down to another window below. It was beyond reach, but not by much.

He went back and grabbed a length of wood from the remnants of the door. It had a nail sticking out of the end which would serve as a hook. Within seconds he had the rope. He pulled it in and wrapped it around his makeshift fishing rod so that it would not fall back. Now he could make a quicker exit, if needed.

The other bedroom was clearly the one that Luka had normally used. The bedlinen smelt of human sweat. There were clothes here too. Some of them were women’s; Dusya’s, he guessed. How would she be taking the news of her lover’s death? As stoically as he himself had, Mihail would have to assume. They both had their hatreds: he of Iuda; she of the tsar. It was an effective immunization against sorrow.

He went back to the living room. He’d expected the ohraniki to have done their job thoroughly and so there was really only one place they might not have looked. The pictures still hung on the wall, but they could easily have been removed and replaced. Mihail went over to the one that Luka had glanced at when afraid. It was a watercolour, a cheap copy of a view of Moscow by Alekseyev. Mihail lifted it off the wall.

Behind it the wallpaper had been neatly slashed in the shape of a cross – one vertical stroke, one horizontal. Looking more closely Mihail could see that this was in fact a separate square of wallpaper, of the same pattern that covered the remainder of the room, but pasted over at this point. Behind the flapping corners he could see a cavity in the wall beyond. Luka – or someone else – must have removed a few bricks to create the hole, put whatever he wanted in there and then concealed his work with both the wallpaper and the picture. An alert ohranik had not been fooled, but had removed the painting, cut through the paper and uncovered whatever lay within.

Mihail reached inside. It was cold and a little damp in there, but nothing of its contents remained. He looked behind the other pictures in the room, but in each case the wall was solid. He sat down on the same chair he had used when first visiting Luka. So he had been right in guessing where Luka kept his secrets, but had been beaten to the chase. He went over and lifted the picture from the wall again, desperately groping around in the cavity behind in the hope that they – and he – might have missed something. He was about to hang the painting again when he noticed something odd about it.

Instead of the usual cheap brown paper, the picture was backed with wallpaper – the same wallpaper that had been used to cover the hole. He ripped it away and at last found what he was looking for – or at least found something. It was a letter. The envelope was unsealed and unaddressed. Mihail leaned the picture against the wall and pulled out the single sheet of paper from inside the envelope. Handwriting filled one side.

To the manager, Hôtel d’Europe, Saint Petersburg,

As we discussed, please allow the bearer unhindered access to my apartments in order that he may manage my affairs until my return.

Yours faithfully,

Collegiate Councillor Vasiliy Grigoryevich Chernetskiy

Mihail clicked his tongue. It was the only hint he gave of his excitement, both to have a clue that might lead him to Iuda, under whatever pseudonym he went by, and also to have been smarter than the Ohrana.

He quickly checked the other pictures, but none had been similarly used as a hiding place. He sat again and considered. This would be his only chance to search the apartment. Was there anything he’d missed?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of feet on the stairs outside. He heard a shout. Perhaps it was not the Ohrana and perhaps they were not coming here, but he wasn’t going to stay to find out. He slipped the letter into his pocket and went back to the bedroom, unhitching the rope and clambering out across the windowsill. Already he could hear that they had entered the apartment.

‘Someone’s been here. How the hell did they get past you?’

Mihail did not wait for the response. He slid down and across and in seconds was at the next-door window, moments later through it. He skipped briskly down the stairs and out of the building. The dvornik was still asleep.

Out on the street he looked towards the door of number 15, but even the gendarme had gone – rushing upstairs to be upbraided by his superior. There was no need for Mihail even to run. He sauntered calmly away.

‘You’re free to go.’

They were evidently not words that the sentry regarded as a part of his duty to recite, and so he made no effort to hide his childish disappointment. Iuda looked up from where he sat on his straw mattress and smiled broadly.

‘Colonel Otrepyev has relented then?’

‘This came from higher up.’

Iuda had not expected any different. It had taken a few days and countless messages sent and received through the pipes. The People’s Will had little idea that their communication system might be shared with at least one quite distinct set of individuals, whose identity they would despise if they knew it. It was foolish of them. Did Alexander Graham Bell think his new invention would be reserved exclusively for the use of himself and his friends?

The deal was done. Iuda received his freedom and in return all he had to do was visit a certain building at a certain time and discuss an arrangement with a certain highly placed dignitary. The deal would be to their mutual advantage, but even in offering it Iuda had ensured his freedom. But there was never a question in his mind that he would fulfil his side of the bargain.

He took one last look around his cell. He had been here only a week, far less than in his previous gaol. He glanced up at the little window, high above. It was dark now. That was thoughtful on the part of the man who had ordered his release. There would be no hanging around just inside the gates of the fortress, looking for excuses to delay his departure. Everyone he encountered, it seemed, wanted to ensure he remained alive. It was not by accident. He could only congratulate himself on having become so indispensable.

He was escorted through Saint Peter’s Gate and the Ivan Gate. Only then did they unlock his manacles and allow him to cross the Petrovsky Bridge on his own. He was free. In his head he knew that his first thought should be for safety – not personal safety but the safety of his possessions. Luka was dead – Iuda had heard that through the pipes – but that didn’t mean he hadn’t let slip some information about Iuda’s rooms at the Hôtel d’Europe. There was much there that he treasured.

But he could not deny his nature. He was a voordalak, and however much he might insist to himself that he was different and that his brain ruled his actions, he still, like any of them, needed sustenance. He could have taken one of the guards once he was out of his cell, and would still have escaped easily, but that would not have pleased the man who had ordered his liberation. And it would have had to be quick. Much better to slip into the dark streets of Petersburg and hunt at leisure.

Once off the bridge he doubled back on himself and walked along the path beside the Kronversky Channel, separating Hare Island, on which the fortress stood, from the larger Petersburgsky Island. Some former inmates might have tried to get away from the place of their captivity as quickly and directly as possible, but Iuda enjoyed his freedom more for the sight of the building that had contained him. Even so it was soon behind him. He stepped down on to the ice and crossed the Lesser Neva to Vasilievskiy Island. Minutes later he was among the Twelve Colleges, at the heart of Petersburg’s university. It was busy here with students – both rich and poor – out in search of an evening’s entertainment.

It was nothing compared to Oxford. It reeked of modernity. Iuda had already been forty-one years old when Petersburg University was founded. Oxford was founded before … before even Zmyeevich was born. Iuda could not say he had enjoyed his time at Trinity, though he had certainly benefited from it. The young Richard Cain desired solely to learn of the natural world, but in those days that was only just beginning to be considered a subject suitable for gentlemanly study. His tutors had instructed him in languages, divinity and history, all of which would ultimately prove useful to him, but in studying and understanding science he had been forced to teach himself – dragging knowledge from those few dons who possessed it, instead of having it forced into him as with the other subjects.

On graduating he chose to travel, and managed to bluff his way aboard a merchant vessel – the White Hart – as an apprentice to the ship’s surgeon. They sailed south, then through the Strait of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean. It was quite unplanned, but there the ship became part of the great battle between Napoleon and Nelson for the possession of Egypt.

The White Hart and its crew – Cain included – had been captured by the French frigate Artémise which had in turn been sunk by the British at the Battle of the Nile. Cain had managed to salvage his notebooks, and a little of the captain’s stash of Louis d’Or, then thrown himself to the mercy of the waves. At the age of just twenty he found himself alone, washed up on an Egyptian beach.

He made his way east, following the path of the Israelites, but rounding the tip of the Gulf of Suez rather than waiting for the waters to part so that he could march straight through. He did not linger in the Holy Land but continued north, noting as he went the remarkable fauna he encountered, quite unlike anything he had observed in England. He arrived at the Black Sea coast in the town of Samsun and there, with little real direction to his wanderings but the desire to learn, found a passage to Yalta on the Crimean Peninsula. It was the first time he set foot on Russian soil, little knowing that the country was to become his second home.

It was his detailed study of wildlife in the Crimea that gained him, on his eventual return to England, his fellowship at the Royal Society. He catalogued several species that were previously quite unknown in the West and provided details of the life cycle of many others. His favourite creature – the vampire excepted, of which he had encountered none since leaving Esher – was the scolopendra. He had seen centipedes and the like in England, and on his travels, but it was the venomous bite and carnivorous temperament of these creatures that fascinated him most. In later years he heard of relatives from South America that grew to over a foot in length and would devour creatures as large as bats and could defend themselves against tarantulas. In the Crimea he only witnessed them feeding on other insects and once a small lizard. Perhaps his life would have been different if his travels had taken him to that distant continent, but he had no regrets.

It was also on that first visit to the Crimea that he reached Bakhchisaray and climbed up to the citadel of Chufut Kalye to explore its caves. Even then he had remarked how the steep cliffs around it had created what, with a little human intervention, might become an inescapable prison – a fortress built by nature for herself against infection and the hand of war – but he had not then guessed what manner of creature his prisoners might be.

In total he spent six years in the Crimea, venturing occasionally into southern Russia and on one expedition getting as far as Odessa. He spoke Russian almost perfectly, though when later he travelled to the north of the country he realized that he sounded like a yokel, and quickly learned to adjust his accent. Eventually, he craved a return to civilization and began to make his way back west, sailing first from Sevastopol to Constantinople. By the time he arrived, the Ottoman Empire was at war with Russia, and an Englishman who could speak Russian was seized upon as being of enormous potential use to the sultan. Cain was happy to be made use of – for a fee.

The sultan at the time was Mustafa IV, whose reign was to prove brief and to whom Cain never spoke in person. His grand vizier was Çelebi Mustafa Pasha, who negotiated with Cain and quickly dispatched him north to the Danube where he would be able to channel valuable information back to the Porte. Ibrahim Edhem Pasha, who had later betrayed Iuda, was not even born, but Iuda came to wonder if some record of his first visit to Constantinople might have been passed down through the years.

By the time Cain reached the front lines both the grand vizier and the sultan had fallen from power, and the deal they had struck was meaningless, but for the time being it was safer to stick with the small band of Turks he’d been assigned to lead. They soon crossed the Russian lines and were in Wallachia. Only a few days into their mission, when he and his squad had camped high in the hills, he saw his chance and crept away. But he was out of luck. In the valley below he stumbled across a Russian encampment. There was no way he could sneak past, and he had no desire to return to the Turks. His solution was elegant. He simply marched in among the Russians, announced himself to be one of their own and revealed the location of his erstwhile comrades.

A platoon was dispatched, briefed by Cain as to exactly where the enemy was situated, and he retired for a relatively comfortable night’s sleep, confident that he would soon be able to give the Russians the slip and head for the Adriatic coast and thence back to England. Outside the campfire blazed, Russian troops sitting around it, chatting and eating. Cain wondered for a moment whether he should join them, but preferred to rest.

It was a little after midnight that the camp was attacked. To begin with all that Cain knew of it was the screams from nearby tents. His first thought was that somehow his Turkish companions had survived the Russian raid and were coming for their revenge. He looked out of the tent and saw silhouettes flitting through the camp in the glowing firelight, running from tent to tent. Guns fired, but he saw no one fall. He had no gun – the Russians had not trusted him enough to allow him to carry a musket. All they had left him was his beloved double-bladed knife, and he doubted that would be much use against even a sword. He looked around him but could see nothing that might be used for his defence, except possibly the pole that supported the tent itself – a thick stake of wood, almost like a lance.

Before he could do anything to get hold of it, he realized that he was no longer alone. He turned and saw a figure standing at the open flap of the tent. The face was instantly familiar – it had not aged or gained one wrinkle, even in fifteen years.

‘Honoré,’ Cain gasped.

The vampire looked at him, surprised to be addressed by name. An expression of recognition slowly crept across his face.

‘Cain? Richard Cain?’

It was an uncomfortable reunion. They could hardly be regarded as friends. How were a prisoner and his captor supposed to behave when reunited, even if one had finally set the other free? And Cain couldn’t help but notice the blood on the vampire’s lips.

‘I should thank you,’ he said, ‘for keeping your side of the bargain.’

Honoré looked at him quizzically, his head tilted to one side. ‘Your father, you mean?’

Cain nodded.

‘We were hungry,’ said the vampire simply.

‘You still are, it would seem,’ replied Cain, forcing the implication of the plural from his mind.

‘No. This is more for the pleasure of it.’

‘You’re not alone?’ Even though his heart pounded with fear, Cain was still curious. Were these creatures hunting as a team?

‘These are the Carpathians,’ Honoré explained. ‘Here my kind is never alone.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Like foxes in England, or wolves in Russia. You may not see us, but we are there.’

‘You run as a pack?’

‘No, no. We simply gather when we smell food. Many of these creatures I have never met before, nor will ever see again. To be honest, I’m thankful – they’ve been living too long as wild animals.’

‘Not fitting company for a vicomte?’

‘You understand me.’ Honoré’s bloodied teeth showed as he smiled.

‘So why are you here?’

‘One has one’s baser side. The Russians don’t understand the mountains like the locals do. No Wallachian would ever make camp in a place like this. It would reek to them of the undead.’

There was a scream from outside and then a face appeared at the flap of the tent. White fangs glinted in the lamplight, already stained with blood. Angry red eyes flicked from side to side in search of prey. Honoré turned and snarled at his fellow creature, which paused for a moment in contemplation, then turned away. Cain took a few steps back.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘For what?’ asked Honoré.

‘For saving me from your … comrade.’

Honoré emitted a little snort and grinned to himself. ‘Yes, I suppose I was saving you,’ he said. ‘But not in quite the sense you mean. I was saving you’ – he paced swiftly across the tent – ‘for myself.’

Cain backed away, putting the tent pole between himself and the vampire. The tent only opened at one end, and he would have to get past Honoré for that. To cut open the canvas at the side or to crawl under it would take too long.

Honoré lunged, reminding Cain of when he had tried to escape from the crypt beneath Saint George’s. This time there would be no schoolfriend to come to his aid. Cain took a further step back, tugging at the tent pole as he went. The ground was soft and muddy and it came away surprisingly easily, and with a double effect, the first being that Cain now had a weapon in his hand, the second that the cloth of the tent collapsed on both of them.

Cain flattened himself to the ground and crawled backwards, soon finding where the hem of the canvas was stretched tight and level with the ground. It took only the removal of one peg to allow him exit, dragging the pole after him. Honoré did not fare so well. The canvas surrounded him, clinging to him. He scratched against it with his fingers but could find neither a grip nor a gap. The material rose and fell like some stormy sea. Cain held the stake in his hands, ready to thrust, hoping that its legendary effect on a vampire would prove true but unable to make out the creature’s shape clearly enough to strike.

Then the movement calmed. Cain could see where two hands had taken a grip of the cloth and were now holding it close to Honoré’s mouth. He heard a rending sound as the vampire’s teeth cut through the rough canvas and a single eye appeared, angry and searching. Fingertips poked through the tiny hole and pulled it wider, until the whole of Honoré’s face could be seen, his teeth gnashing, his eyes wandering until they fixed upon Cain with a ravenous glare.

But now Cain could make out the position of the body. He charged forward, the tent pole held in front of him like a battering ram. The point, which had been sharp enough to pierce the ground, cut through the tent cloth and penetrated Honoré’s body within. It was like some conjuror’s illusion; beneath the cloth Honoré’s body seemed to disappear. His face, still visible at the rent in the canvas, contorted in a moment of agony, and then relaxed in death. But death was not the end of it. His features collapsed into an expression of tranquillity and then continued to dissolve. Cain caught the image of his flesh melting and cascading off his skull, just before the entire structure of his body crumpled. What remained of the head disappeared back down into the tent, which itself dropped gently, expelling the air trapped within until it was flat on the ground, emitting a little puff of dust from the chimney-like hole at the top. At the time Cain had no idea of what happened to the body of a dead vampire, and neither did he care to look. For some time he even considered the possibility that Honoré had been – like Don Giovanni – dragged down to hell.

Unthinking, Cain cast the stake aside and turned to fly. The camp was in a clearing, and the woods were only steps away. Soon he was in them, but he kept running until the campfire was out of sight. Only the moon, casting dappled shadows through the forest leaves, provided any light. He held his breath and realized he was not alone. The sound of heavy, laboured panting, almost sobbing, came from nearby. He walked in its direction and saw a figure slumped against a tree, his face in his hands. By his uniform it was clear he was one of the Russians; a mere ryadovoy. Cain recognized him from the camp, though they hadn’t spoken. He stood over him.

‘Are there any more?’

The soldier looked up, terror showing in his tearstained eyes. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘No.’

‘What?’ hissed Cain.

‘You’re not … one of them?’

Cain shook his head. ‘I came to the camp today. I’m Russian.’

‘I remember.’ The ryadovoy still looked wary. ‘How did you get away?’

‘I was lucky. I—’

‘Sh!’ the boy interrupted him. Cain was silent. They both listened. The boy’s ears were good; they were not alone. As far as Cain could make out, there were three of them approaching from different directions, but there’d be others behind. There was no chance of survival. Cain had no wooden stake now, only his knife, the one he had originally made to mimic the wounds inflicted by a vampire. And after that thought, the idea came to him in an instant. Honoré had said that the creatures did not know one another. The ryadovoy had mistaken Cain for one of them. Why not? It was a straw to clutch at.

Cain’s knife was already in his hand. He leaned forward, grabbing the soldier by his lapels and lifting him up a little. There was no time for hesitation. He ran the serrated top edges of the blades across the man’s neck, knowing that they would cause the messiest, bloodiest wound. The soldier didn’t even have time to look surprised. His eyes simply rolled back and his body became limp. Cain returned the knife to his pocket and leaned forward further, forcing his mouth and nose into the gaping bloody mess of the ryadovoy’s throat, revolted by the very concept and trying not to taste any blood, worse still swallow it, but knowing that if he was to live then everything must appear authentic.

Soon he sensed he was not alone. Two of the creatures stood close by and the third quickly arrived. Cain raised his head from the tangle of red, glistening flesh and snarled, mimicking the way he had seen Honoré snarl, and hoping that it would convince.

It was a sacrilegious term to apply, but to Cain’s mind it could be thought of as nothing other than a miracle; it worked! The creature towards whom Cain had directed his anger straightened and stepped back, then turned away in search of alternative prey. The other two did likewise. Cain had felt the urge to vomit, but had known he must keep up the pretence, burying his face in the soldier’s flesh and pretending to relish the bitter, metallic taste of his blood.

Now, in an alleyway behind the Twelve Colleges in Petersburg he found himself in a similar stance, hunched over the dying body of a student, much the same age as the ryadovoy he had killed in Wallachia decades earlier. But there were differences. This boy was dying, not dead – that would spoil the taste of the blood. And there lay the bigger distinction: blood which had once been repellent to him, blood which he had let dribble from his lips rather than have a drop of it run down his throat and into his stomach, was now a delight. It was a necessity – and for years after Iuda had first become a voordalak he had pretended to himself that it was only a necessity – but it was more than that too. It was blissful. He tried to recall the sense of revulsion he had felt with that ryadovoy, but it was lost to him. He could remember the event, but not the sensation. However much he attempted to bring to mind how he had once felt, the only experience that came to him was the joy of a vampire tasting human blood, and an irritation that the fool of a boy he had then been did not bother properly to drink.

He let the student drop to the ground. He was dead, and Iuda was replete. Now he needed to find somewhere to sleep. It was too late to go to the hotel; it would arouse suspicion. Besides, for the moment he wanted to be nothing other than a vampire – he wanted to sleep with the dead. The Smolenskoye Cemetery was not far; he would spend the day there.

In Wallachia, when he had finally decided his pretence with the soldier’s corpse had gone on long enough, he had returned to the camp to find the other vampires there, sitting around the embers of the fire, chatting just as the soldiers had done earlier in the evening. Some chewed on hunks of raw flesh, not bothering to cook them. Hours before Cain would not have been able to control his urge to vomit, but he had already stomached much worse.

He was not the only newcomer. Two or three of the creatures introduced themselves and Cain made up a story for his own arrival, which seemed to satisfy the gathering. Among them was a Wallachian, a priest in life, by the name of Sordin Iordanescu. Over the next few years Cain came to know him well, though later under a pseudonym: Pyetr to Cain’s Iuda. During his three years in the Carpathians Cain continued his study of vampires, though not the full-scale experimentation he would later pursue.

But even in the Carpathians the affairs of great men could not be ignored. By 1812 Bonaparte was preparing for his march across Europe and into Russia. It was Iordanescu who told Cain that the vampires of Wallachia were being summoned by the greatest vampire of them all, that they would join forces with Russia and send the French scurrying back to their homeland. Cain was tempted, but feared he would be discovered. In the end his curiosity got the better of him. He’d already heard of this great vampire from Honoré, and of his feud with the Romanovs. It was the creature he would come to know as Zmyeevich. But that was not the name that either Honoré or Iordanescu had used – the Russian form of his name was to come later. The name they called him by was Romanian.

The name was Dracula.