The People's Will

Chapter XVIII



‘DON’T MOVE,’ SAID mihail, his voice clear and steady in the enclosed space.

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ replied Dmitry.

‘Because I have this aimed at your heart.’ He jerked the arbalyet a little so that Dmitry would know what he meant.

Dmitry eyed the weapon, but did not move. ‘I take it this is more than revenge for our encounter the other day,’ he said.

‘Much more.’

‘And that our paths crossing both here and in Geok Tepe is more than simple coincidence.’

Mihail nodded. Dmitry thought for a moment, giving Mihail time to do the same.

‘Please, may I at least sit up?’ Dmitry asked.

‘Very well, but don’t stand,’ Mihail replied. The extra seconds it might take Dmitry to rise to his feet could mean the difference between life and death. Mihail backed away a little, so as to be too far for Dmitry to lunge at. He felt something against his thighs, stopping his movement, and realized it was the walled side of the pool. He took a few steps sideways, so that he could see both Dmitry and the door, then leaned back against one of the closed cupboards, making himself a little more comfortable. Meanwhile Dmitry had raised his body and pulled his knees up. He had nothing to lean back against, so he hugged them for support. Despite his stature he looked small and pathetic.

‘You didn’t expect to find me here, did you?’ said Dmitry, suddenly a little more confident.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because this is not my home. You came here for just the same reason you went to Geok Tepe; for the same reason I went there – to find Iuda.’

‘That’s very astute.’

‘Thank you.’ Dmitry smiled and shifted his position a little. Mihail raised the arbalyet an inch or two, just as a reminder that it was still there. ‘The question is,’ Dmitry continued, ‘are you a friend or an enemy of Iuda?’

‘The question is, are you?’

‘How can you ask that? You saw what happened at Geok Tepe.’

‘You’re a vampire. Your allegiances can change with the flicker of an eyelid.’

‘You seem to know a lot about my breed.’

‘I’ve been studying for a long time. I know enough.’

‘So why don’t you simply kill me?’ Dmitry asked.

‘I’m considering it.’ Mihail realized that he was losing control of the conversation. It should be him asking the questions. ‘Whose is the other coffin?’

‘It’s just a spare.’

Mihail shook his head. He already suspected the answer, but still he needed it confirmed. ‘No. In Geok Tepe you spoke of “we”. So whose is it?’

‘So you understood us; you speak English.’

Mihail said nothing. Dmitry thought for a moment more before speaking.

‘That means you also heard our conversation concerning Luka Miroslavich; which would explain why you sought him out … though not how you found his address, or even that he lived in Petersburg.’

‘You didn’t cover your tracks very well,’ said Mihail. It was an unnecessary bluff; he would have done better to say nothing. ‘I’ll ask again, who’s with you?’

Dmitry completely ignored the question. ‘Have you any idea where Iuda is now?’ he asked instead.

‘In the Pyetropavlovskaya, where you left him.’ Mihail deliberately understated his knowledge, hoping to tease something out of Dmitry.

‘I wish that were the case, but I’m afraid he was freed. He must have friends in some very high places. We’ve no idea where he is now.’

‘There’s that “we” again.’

‘You really don’t want to know.’

‘I don’t suppose you actually call him a friend.’ Mihail looked for a flicker of reaction, but saw nothing. He tried goading Dmitry. ‘It’s been, what, a quarter of a century you’ve been a vampire? You can’t have made many friends. An entire human lifetime, and how many vampires have you met? How many that you can trust? Two? One? None?’

Dmitry’s eyes narrowed and his lips pressed hard together, becoming pale. For a moment Mihail thought that he’d got to him, but again he seemed to regard himself as in control.

‘Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin – that’s your name, isn’t it?’ he said, peering closely at Mihail. ‘My father had a friend called Lukin. He was killed by Iuda – well, killed by Iuda in the way that we all were; me, Raisa, Papa. He causes it to happen, but he keeps his hands clean. Anyway – Maks died a long, long time ago. You’re not a relative, are you?’

Mihail said nothing.

‘No, I don’t think you are,’ Dmitry continued. ‘Not of Uncle Maks, anyway.’

‘No,’ said Mihail, ‘not of Uncle Maks.’ He guessed where Dmitry was leading, and did not mind.

‘I remember,’ said Dmitry, speaking more loudly, as if this were an entirely new topic, ‘sitting in a restaurant in Moscow, many years ago – eating blini, as I recall. And I looked into the eyes of the woman opposite me – brown eyes, just like yours. She had red hair too, like yours, but brighter, more vibrant. Anyway, I looked at her and in an instant I just knew that she was my sister – a sister I hadn’t even known existed until that moment.’

Mihail kept his silence, trying not to show any reaction.

‘Tamara – that was her name.’ Dmitry looked Mihail square in the eye. ‘How is your mother?’

‘How’s yours?’ asked Mihail, brutally.

Dmitry burst into loud, mocking laughter. ‘Touché, Mihail. That would really hurt, if I cared any more about my mother than I do about yours.’

‘You cared about your father.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘You didn’t want him to know what you had become.’

‘I didn’t want him to hear it from Iuda’s lips.’

‘So why are you pursuing him now?’ asked Mihail. ‘Aleksei is long dead.’

‘Does it really matter? Your reasons for finding Iuda are so much better, so much more noble, more human. You do it out of pure hatred.’

‘I don’t deny it.’

‘And that’s why you’ll succeed. For my part …’ Dmitry suddenly stopped, as though he had forgotten what he was going to say. He looked confused; deflated. Then he spoke with sudden resolve. ‘I’m going away.’

‘Away?’

‘From Russia. From Europe. To some undiscovered country. There’s a new world out there. America. Africa. Australia. America, I think.’

Mihail was astounded. ‘Why?’ he asked.

‘It’s a nice long way away,’ Dmitry said simply.

‘From Iuda?’

Dmitry’s mood changed again. ‘I’m quite indifferent to Iuda. But we need what he has. That’s why we hate him.’

It was a bizarre contradiction, but it seemed like a chink in the armour.

‘And what does he have?’ Mihail asked.

‘He has our blood,’ said Dmitry.

‘Your blood?’

‘Yes!’

‘Your blood?’ Mihail switched from the plural to the singular form of ‘your’.

‘No.’ Dmitry shook his head irritably.

Again, it made little sense, except somewhere deep in Dmitry’s mind. ‘And what about Ascalon?’ Mihail asked.

Dmitry looked up at him eagerly. ‘Does he have it? Do you know where it is?’

‘You think he has it?’

Dmitry paled suddenly. His eyes flickered across every corner of the cellar. ‘He’s coming,’ he said. ‘You must go.’

‘Who’s coming?’

‘Zmyeevich. He mustn’t find you here.’

Mihail was unsurprised by the revelation; he’d always suspected it to be the explanation of the ‘we’ that Dmitry had used. He was more puzzled by Dmitry’s strange clairvoyance. ‘How do you know?’ he asked.

‘Just go!’ screamed Dmitry. As he spoke he rose up from his coffin and flung himself towards Mihail. Mihail flinched and tried to back away, but found only the wall behind him. Instinctively his finger tightened on the trigger of the crossbow and the bolt was released. For a moment he felt a pang of sorrow – he had not intended to kill Dmitry, or at least not yet decided to. It didn’t matter. He had not been aiming and the bolt embedded itself in Dmitry’s arm. His hand went to it and he pulled it out with little effort.

‘Go,’ he shouted again.

Dmitry’s conviction was compelling, his terror infectious. Mihail stood in momentary confusion, then turned and fled, fumbling to load another bolt into the arbalyet as his feet carried him involuntarily across the floor. It was only when he was in the dark tunnel that he realized he had left his lamp behind, but he dared not go back. He knew that Zmyeevich might already have entered that same passageway from the other end and if so he was trapped. He hadn’t realized that he and Dmitry had talked for so long, and that above it was now dark enough for Zmyeevich to make his way through the streets and back to his bed.

He stumbled and fell. He was at the stairs. He heard the bolt spill on to the floor, but made no attempt to find it. He scrambled up the hard stone steps, his free hand waving the crossbow in front of him, even though it was no longer loaded, ever turning to the right with the spiral of the steps. Soon he was in the upper corridor and moments later at the door. His fingers fumbled for the catch and eventually found it. He stepped out into the cathedral.

He was back outside the Nevsky Chapel. A monk was kneeling in prayer. He turned at the sound of Mihail’s arrival, but did not notice where he had come from. Mihail breathed deeply, and quickly hid the bow in his bag. There was no sign of Zmyeevich. Mihail walked briskly into the main body of the cathedral and then out on to Senate Square.

It was only then that he realized his fears had been groundless. It was still daylight. Zmyeevich could no more have been returning to the cathedral than Mihail could have flown to the moon – Kibalchich’s rocket notwithstanding. Dmitry had been mistaken. But then Dmitry had begun to behave very strangely indeed. It was a weakness that Mihail would exploit, if he got the chance.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ Colonel Mrovinskiy’s tone was of surprise rather than disdain.

‘Yes,’ replied Mihail. ‘Expecting someone else?’

‘You want to see him?’

‘As soon as possible.’

‘It won’t take long; he’s in town – they both are. Meet me in an hour in Palace Square.’

Mihail was there ten minutes early. He stared up at the angel that topped the monument to Aleksandr I, designed like Saint Isaac’s by Auguste de Montferrand, in this case in honour of the present tsar’s uncle. Mihail stopped himself; that was an odd way to put it. Mihail’s own great-uncle would be a more direct way to describe him, though it was still difficult to see him that way, even after meeting Konstantin. Mihail’s uncle on his mother’s side was a more pressing concern. He’d tried to piece together what he had learned.

It was no great revelation that Dmitry and Zmyeevich were working hand in glove. It had always been a likelihood; Mihail remembered when he had first raised the possibility to Tamara. Both vampires had reason to hate Iuda; that would be enough to draw them together. Mihail shared that common purpose, and so it might be that he too would inadvertently join that alliance. But he would be wary of Zmyeevich, even more so than of Dmitry. Dmitry had not harmed him in that chamber beneath the cathedral, but it meant nothing. Dmitry’s behaviour had been erratic; bordering on madness. Mihail tried to fathom a reason for it, but there was no explanation. He knew that he could not count on his safety next time – and yet there had to be a next time.

He saw Mrovinskiy emerge from the Winter Palace before the colonel caught sight of him. He strode over and Mrovinskiy stopped and waited. They entered by the door through which Mrovinskiy had come and he led Mihail along a narrow back corridor that seemed to run for half the length of the building. They turned left and up a flight of stairs and the passage opened up into a hall that was filled with scaffolding. No men were at work, but Mihail could see that the whole room was being repainted – in places the wall was being rebuilt.

‘This is thanks to the bomb last year,’ said Mrovinskiy. ‘Eleven good men dead – others maimed. I hope your friends are pleased with themselves.’

Mihail felt the urge to protest, but there was little point. He noted that his activities were known of in these circles. Konstantin and even Aleksandr might understand the reasons for what he was doing, but others did not, and without their protection he could easily suffer whatever punishment befell any other member of the People’s Will. He did not relish following in Aleksei’s footsteps and spending the next thirty years of his life in exile – or worse.

At last they came to a room on the far side of the palace, overlooking the Neva. Mrovinskiy left Mihail there alone. He wandered nervously, looking first out across the frozen river and then examining the artwork – if that was the word for the panoply of erotica that bedecked the walls. One particular painting caught his eye: a young woman reclined on a bed, the top of her head towards the viewer so that her face couldn’t be seen, the curls of her hair falling across her neck and shoulder, her breasts splayed by the force of gravity, but still pert. A hunched, muscular figure bent over her, leering at those breasts. He pushed her legs up close to her, bent double, with a hand on her buttock as he entered her, though the details of that were not visible. The dark hue of his skin contrasted with the milkiness of hers. His nose was sharp and pointed, as was the angle of his eyebrows, all aimed at the object of his desire. The oddest thing about him was his ears – pointed like a bat’s. For a moment Mihail thought of the woman as Dusya; there was some resemblance in the blonde curls of her hair, but Dusya’s body was more petite. Perhaps Sofia would have made a more fitting model, although Mihail could not find it in him to see her as an object of man’s desire. For no good reason, the male figure made him think of Iuda, and he tried to push the thought from his mind.

‘Engaging, isn’t it?’

Mihail turned. It was Konstantin.

‘It has a certain … curiosity to it,’ said Mihail, returning his attention to the picture.

‘It’s by Zichi – the Hungarian. It’s called “The Witch and the Devil”.’

‘Her identity is the less obvious.’

Konstantin chuckled.

Mihail turned to him. ‘I can’t say I share your tastes.’

‘My tastes? Good Lord, no. This is Sasha’s private study.’

‘It must be distracting.’

Konstantin had no time to either confirm or deny the suggestion; at that moment the tsar himself entered.

‘Your Majesty,’ said Mihail, bowing. Aleksandr gave a brief nod of acknowledgement.

‘You have news?’

‘I do. Zmyeevich is in Petersburg; I’m sure of it.’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘No, but I’ve spoken to someone who has.’

‘You know where he’s made his nest?’

‘No.’ Mihail realized only at the last moment that he should lie about it. Aleksandr’s concern – that of the whole Romanov dynasty – was with Zmyeevich. If Mihail told him of that chamber beneath Senate Square he would rush in there with a squad of specially armed men, intent on dealing with Zmyeevich once and for all – and would very likely succeed. But it could send Iuda scurrying in fear, and Mihail might lose track of him for years, if not for ever. Aleksandr might have some desire to assist Mihail in his quest, but for him it was a side issue. ‘But I’m working on it,’ he added.

Aleksandr eyed him, but if he doubted Mihail’s word there was little he could do.

‘Can we help in that?’

‘Not as yet. Your help with Iuda would be of greater value.’

‘You’ve found him?’ asked Konstantin.

‘I had. He was in the Peter and Paul Fortress, but not any more. I’d like to know who ordered his release.’

‘We’ll look into it. What name was he using?’ said Konstantin. At the same time Mihail noticed Aleksandr nervously straightening his moustache with his fingers. It would seem that he already knew plenty of what Iuda had been up to.

‘He had rooms at the Hôtel d’Europe under the name Vasiliy Grigoryevich Chernetskiy, but he has other aliases.’

Konstantin noted it down. ‘Had rooms?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think he’ll go back there, but it may be worth asking a few questions. Has Zmyeevich tried to make contact in any way?’

‘No,’ said the tsar guardedly, ‘but I have some idea of his plans.’

‘What?’ This was evidently news to Konstantin.

‘How?’ asked Mihail.

‘You forget – I can see parts of his mind.’

‘So what is his plan?’ asked Konstantin.

‘I think he’s given up on me,’ explained the tsar.

‘After a hundred and seventy years? I very much doubt it.’

‘Given up on me, not on us. He thinks he stands a better chance with my son.’

‘Does he?’ asked Mihail.

The tsar remained silent. Konstantin filled the gap with ‘Of course not,’ but there was little enthusiasm to it.

‘But if that’s his plan,’ said Mihail, ‘then his only interest in you would be to see your death.’

Aleksandr paused. His face was grey. His brother took a step towards him, but Aleksandr waved him back. At last he spoke, but it seemed to have nothing to do with the matter at hand.

‘Fifteen years ago I visited Paris. I was the guest of the emperor, Napoleon III. He was not to remain emperor for very long. It was just a year since my son Niks died. A year too since Lincoln was murdered, after he’d freed his slaves. I was walking in the Tuileries Gardens. There was a gypsy there and she read my palm. She was very honest – perhaps she didn’t understand who I was. She told me that she foresaw seven attempts to murder me, that six times my life would hang by a thread and that the seventh attempt would be the last.’

Mihail said nothing. He began to count the number of times they had attempted to kill Aleksandr, but the tsar provided the answer for him.

‘So far there have been six plots – shootings, bombings – but all with the intent of seeing me dead.’

‘The next attempt will come soon,’ announced Mihail. ‘They’re digging a tunnel underneath Malaya Sadovaya Street.’ Even as he spoke, he was realizing the full meaning of what he had witnessed there. ‘They’re going to fill it with nitroglycerin and blow you up as you ride over.’

‘Then that,’ replied the tsar, ‘will be seven.’

Iuda looked down into the cathedral, in precisely the opposite direction to most of those who came to view its architectural splendour. They would strain their necks to look up at the dome from the floor below, whereas he was perched among the gilded angels that ringed the lower reaches of Saint Isaac’s central tower, and could look down and see all who came and all who departed. He had arrived here soon after dark on Sunday evening, mingling with the congregation who came for vespers before slipping up one of the many staircases that were hidden within the church’s thick stone walls. The people had left and then the priest had left and all had become silent.

The two figures had emerged from the corner beside the Nevsky Chapel; one tall, the other taller still. Zmyeevich and Dmitry. They slipped out of the cathedral and into the darkness. Iuda waited. He had last fed the night before, so he was neither distracted by hunger nor drowsy with satisfaction. He spent some time wandering around the quiet, empty building, remembering his conversations with de Montferrand and how he had needed to couch the necessities of his modifications in terms of the aesthetics that would appeal to the architect’s mind. But what Iuda had planned was beautiful, regardless of its function – anyone would see that, when the sun shone.

He skulked back to his perch to wait. In the small hours Zmyeevich returned, alone. Iuda guessed that Dmitry would not be far behind, but he was wrong. Soon dawn began to break. Beams of light cut across the geometric patterns of the marble floor as the earliest rays of the sun entered from the east through the building’s long windows. To the south and east he had opened every door, every shutter and every gate to ensure that the sun should fill the space inside. A cathedral should be a place of light – that’s what he’d said to de Montferrand. But a cathedral should be a place of shadow too, and knowing the paths of shadow through the light could be of great benefit to a vampire.

He waited a few more hours. It was Monday, and the church would be quiet for most of the day, and he would be safer if the sun was allowed to get a little higher – the ideal inclination had been calculated with utmost precision. At about ten o’clock he began to move. He would not confront Zmyeevich down in the cellar below – that would be suicidal. But it would be simple enough to lure him up to the cathedral, where light would be Iuda’s friend.

And then came a slight perturbation to Iuda’s plans. The northern door of the cathedral creaked open and in walked a figure that Iuda had scarcely paid attention to when first they met, but who had thwarted him since. It was the lieutenant from Geok Tepe – Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin – now, so Iuda had learned, an enthusiastic recruit to the People’s Will. It was no surprise that Lukin was working for Zmyeevich, alongside Dmitry, but it was pleasant for Iuda to have his speculation confirmed. And it made no difference to his plans. Lukin could be easily disposed of – he was only human, as his comfortable stroll across the sunlit floor of the church demonstrated. It took him just moments to find the hidden switches in Saint Paul’s toes and disappear behind the icon. Iuda would deal with him before he could even reach his master, somewhere in the dark of the tunnels, where Iuda would be at his strongest and Lukin at his most vulnerable.

He lowered himself from the pedestal of the statue behind which he hid, and began to climb down into the nave.

Some might call it foolhardy, but Mihail could think of no other option. He had to speak to Dmitry again. The cathedral was quieter today than when he had last come here – empty. He quickly crossed to the icon of Saint Paul and within moments was in the passageway. He proceeded slowly, but with a little more confidence than on his previous visit; he knew what lay ahead. At least he did in terms of the geography – whether in the chamber below he would find Dmitry or Zmyeevich or both or neither he could not be sure.

He was at the steps. He began his stealthy descent, always turning to the left, never able to see beyond the curve of the wall, but he found no one on the stairs. Soon the dark gap of the lower corridor appeared as a tall black rectangle. His lamp shone against the wall, and with each step, light penetrated further along the passageway, although Mihail knew that the door at the end was too far away to be seen with such dim illumination.

He continued along the corridor, out under Senate Square, lamp still held high, arbalyet gripped and ready to shoot. He turned back to check behind him, and saw the slightest of movements, but realized it was nothing but the dancing shadows cast by the rough, uneven walls. He reached the door and put his lamp on the ground, using his free hand to try the handle.

It was locked.

This time, though, he had come prepared. In his bag was a crowbar. It should be easily strong enough to break through. Before he could reach for it he heard a sound, back up the corridor behind him. He turned, raising the lamp again. Still there were only shadows, but at that moment he realized his mistake. The walls on his last visit had not been uneven. They bulged a little with age, but generally he had been impressed by the quality of their construction.

He stepped forward, holding the lamp close to the passage wall to maximize the length of the shadow as he moved ever nearer to the indistinct shape. He was only paces away when he at last saw the figure, pressed into the shadows of the stone wall, motionless and invisible when viewed from the front, but casting a shadow once the light was beside it. Mihail should have been prepared for it – he knew how vampires chose to conceal themselves.

Mihail froze and the voordalak moved, aware that he had been seen. He stepped out from the wall and his body filled the corridor. It was not Dmitry. There was no real doubt as to who it was: Zmyeevich. Mihail had never seen him in the flesh, and yet he seemed so familiar. Even Tamara had not met him; her description came from Aleksei, and the few short hours that he and the arch vampire had spent in each other’s company, seventy years before.

Zmyeevich had not changed one iota. He was an impressive man. His age could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy. A domed forehead was underlined by thick, bushy eyebrows which topped a thin, aristocratic nose. Arched nostrils were almost hidden by a long moustache of dark iron-grey, which contributed to a general air of unkemptness.

It took Mihail only an instant to take all of that in, and then he raised his crossbow and squeezed the trigger, not even pausing to relish the moment – this was not Iuda. The bolt cut the air, faster than Mihail’s eyes could track it, but Zmyeevich’s movement was faster still. His hand was in one place and the next instant in another. If he had been bothered he might have snatched the bolt from the air in mid-flight, but that was unnecessary. He merely brushed it aside with a casual blow of his hand and it slipped past him, level with his heart, but inches to the right. Mihail heard the scraping sound of its ricochet from the wall and moments later the clatter as it hit the floor.

Zmyeevich said nothing. He approached calmly, his lips forming into a smile which spread into a grin, revealing his fangs. Mihail thought to reload, but realized it would be useless – the crossbow had failed once, why should it succeed on a second attempt? He understood how ill-prepared he was. All that remained were his swords. He drew them both – the sabre in his right hand and the short wooden dagger in his left. There was not much room to wield the longer weapon down here, but Mihail felt more comfortable with it. Despite the hours of daily practice in how to use the little dagger that his mother had forced upon him, the army had trained him better with a more conventional blade. And anyway, he doubted he would have the chance to plunge the wooden blade into Zmyeevich’s heart whichever hand it was in. He would feel happier to die defending himself like a soldier.

The voordalak continued to walk forward and Mihail felt the hard wood of the door at his back. There was no choice but to stand his ground. Zmyeevich took another pace and Mihail saw his chance; he lunged forward, aiming the wooden dagger straight for Zmyeevich’s heart, but again the vampire was too quick. He clasped the blade in his right hand and with a sharp twist wrenched it from Mihail’s grip, casting it on the ground behind him. Now Mihail had only his sabre.

Then from over Zmyeevich’s shoulder, far down the passageway, there was a glimmer of light. Zmyeevich perceived it too. He turned away to look, presenting his back to Mihail. Beyond him Mihail could see the flickering flame – most likely a candle – sway from side to side as whoever was carrying it approached, but did not waste a moment in trying to make out who was coming. He raised his sabre. His only chance was to behead Zmyeevich, but there was no room to make the broad horizontal swing that might have achieved it. Instead Mihail could only bring the blade down diagonally.

It caught Zmyeevich just at the point where his shoulder curved into his neck, embedding itself a few inches and drawing blood. Its only effect was to enrage Zmyeevich. He turned and in the same motion swung his arm, catching Mihail’s jaw with the back of his hand and sending him flying into the door behind. The sword fell from Mihail’s hand and his head slammed against the wood. He slid to the ground, scarcely conscious, and stared upwards. Zmyeevich towered over him, considering, preparing to deal the final blow.

But instead the voordalak turned again to face the advancing figure, his body blocking it from Mihail’s view.

‘You!’ snarled Zmyeevich.

‘Why not?’ The voice was instantly recognizable – it was Iuda.

‘I’m surprised you dare.’

‘Remember, Ţepeş, I am the master here.’

‘The years have taught you nothing,’ said Zmyeevich. He set off down the corridor towards Iuda, walking but at a tremendous pace. Mihail heard Iuda’s feet moving quickly, the rapid patter of them climbing the spiral stairs. Zmyeevich was relentless in his pursuit. Soon both were gone. Mihail forced himself to his feet. His head swam but he knew he must move. If either one of them were to return then down here he would be vulnerable, but up there in the cathedral it was light – the domain of the living, not the undead.

He moved quickly, picking up lamp, sabre and arbalyet and only pausing a little way down the corridor to grab the wooden dagger from where Zmyeevich had cast it. Soon he was at the foot of the stairs, but then he stopped. The fact that there was daylight in the cathedral might mean something else – that the two vampires would remain in the corridor. Mihail had no choice but to go on, but he would at least be prepared. He returned his sabre to its scabbard and the dagger to his coat, then he reloaded the crossbow. However ineffective it might have been before, he’d be a fool to abandon it. He pressed onwards.

Even as he reached the top of the stairs, he perceived that it was getting lighter. Once in the upper corridor he saw that, at the end, the doorway behind the icon was open. Evidently there was enough shade for them to step out into the cathedral. For Mihail, it meant a chance of freedom. He ran forward, but paused as he reached the doorway. He peeked out from behind it.

Zmyeevich stood a little way ahead, to the side of the Beautiful Gate and looking into the centre of the nave, leaning against a pillar. He was in shadow, but even the ambient light was bright. Iuda stood directly beneath the dome, upright and confident. Around him, beams of light cut through the air, entering through the tall windows in the walls of the church and coming down from the dome through the windows there, making the space far brighter than Mihail had known it to be in any other cathedral. But somehow, Iuda had found himself a safe place to stand, at a point where he seemed certain that no light would hit him.

‘You begin to understand why I led you here,’ Iuda was saying, addressing Zmyeevich. He had not seen Mihail.

‘You led us here?’ said Zmyeevich.

‘Don’t pretend, Ţepeş. It should be obvious enough from the fact that I escaped you within minutes of our arriving here. Do you think that I didn’t know my house in Moscow had information that would bring you here? Do you think I failed to understand what you’d see in that mirror down there?’

‘But still you came back.’

‘Of course I did, because there’s more to this – much more.’

As he spoke, Iuda began to walk, almost dance across the floor, weaving between the sun’s rays as they cast a pattern that Mihail could only guess he knew by heart. Zmyeevich remained motionless. He was not trapped by the light, but there was no obvious safe path to reach Iuda. All he could do was wait.

‘All you seem to have is a means of temporary protection from me,’ said Zmyeevich, ‘but it will soon fade. You cannot leave here until darkness falls.’

‘I assure you I can.’ Iuda continued his motion as he spoke, sometimes leaning so that his body was parallel with the sun’s sloping rays, allowing him to closely avoid them. At one moment a wisp of smoke rose from his ear as it brushed against the light, but it did not perturb him. ‘I know of more dark tunnels leading out of here than the one you just crawled from.’

‘So,’ said Zmyeevich, ‘you are safe from me. And equally I am safe from you. In that case, what was the point of you coming here?’

‘To talk.’

‘Talk then.’

Iuda paused, and then began. ‘I don’t want to be your enemy, Ţepeş. You know that.’

‘You want to be my equal. I cannot allow that.’

‘Oh, come on! How could I ever be the equal of the great Count Dracula?’

‘You couldn’t,’ said Zmyeevich simply, ‘but you still desire it. I should have guessed it the moment we met. But then you were merely human.’

‘Well if I can’t equal you, you have nothing to fear from me. Surely you’ll allow me the fantasy of my forlorn hope?’

‘You’re nothing, Cain,’ said Zmyeevich. ‘If I allow you to live, it is because I have better things to do with my time.’

‘Such as ruling Russia?’

Zmyeevich was silent.

‘We worked together on that once,’ said Iuda. ‘We could again.’

‘You can assist me?’

‘No, but I have the power to hinder you, and I can choose not to use it.’

‘What power?’

‘I have your blood, Ţepeş.’

‘With it you can cause me pain, nothing more.’

‘If a Romanov were willingly to drink your blood, and share your mind, then he would free his entire generation from your influence. If that Romanov were of little consequence, then he would free the tsar.’

‘He would have to do it willingly,’ said Zmyeevich, ‘and even then, there will be future generations.’

‘If he were to die, with your blood in him, he would become a voordalak – your vampire offspring. You would control him. And yet your chances to influence any other Romanov would cease. Your fox would have been shot, as we say in England.’

Zmyeevich considered for a moment. ‘You don’t speak as someone who does not want to be my enemy.’

‘I’m being honest with you, Ţepeş. That is what friends do – or had you forgotten?’

‘It’s still a better reason to see you die than to let you live.’

‘Currently that’s not an option for you, though, is it?’ Iuda waved a hand lightly in the air, reminding Zmyeevich of the sunlight. He did a little pirouette and moved to a different patch of shade. Mihail noticed him looking at the floor, with its intricate mosaic of checks and spirals, as he moved. Was there some map embedded in them that allowed him to know with such confidence where he would be safe?

Zmyeevich remained silent.

‘I can of course offer you Ascalon,’ said Iuda, ‘if that would sweeten the deal.’

‘Ascalon?’

‘Oh yes, I know all about that, Ţepeş.’

‘Pyotr tore it from where it hung around my neck, even as his blood was on my lips.’

‘What do you care?’ asked Iuda.

‘It made me what I am. I unearthed it – four centuries ago. The dragon’s blood still stained it. I tasted it. I became … me.’

‘And if it is destroyed you believe you will return to what you were before?’

Zmyeevich stiffened, disconcerted by the depth of Iuda’s understanding. He nodded slowly in agreement.

‘Superstition!’ exclaimed Iuda. ‘Claptrap!’

‘You say I don’t know my own history?’

‘You have a medieval mind, Ţepeş. How could a primitive like you be expected to understand the processes which control his own body? But then who am I to question a man’s beliefs, when I can exploit them instead. I can offer you Ascalon. Or I can destroy it, and we’ll discover which of us is correct about its power. I do hope I’m proved wrong.’

‘You do not have Ascalon,’ said Zmyeevich. ‘Pyotr entrusted it to the Armenians. They buried it – and soon we shall unearth it.’

Iuda smiled tightly – confidently. ‘Then it seems there is nothing I can offer you,’ he said.

Zmyeevich stood upright, moving away from the pillar. He took a few cautious steps, eyeing the beams of sunlight. Mihail took the opportunity to scurry forward a little, finding a new hiding place close to the entrance to the chapel, where he was bathed in the sun’s protective rays.

‘You’re wrong,’ said Zmyeevich. ‘You do have something I want – and that I will take from you. You have your life.’

Iuda chuckled, but there was no hint that Zmyeevich had spoken with anything but the utmost conviction. The arch voordalak took a deep breath and seemed to tense himself, like someone about to dive into water that they knew to be cold. Then he took a pace forward.

The sunlight enveloped him.

Mihail gasped and Iuda’s face fell into an expression of genuine bewilderment. Both waited to see the vampire’s body reduce in seconds to powdered ash, but the transformation that did take place was far less spectacular – and infinitely more surprising.

Zmyeevich aged before their eyes. He became wizened. His skin grew thin and wrinkled, sucked in at his cheeks. He began to stoop forward, his spine curving. The hair of his head, and even his moustache, grew white. For Mihail, the metamorphosis transformed Zmyeevich into a familiar figure – the old man to whom he had spoken as they stood at the foot of the Bronze Horseman, the man who had first told him about Ascalon. Mihail had stood there in broad daylight, conducting a conversation with Zmyeevich himself. And – because it was broad daylight – he had never for a moment suspected.

Iuda simply gawped; his confidence evaporated, his arrogant goading silenced.

It was Zmyeevich who spoke first – the sound still resonant and grinding, unaffected by the sunlight. Clearly when he had been speaking to Mihail he had been disguising his voice to be in keeping with his physical appearance.

‘Who are you to presume to understand my body?’ he asked. ‘Do you think that after four hundred years I’m unaware of my own capabilities?’

‘But …’ Iuda’s terror robbed him of the power of speech. ‘Every vampire … I experimented … They all … None of them could face the sun … They burned.’

‘They were young,’ said Zmyeevich. ‘I have had time; time to learn how to face the pain; time to expose myself, and recover, and expose myself again.’

‘But your blood. When I threw that into the sun you screamed in agony.’

‘The skin protects the blood,’ explained Zmyeevich. ‘But even then I was not as able to endure the light as I am now. I was not as confident of my strength. The sun weakens me, as you can see, but it does not kill.’ As he spoke he straightened up, stretching his shoulders, as if becoming inured to the light. ‘I wonder if you can boast of the same.’

With that he paced across the cathedral floor, heading directly towards Iuda, slower than if he had been at the zenith of his strength, but fast enough to reach his goal. Iuda turned and fled and although he was quicker, he was forced to follow a far more circuitous path as he dodged the splashes of light that had so recently been his allies. Zmyeevich was soon upon him and flung himself forward on to the marble floor, grabbing Iuda’s ankle in his hand. Iuda fell and turned as he went down. His left hand was flung outwards into a pool of sunlight and erupted with smoke and steam.

Iuda screamed and snatched his hand away, but now Zmyeevich was crawling towards him. Zmyeevich was still weakened by his exposure to the light, while Iuda remained strong but was compelled to stay in the shade. He kicked at Zmyeevich’s face with his free foot, and kicked again. Zmyeevich was forced to let go. Iuda rolled on to his stomach and in moments was back on his feet, running, his injured hand cradled against his chest. He made for an archway in the south-east corner of the nave, still dodging from side to side to avoid the light. Soon he disappeared and Mihail heard his feet pounding against stone steps. Zmyeevich was only seconds behind him.

Mihail stepped out into the nave, feeling strangely elated by this turn of events. All his life he had wanted the pleasure of killing Iuda himself, but to see his foe so thoroughly outwitted and humiliated was almost as gratifying. The sounds of the two vampires’ footsteps faded, but Mihail had no intention of pursuing them. Instead he stared up at the dome above him, hoping that he might catch some glimpse of their continuing battle.

He was not disappointed. Iuda appeared first and Zmyeevich moments later. Somehow they had found their way to opposite sides of the circular gallery that ran around the inside of the tower at the foot of its windows, just above the heads of the golden statues. They locked eyes for a moment, each wondering which direction the other would take, but it was Zmyeevich who moved first, setting off clockwise. Iuda did the same, but as he ran past each of the windows the light caught him and another cloud of smoke rose above him.

After three windows he could take no more pain. He stood with his back pressed against the outer wall of the gallery, where at least he was in shade. Zmyeevich quickly followed the path of the semicircle which separated them and soon he was face to face with Iuda. He reached out, ready to drag his enemy into the light.

Iuda leapt. Mihail’s eyes followed him as he descended through the gallery, past the twelve gilded angels and down towards the floor of the nave, his eyes wide, his arms flailing, his legs kicking against the air as though he thought to swim up, away from the ground.

The sound of his impact with the floor came from a mixture of sources, the breath being knocked from his body, the cracking of his bones, the squelch of his less rigid body parts splayed against the marble. It did not kill him, but his body lay as an unrecognizable jumble in the middle of the church, with arms and legs sticking out at all angles, like a broken puppet. He was lucky to have landed in shade. Only his leg caught the sunlight, and where the cloth of his trousers had been pulled up the flesh of his ankle began to burn. He pulled his leg away, but the booted foot remained where it was, its contents smouldering to nothing, leaving the boot empty.

Above, Zmyeevich began his more controlled descent. He had swung himself over the railing of the gallery and was clambering down one of the four great pillars that supported the tower. It was an eerie sight. Unlike any human climber, he descended head first, his body pressed close to the stonework. His fingers grasped any corner or crevice they could find, moving downwards with enormous speed. Mihail was reminded of a lizard traversing a wall. In seconds he was at floor level. He took no notice of Mihail, but strode over to Iuda’s crumpled body, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him across the marble. The look on Zmyeevich’s face was one of impatient anger – he wanted to be rid of Iuda and rid of him quickly.

Mihail had not noticed until now, but in the iconostasis in front of the altar the Beautiful Gate had been opened. It was unusual in any church. Iuda must have done it himself to allow more light in, when he thought it would protect him. What was revealed behind, above the altar, was a spectacular stained-glass window, depicting the Saviour, dressed in an orange robe. In his left hand he carried a tall cross and he formed his right into the symbol of the troyeperstiy, the two smallest fingers folded into the palm, the thumb touching the tips of the middle and index fingers, in preparation for making the sign of the cross. It had never occurred to Mihail before, but it suddenly reminded him of his grandfather, Aleksei, and his two missing fingers.

The sun, low in the eastern sky, shone brightly through this image of Christ, casting its light, altered in colour by the glass, through the Beautiful Gate and on to the church floor. Even there, a little of the coloration could be discerned, though the main impression was of simple brightness. Zmyeevich flung Iuda into its glow, and pressed his foot down on his enemy’s chest, so that he could not crawl away. Whether by luck or design Zmyeevich had arranged things so that Iuda’s body was not entirely subject to the sun’s glare. His head and left arm and shoulder remained in the shade. It would mean he experienced every last ounce of the pain that the burning of his body might inflict upon him.

Mihail wondered with bitter irony whether Iuda would take the opportunity to draw knowledge from this final great experiment in which he was the specimen. Did the fact that the sun’s rays were coloured by the glass reduce his torment? Did the fact that it was the image of Our Lord that was projected upon him increase it? Mihail had nothing to compare it against, but Iuda seemed to take a little longer to die than Mihail might have expected from what he had heard, and his screams seemed to echo a little more loudly than Mihail had hoped. The only disappointment was that Iuda’s death was at the hands of Zmyeevich. It would be some recompense if he could be looking into Mihail’s eyes as he died. There would be some small chance of recognition.

Mihail took a few steps to the side, removing Zmyeevich as a block to his view of Iuda – what was left of him. He had stopped screaming, not because he experienced no more pain, but because he had no more lungs with which to breathe, no more diaphragm with which to force the air across his vocal cords. He was not even a torso – just a head, an arm and enough of a chest to join the two together. And soon there would not even be that much of him left. Above all, Mihail wanted Iuda to see him now.

At the same moment Iuda somehow found the strength to raise his head, but he stared not into Mihail’s face but at the image of the Saviour in the window, through which shone the light that was destroying every cell of his body. Mihail realized Iuda did not need to see him, he merely needed to see that image of Christ and to be reminded – as Mihail had been reminded – of the significance of the troyeperstiy. Mihail breathed deeply. The sound of his voice filled the cathedral.

‘Remember the three-fingered man!’

Whether Iuda heard the words or was even capable of doing so, Mihail could not tell. Zmyeevich most certainly did. He turned. He took one last look at Iuda and saw he was finished, and so focused his attention on his newest prey – Mihail.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

Mihail looked at him. In appearance this was the same old man he had spoken to beneath the statue of Pyotr. How much more his knowledge of Ascalon meant now. But the malevolence in Zmyeevich’s eyes was not that of an old man – or perhaps it was that of a man older than old. Four centuries, he had mentioned. How much hatred could accumulate in that space of time?

Mihail could think of no response to the question.

‘It matters not,’ said Zmyeevich. He bared his fangs once again and descended upon Mihail, who had no defence. His crossbow had already proved ineffectual; his wooden sword was in his coat and would take too long to draw. All he had was his sabre, which he drew as a matter of instinct rather than calculation. And then he remembered Zmyeevich’s own words: ‘The skin protects the blood.’

It was a slim chance. Mihail raised his sword and slashed at Zmyeevich’s face. It caught him under his high, noble cheekbone. In a man it would have left a scar that would have made the ladies swoon, but it would not have slowed the attack. In a vampire it would normally have been a wound of little consequence. But as the blood oozed from the neat horizontal cut, the sunlight caught it and it began to smoke and smoulder and then burn.

Zmyeevich screamed, as loudly as Iuda had been screaming just moments before. He raised his hands to his face to block out the sunlight and then staggered backwards, falling upon his voordalak instincts and searching for shade. For Mihail it might have been an opportunity to move in for the kill, but terror took him. He raced to the great bronze cathedral doors and struggled to push one open. Eventually he was out in the cool air of Senate Square, gasping for breath, feeling protected in the morning sunlight, but knowing he was not.

He ran – across Senate Square, past the Bronze Horseman and on to the Neva. Only when his feet slipped from beneath him and sent him sprawling out of control across the frozen water did he stop and look around and see that he was alone. Zmyeevich had not followed. Mihail was safe.

More importantly, Iuda was dead.