The People's Will

Chapter XXI



NOW HE COULD drink as he should – from the throat. He had the strength in his jaw for his teeth to pierce her skin and he had begged her and at last she had succumbed.

He had lungs now too, which he could fill with air thanks to his diaphragm. Below that, it was still an obscene hash of half-formed organs; something that might become a stomach, a few lengths of intestine, not yet comprising a whole. When she left him alone he would watch as they formed and developed, the half-grown parts never seeking one another, but somehow knowing when they touched and joining into something greater. Even his other arm was beginning to lengthen and grow stronger, but still he did not have an elbow.

It was all down to her – to her blood. Each night she gave him a share of what was hers, and each day she found some way to recuperate. Her friends must suspect she was pregnant, the amount extra she would have to eat. It was much the same process: she ate and produced blood, which she used to nurture a creature that she loved, a creature that grew each day and would soon be reborn. The only difference was that she needed no umbilical cord to transfer to him the blood that he craved.

Once she had been persuaded, she was pleased to do it. She unbuttoned her collar as before to reveal her neck, and then leaned over him. There was no need now for artificial blades to break the skin, his teeth were enough. As her flesh yielded she pulled away, not out of want of love for him, but from an instinctive human fear that deep down knew the nature of a vampire. He was ready; his one working hand held her by the back of her head, its fingers caressing her blonde curls and pulling her back down to him.

She squirmed and moaned as he drank, but did not pull away again, though she was still stronger than him. Now that he had the beginnings of organs that could properly digest it, each mouthful of her blood did him so much more good than before. But that did not concern him – his desire was solely to slake his thirst. Nature made him enjoy drinking so that he would be nourished, but he was not yet well enough for such rationality to prevail. He would drink and go on drinking until she was dry and lay dead, her body sprawled across his torso. It would be the end of him, since he would no longer have her to feed from, but he did not care.

Thankfully, she did. She was his conscience and his salvation. All too soon he felt her pull away from him. He tried to hold on with his single hand, but he could not. Even if he had cast aside the precious object he had held in his palm for as long as he could remember, he had no strength to hold her. In an instant he could see her again, kneeling above him, her hand clutching at a bandage which she held to her neck. She looked pale and faint, but she would survive.

‘Please,’ he said softly, more softly than was necessary, considering the new strength of his lungs. But he knew humility was more likely to persuade her.

She shook her head, rubbing her neck against the bandage and causing a little blood to ooze from under it. ‘Next time,’ she said.

He smiled meekly and nodded, thinking of next time. Involuntarily the stump of his growing right arm twitched. She saw it too, and understood his thoughts – as he drank she had shared a fragment of his mind. Next time, he would be strong enough to hold her.

Mihail was bewildered. He could not make sense of what he had seen. What he knew of the voordalak he knew from folklore, and from what his mother had learned – both first-hand and from Aleksei – and from what they had discovered from their simple, rudimentary experiments. And of the idea that one vampire should ever choose to drink the blood of another he knew nothing.

But there was a greater experimenter than either he or Tamara, and he was a meticulous note-taker. Mihail scoured Iuda’s journals for an explanation of what he had witnessed. The books were not indexed, but were divided into chapters, one of which, though by far the longest, also seemed to be the most apposite.

On Vampires and Blood Magic

Iuda began with an immediate apology for the title, firmly asserting that there was no magic involved, merely the laws of science, but that the broad set of phenomena he was discussing was regarded both by vampires and by their adversaries – typically men of the church – as being magical.

Mihail read on avidly. Much of what he saw, he knew already. The first subtitle was ‘On Induction’.

It featured a long discussion of the situation in which the Romanov family found itself, with references to similar observations in less august bloodlines. The basic facts were simple. Because of the blood Zmyeevich had taken from Pyotr, any one of Pyotr’s descendants was at risk. If he – or she – should drink Zmyeevich’s blood and die with it in his body, then he would be reborn a vampire. Like any vampire, he would have a mental link with his creator, Zmyeevich. But in facing a mind as strong as Zmyeevich’s he was more likely to become the vampire’s slave than his brother.

Even before that, the mental link was there, but only in one direction. Zmyeevich could project the influence of his mind towards any carrier of the Romanov blood. He could not force that Romanov to act against his will, but he could communicate with him, influence him, scare him. Thus it had been that Zmyeevich had persuaded Aleksandr I to travel to Taganrog, and thence to Chufut Kalye. The only good news for the Romanovs was that this power could be exerted only once in each generation. His manipulation of Aleksandr meant that his brother Nikolai, even when tsar, was quite free of it. It meant Zmyeevich must choose carefully.

The last comment of the section was an example of why such care was needed. The current Aleksandr’s eldest son, Nikolai, who would one day have become tsar, had died young. If Zmyeevich had begun to work on him, his efforts would have been wasted and he would not be able to redirect them towards the new tsarevich, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich.

Here Iuda had scribbled a footnote, short but chilling.

I now have reason to believe that Z. deliberately brought about the death of N.A.R., knowing he will have better luck with A.A.R.

The initials were easy to decipher.

The next section was far shorter. Mihail skimmed through it quickly. It did not seem to apply to the current situation, however intriguing the subtitle might be.

On Anastasis

I have recently heard of a legend not uncommon among Wallachian vampires, though less widespread elsewhere, which, if true, would add another level to the bond between a human and a vampire in the circumstances of the Romanovs and Zmyeevich, or indeed any other pairing where the human’s blood has been drunk by the vampire, either directly or through descent, but for whom the process of induction has not been completed. I have long known that if the vampire were then to die there is still the possibility (as I am living proof) that induction may be achieved, but equally the human, if left unmolested, may go on to experience a natural death. However, it seems that under certain conditions the human may be susceptible to drinking the vampire’s blood not to the end of themselves becoming transformed but of bringing about a form of parousia with regard to the dead creature. This seems to be a very ancient story, going back to before the time even of Zmyeevich’s human existence as Ţepeş and I can find no vampire who has been eyewitness to it. However, it is an intriguing possibility and clearly an apt subject for experimentation, when circumstances next permit.

The final section contained what Mihail wanted, and explained the bizarre behaviour he had witnessed the previous night. Here the title was ‘On Assimilation’.

Mihail read it through three times. Iuda began with the basics, describing the revulsion that any vampire had for the taste of the blood of its own kind. He described the flavour in great detail, writing from personal experience, though adding how he had grown to regret his actions as he learned the biology behind it. He went on to explain that, as with any unpleasant experience, such as pain or nausea, there was a good reason for it to occur; simply put, it deterred the creature – be he man, vampire or beast – from behaviour which could be damaging to it. Sunlight inflicted pain upon a vampire to persuade him to return to the shade where he would not be burned. The taste of vampire blood was foul to dissuade him from drinking it and suffering consequences perhaps worse still than being roasted in the sun.

Iuda went on to describe how he had been puzzled by the eleven creatures that accompanied him to Russia back in 1812. He referred to them as oprichniki, just as Aleksei did, though acknowledged that he had not coined the term himself. It had always been puzzling to him why they and other vampires that he had met in Wallachia were such feral creatures compared to others of their breed who might pass themselves off in the best of human company. He mentioned the first vampire he had ever encountered, a French aristocrat by the name of Honoré Philippe Louis d’Évreux, whom he described as an intelligent and entertaining interlocutor. That description could certainly not be applied to the oprichniki. But it came down to the exchange of blood between vampires.

When Mihail had finished he understood it all, and realized that in his knowledge he now had a wedge to drive between Zmyeevich and Dmitry. If he could gain Dmitry’s acquiescence, or even his assistance, then it might be possible to blunt Zmyeevich’s power over the Romanovs. What he would then do with Dmitry he did not know. It depended how far things had gone.

Even so, taking on Zmyeevich would be absurdly dangerous, but Iuda’s journals had provided Mihail with an idea as to how he might save not just his own soul. He went over to the windowsill and picked up the cyanide-filled hazelnut that Kibalchich had given him. The People’s Will had made suicide its ultimate defence against its enemies. Maybe that wasn’t such a stupid idea after all.

A pretty one would be better, but she didn’t have to be anything special. Someone who would willingly do what he told her, and then pretend she did it unwillingly. Halvard Karlsson had been travelling for weeks. His captain had planned to make it into Petersburg before the Gulf of Finland froze over, but there had been delay after delay and they hadn’t even reached Tallinn when winter set in. But the cargo had to get through, so they’d hired sleds and loaded the goods on to them and the sailors – Halvard among them – had swapped navigating the sea for navigating the ice. But at last they had made it, delivered the cargo and been handsomely paid. Halvard did not know whether he would try to return overland to the stranded ship, or wait until the thaw came. But for now he was in the city, he had money and he had one thing on his mind.

The single word of Russian that he knew covered it: shlyooha. He knew the equivalent in several languages. He said it to one of the men at the docks, who’d gabbled on in Russian but managed to convey vague directions that Halvard should head south, across the river. He said it to a few others when he got lost. Some had frowned, one man had tried to hit him, but at last he’d met a man who spoke a little German and had told him, with a wink, to follow the canal until it started to curve down towards the Haymarket. Around there, on the embankment or in the side streets, was where he would find them. When he did find them, he was spoilt for choice; some young, some older, all eager once he showed them his purse.

There was a problem though. Halvard liked to talk. You could show them what you wanted them to do, but it wasn’t the same. These girls all spoke Russian – a few of them French, but that was no help to Halvard. He did find one who said she was born in Göteborg, and he believed it from the accent, but that had obviously been a good few decades ago. He’d got the money to do better than that.

Then he saw one that really took his eye. She was older than some, in her mid-twenties, but as long as they were half his age Halvard wasn’t going to make a fuss. She was dressed more soberly than the other girls, with only a pretty scarf tied snugly around her neck providing any adornment. It was the gleaming blonde hair that made him think she might even be Swedish, but when he spoke to her she didn’t understand a word. He was about to move on but she was a real treat, so he tried again in German. She knew enough to name a price, to which he eagerly agreed.

‘Where shall we go?’ he asked. In some cities the whores would do their business in an alleyway, but not in Petersburg – not in winter.

‘I know a place,’ she said.

‘Nearby?’

‘A little way.’

She led him away from the canal, along a grubby street. As far as he could tell they were heading back towards the docks. Soon the way was blocked by another canal – the city was full of them – and they turned to walk alongside it.

‘How much further?’ he asked.

‘Not too far.’ She glanced at him, worried that she might lose the business. She stopped. ‘Don’t worry – it’ll be worth it.’ She grabbed his hand and pulled off his mitten, then thrust the hand inside the flap of her coat, down between her legs. He squeezed, but there was nothing much to feel beneath the layers of clothing. Even so, it showed willing, and the glint in her eye as she held his hand there for a few seconds showed that she knew what she was about.

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.’

‘And how do you know all this?’

Mihail said nothing.

‘Ah, yes,’ Zmyeevich continued. ‘Because you’ve read Cain’s books. Where are they?’

‘Somewhere safe.’

‘I would dearly like to see them.’

‘What? There are things that even the great Dracula doesn’t know?’

Zmyeevich winced at the sound of his Romanian name. Mihail had learned it from Iuda’s notebooks.

‘You’re right, of course,’ said Zmyeevich. ‘I have no need for Cain’s knowledge. But he has other trophies that rightfully belong to me.’

‘Your blood, you mean? Or Ascalon?’

‘You don’t have either.’

‘I have his books – why shouldn’t I have his other possessions?’

‘He’s bluffing,’ said Dmitry from behind.

‘I’ll trade you them for my life.’

Zmyeevich chuckled. ‘I’m afraid my reputation means you would not trust me to keep my side of such a bargain. It’s a curse I have learned to live with.’

‘You’re prepared to lose Ascalon?’ asked Mihail.

‘If you had even touched Ascalon, I would know,’ spat Zmyeevich. He looked over Mihail’s shoulder at Dmitry. ‘I take it you know where he’s staying?’ he asked.

‘Zhelyabov will know – and will tell me.’

‘Then we shall search there, once we have dealt with him.’

Mihail felt Dmitry’s grip on him tighten again as Zmyeevich spoke, leaving him incapable of almost anything but speech.

‘Dealt with me?’

‘Your grandfather, Aleksei Ivanovich, thwarted me in my attempts to persuade Tsar Aleksandr I to join me. His grandson will have no opportunity to do the same for Aleksandr III.’

‘The third? Aren’t you missing a generation?’

‘The reign of this generation of Romanovs will soon be coming to an end. Dmitry’s friends will see to that.’

‘And then nothing will stop you,’ said Mihail.

‘Nothing, indeed. If need be, I’ll be free to dig up the whole of Petersburg in search of Ascalon.’

‘There’s nothing you or anyone can do,’ added Dmitry.

‘I do wish Aleksei Ivanovich were alive to see this,’ Zmyeevich continued. ‘His beloved son, my closest acolyte, assisting me as I drain the life from his only surviving grandson, holding him still, pinning him so that he is exposed and defenceless, allowing me to take my pleasure, to pierce his skin and drink, oh so slowly, until the last drop of blood is drained from his body.’

Zmyeevich opened his jaws wide, revealing his great fangs, and descended towards Mihail’s throat, his eyes still fixed on those of his victim. Mihail knew it was time to act. He used his tongue to slip the hazelnut from his cheek where it had nestled since his arrival and held it for a moment between his incisors, so that Zmyeevich could see it plainly. Then he let it fall back between his molars and bit down hard, feeling the liquid inside spill into his mouth, its foul, metallic taste washing across his tongue.

He made sure a little of it escaped his lips, just so there could be no doubt as to what was going on, and then swallowed the rest, spitting out the crushed shell. Then he let his mind open, inviting in anyone who cared to come. He stared back at Zmyeevich victoriously. Zmyeevich’s own expression was one of confusion. He could see the blood on Mihail’s lips but would not yet understand its import, or even guess whose blood it was. He would search around for an explanation, using all his senses, and then …

And then Mihail felt it: Zmyeevich’s own impression of puzzlement. The vampire’s mind had searched for understanding and had, inescapably, locked on Mihail’s. Mihail knew that he had a far greater feeling of Zmyeevich’s intellect than the vampire would have of his, but it was enough. Within moments, Zmyeevich understood.

He stepped back. Dmitry’s grip on Mihail relaxed as Zmyeevich’s will receded, and then strengthened again under Dmitry’s own volition.

‘No,’ said Zmyeevich thoughtfully. ‘Let him go.’

Dmitry took a moment to consider it, but obeyed. Mihail stepped away from him and sat on the side of one of the coffins. Zmyeevich eyed him, with a curl of disgust on his lip. Dmitry simply looked bewildered. Mihail himself felt nausea at the blood he had swallowed, and at the flashes of Zmyeevich’s repellent mind that flickered through his own. He tried to push them away. They were no use to him now.

‘Dmitry told me you were a Danilov,’ Zmyeevich said. ‘But he failed to mention that you are also a Romanov.’

‘A Romanov?’ Dmitry’s voice revealed that he had no idea of the fact, let alone its implications.

Zmyeevich waved a dismissive hand at him. ‘How long has it been, I wonder, since Cain took that blood from me? Fifty, sixty years? Was it still fresh?’

‘It tasted as foul as I’d expected,’ said Mihail, making sure that Zmyeevich would perceive the laughter in his voice. ‘And it was as effective as if it had come straight from your veins.’

‘How are you a Romanov?’ Zmyeevich asked.

‘My father is Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich.’

Zmyeevich thought for a moment. ‘So you are of Aleksandr Aleksandrovich’s generation.’

Mihail nodded. ‘The tsarevich is my first cousin. It’s becoming quite a family tradition. My grandfather plucked Aleksandr I from your grasp, and I shall do the same with Aleksandr III. All of my generation are safe.’

Zmyeevich roared. His arm swung across the room and his hand caught Mihail on the jaw, knocking him to the ground. He was quickly upright, squatting, rubbing his cheek. He glanced around the tomb, noting where his knapsack lay, and more importantly his crossbow.

‘All are safe except for you,’ sneered Dmitry.

‘And how would killing me help you?’

Dmitry laughed. ‘It wouldn’t, but it would still be just. It would serve as a lesson to others. And it would be a pleasure.’

Mihail suspected he was speaking to impress Zmyeevich, but it would not work. Zmyeevich was a long way ahead of him.

‘So are you going to kill me, Ţepeş? It would be so very easy. I’m your prisoner. Perhaps you’ll even allow Dmitry the honour.’

‘Gladly,’ said Dmitry.

‘No,’ said Zmyeevich curtly. ‘That would be the worst outcome of all. If he dies, with my blood in him, then he will become a vampire – one of my many offspring and sway to my will. It would be a fitting punishment, but not worth the price.’

‘What price?’ asked Dmitry.

‘Tell him, Ţepeş,’ said Mihail.

‘That fate can befall only one Romanov,’ Zmyeevich explained. ‘Pyotr owed me his soul, and only a single soul can redeem that debt. If it were the soul of this pathetic creature, this bastard Romanov – a man of no power or value – then I should lose my chance of ever ruling Russia. It would be a self-indulgence that would do me no benefit. What shall it profit me, to gain one soul and lose a whole nation?’

Mihail stood up, reaching out for his knapsack as he did so. His crossbow lay on the floor at Zmyeevich’s feet. Did he dare take it, or would the voordalak’s wrath subsume his good sense, and would he claim pyrrhic vengeance? And yet Mihail did not want to leave without it. He allowed himself a momentary glimpse into the creature’s mind, and knew he would be safe, at least if he did not try to press his meagre advantage. He bent down and picked up the weapon.

‘You’re just letting him go?’ asked Dmitry in astonishment.

‘What can we do?’ asked Zmyeevich.

Mihail smiled broadly. He felt like a hero. Better than that, he felt like his grandfather. What Aleksei had done to save Aleksandr I, Mihail had recreated in this new generation. He mounted the steps out of the tomb, his knapsack dangling from one hand, his arbalyet clasped in the other. About halfway up, when he was just at the border between light and shadow, he turned and looked back down on Zmyeevich and Dmitry, who stood in glum silence. His heart thumped in his chest. He was astounded to still be alive, but he knew he had pushed his luck far enough. He would deal with them another day.

‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he said. Then he walked up and out into the sunlight.