The People's Will (59 page)

The
voordalak
stopped in his tracks. He narrowed his eyes and raised his arm to shade them. Even a human would have done much the same; Mihail’s own eyelids were squeezed to thin slits. It was a bright light in a small room, and they were only feet away from its source. But then further effects became evident. A short violent spasm rippled through Iuda’s body. His knife fell from his hand and clattered on the floor.

‘What … what is that?’ he asked. He did not sound afraid, but that was because he didn’t understand. His mood was simply one of annoyance, as if he were hearing some high-pitched squeal that was inaudible to anyone else. For a moment the most unexpected sensation fluttered through Mihail’s heart: a feeling of pity. He almost laughed, but the expression that briefly crossed Iuda’s face was one that least became him – a look of puzzlement. Mihail pushed the emotion from his mind – with a little help from his dead mother. This was how it was supposed to be.

‘That,’ he explained, ‘is the gift of one of Russia’s greatest inventors, Pavel Nikolayevich Yablochkov. You’ll have heard of him.’

Iuda made a movement that could have been a nod of agreement, or equally an involuntary twitch.

‘It’s called a Yablochkov Candle. It’s a type of arc light. You may have seen them about town, outside the Aleksandrinsky Theatre and on Liteiny Bridge.’

‘I have,’ said Iuda, his voice low and level. Wisps of smoke or steam were beginning to rise from his face and hands, as though he had stepped from a hot bath into a cold room. His eyes were glazed and his arms hung limply at his side.

Suddenly he made a dash for the door, but Mihail had expected it and was quicker. He pulled the iron gate shut, locking it with a padlock he had brought for the purpose. Iuda grabbed the bars and rattled them, but to no avail. Even a healthy vampire would have found it hard to break through, and Iuda was already weak. Now there was nothing that he could do to save himself, though he still tried.

He approached the lamp itself. The wires protruding from it were flimsy and would be easy to rip out, if only Iuda could get close. He moved like a man walking against the wind, but with each step he took the light got brighter. It was an inescapable law of physics; halving the distance quadrupled the brilliance – and the pain. Mihail could see flakes of skin beginning to fall from Iuda’s cheeks. Soon he gave up and obeyed the logic of his circumstances, backing away to the far corner of the room where the light was dimmest – but not too dim. He slumped against the wall, close to Dusya’s body. It would be a slow death. It was better that way – it gave Mihail a chance to gloat.

‘We captured one – a
voordalak
, I mean – Mama and I. You remember Mama, don’t you? Tamara? Tamara Alekseevna?’

‘Of course,’ croaked Iuda.

‘She remembered you. You were the one thing on her mind, every day of her life. She remembered what you did to her father, and her mother. And she remembered what you did to their friends. You remember the names?’

‘Who cares?’

‘I care! We care!’ Mihail allowed his anger to flow through him and enjoyed the sensation. ‘Do you remember Maks, or Vadim, or Dmitry Fetyukovich, or Margarita, or Irina? And let’s not forget what you did to Dmitry Alekseevich.’

‘I … I didn’t.’ Iuda was pathetic now. He spoke almost as if he believed in his own innocence.

‘Not you yourself, no, but you caused it. You caused all their deaths. So Mama and I planned, planned for a long time. Eventually we captured one – locked him in a barn. We took a leaf out of your book – did things scientifically. Found out what hurt him, wrote it down. Found out what healed him, wrote it down.’

‘How did you feed him?’ asked Iuda.

Mihail stopped short. The question seemed like an irrelevance, a non sequitur, but even in death Iuda still possessed the cunning to inflict pain. Mihail simply did not know the answer. He hadn’t asked. Tamara had dealt with that; she had not told him how and he, quite deliberately, had not asked. He would not let it distract him now.

‘We could only kill him once though, that was the sad thing,’ he continued. ‘But we had to verify that this would work. And it did. We used a Gramme generator then. Mama wound the handle so that I could watch and take notes. I’m using batteries today – much more reliable.’

There had been nothing unreliable about Tamara as she frantically wound the handle to generate the current needed, a look of joy and hatred on her face. She was – she had confessed to him later – imagining that it was Iuda chained there in the barn. Mihail had even had to make her slow down – it was important to learn the minimum level of light needed for the process still to work.

‘Of course,’ Mihail continued, ‘it’s still weak compared with the sun. Not strong enough to penetrate cotton or linen.’

He walked across the room and picked up Iuda’s knife where it had fallen, then he continued over to Iuda. He grabbed him by the lapels and heaved him upright, leaning him against the wall, then took a step back. He slashed the double-bladed knife harshly down the middle of Iuda’s torso. His intent was to cut cloth, but he was happy for the blades to slice through flesh as well. He opened up Iuda’s tattered jacket and shirt, exposing his chest and belly to the lamplight. Perhaps it was a mercy, hastening Iuda’s end, but Mihail enjoyed taking advantage of his helplessness.

‘
Pryestupleniye ee Nakazaniye
,’ he said, referring to the late, great Dostoyevsky’s finest work. ‘You have committed the crime and now you face the punishment.’

‘Who sentenced me?’ asked Iuda. He was barely recognizable now. His skin had drawn tight across his chest and splits had begun to appear like tears in fabric. From them oozed blood and pus which quickly began to smoulder in the light. The smell was repellent, but Mihail could only feel joy at it.

‘We did,’ he replied. He and his mother had tried Iuda
in absentia
when Mihail was just eight years old. The verdict had never been in doubt. It had been a long wait to carry out the sentence.

‘Then this isn’t punishment,’ said Iuda. He lurched forward as he spoke, but took a step and regained his balance. ‘This is vengeance.’

‘What’s the difference?’ asked Mihail. It was the same question he had discussed with Zhelyabov and the others, but for the life of him he could not see one, nor care if one existed.

Iuda produced something akin to a smile, in the process causing his top lip to split in the middle and rip open right up to his nose. Beneath it his teeth were revealed, still white, sharp and strong.

‘I too can be avenged,’ he said.

With that he flung himself forward at a speed of which Mihail had guessed him no longer capable. His momentum knocked Mihail backwards on to the floor, but Iuda remained with him, his hands grasping the back of Mihail’s head, his fingers entwined in his hair. In the moment of death he had found a hideous new strength. For an instant Mihail saw a flash of his white teeth, brilliant in the arc light, and then his face descended on to Mihail’s throat.

Mihail felt the sharp points press against his flesh, followed by searing pain as suddenly his skin yielded and Iuda’s teeth sank into him. The sound of blood being sucked out of him filled his ears.

The blue smoke began once more to clear. This second bomb, though of the same size, had caused immeasurably greater devastation. The white snow was littered with debris – fragments of paper, splinters of wood, shards of cloth and shoe leather. A dozen or more bystanders lay wounded or dead. The bomber himself was on the ground, unmoving, as was the colonel whose duty it had been to protect the life of his tsar.

In that duty he had failed.

On the shattered paving stones in a pool of mostly his own blood lay Aleksandr. His hat had been knocked from his head. His clothes were in tatters. Below the knee both of his legs were shattered; there was nothing to see of them but shreds of his trousers. From somewhere within the mess, blood still pumped out on to the snow. He was not dead, but would not live.

Through the silence a single word penetrated. ‘Yes!’

Zmyeevich turned to look. It was Glazov, the first bomber – the failed assassin. One of the soldiers beside him, still holding him against the railing, belted him across the face. He said no more.

Zmyeevich approached the dying tsar. He was conscious. His head turned from side to side, trying to take in what was going on around him. Then his eyes fixed upon Zmyeevich one final time. Zmyeevich concentrated, making this final offer in his mind, knowing that Aleksandr would hear.

‘My blood. Take my blood and you shall live for ever.’

He raised one arm and pulled up his sleeve, then drew a knife and motioned as if to cut himself. He would have to shelter the blood from the sun, but it could be achieved. Aleksandr watched transfixed. All eyes were on him and his were on Zmyeevich. Then he coughed. He gave the slightest shake of his head and then turned away, breaking eye contact with Zmyeevich. The offer had been rejected. Aleksandr had chosen death. Unlike his namesake, he had not found so elegant a way to break the curse on his blood.

Zmyeevich stepped back into the crowd. The colonel was on his feet now, apparently uninjured. He began to organize the carrying of Aleksandr up on to the sleigh. With each jerk and jolt more blood spurted from his ravaged limbs, but no one seemed to have any understanding of medicine. The sole intent was to get him away from there.

At last they had him in the sled. Onlookers and soldiers helped to prop him up against cushions. Zmyeevich almost laughed; of all people, one of those who helped was the third bomb carrier – the newspaper package still tucked under his arm. Once he had done his duty by his emperor he turned and walked calmly away along the canal, unmolested by any of the tsar’s men.

In the opposite direction, the sleigh pulled away, heading as fast as its horses could pull to the Winter Palace. Beside it ran Aleksandr’s retinue. Those Cossacks who still had mounts rode ahead.

Behind it the sleigh left a bloody trail in the snow.

The agony did not come from Iuda’s teeth, but from his mind. Mihail had expected it. As Iuda drew blood from him their minds were briefly as one – and one concept predominated in Iuda’s mind; burning, torturing pain. It was a wonder that he could contain it; Mihail certainly could not. His screams filled the small bright cellar moments after Iuda bit into him, even
though he knew it was not his own pain and could do him no physical harm.

What could harm him was Iuda’s bite, draining blood from him and in doing so providing Iuda with sufficient sustenance to fight off the effects of the Yablochkov Candle for just a little longer, even though it would only prolong his torment. Iuda had spoken of vengeance, but this seemed self-defeating, causing him further pain to no beneficial end. And through the tortured thrashings of his mind Mihail could sense no emotion of revenge, only the cold, hard logic he would have expected from Iuda, though logic that followed a path that Mihail could not fathom; all paths ended only in Iuda’s death. And even in the midst of all that there was more: a message; words forming in Iuda’s mind that he was desperate for Mihail to hear.

It did not last long. From the moment that Iuda had launched his attack, Mihail had been pushing him away. The vampire’s sudden strength had been a dying pulse; within seconds Mihail was able to overcome him, throwing his now insubstantial body across the cellar and closer to the candle that would do it so much harm. Mihail got to his feet.

Iuda lay still, but not yet quite dead. His eyes gazed up at Mihail and his mouth formed a lipless smile, Mihail’s smeared blood forming an edge to the decaying flesh. Then with a jolt of energy he moved both head and eyes to gaze directly into the glow of the arc light. His eyeballs erupted into a blue flame which raged only a few seconds before guttering to nothing, leaving black gaping holes that looked in on his absent soul. Then only the holes themselves remained as the skin and fat and bone that surrounded them crumbled away and fell to the ground.

Mihail raced for his knapsack and brought from it his wooden dagger, along with a mallet with which to drive it into Iuda’s heart, but by the time he returned to the body there was no heart to pierce. Iuda’s head and trunk were dust. In the arms of his jacket and the legs of his trousers there was still some bulk. Mihail took Iuda’s knife again and cut them open, exposing the flesh beneath to the light. It was paranoia, but it was a wise paranoia. He went over to the Yablochkov Candle and picked it up from where he had fastened it to the wall, using a cloth to protect him from the
heat. The wires were long enough to reach Iuda’s remains. He held it up in the air, scanning it up and down across the man-shaped patch of dust on the floor as if to assist in looking at it closely, but in fact to make sure that all was destroyed. Occasionally some little lump of formerly protected flesh would catch the light and suddenly wither, or even produce a puff of flame, but soon there were no more of them. Mihail held the candle for another minute, then knew his work was done.

He returned the light to the wall and stood up, breathing deeply. His grandfather Aleksei had tried it before him. He had tried to drown him in the freezing Berezina, but somehow Iuda had survived. He had shot him on the ice of the Neva, and that time had killed him, but Iuda had cheated death and become undead. Tamara had never even come close. She had imprisoned Iuda, with Dmitry’s help, but no more than that.

Now he, Mihail Konstantinovich Danilov, had avenged them all, and many more besides. He had done what none of them could and he felt proud of it. Richard Llywelyn Cain, born some time towards the end of the eighteenth century, a man who had thrown in his lot with
voordalaki
and then chosen to become one himself, who had conducted experiments on his own kind, who had plagued Russia for almost seventy years, was dead.

Iuda was no more.

IT WAS A
familiar moment. It was twenty to four in the afternoon of 1 March. Zmyeevich was not the only one gazing at the Winter Palace and at the flag bearing the double-headed eagle of the Romanov crest on the pole above it as it was lowered to half-mast. He had watched much the same thing from a boat moored off the town of Taganrog in 1825. Then it had been a ruse – Aleksandr I had not died. Today there could be no doubt. Zmyeevich had seen the wounds that Aleksandr II had suffered – death would not be cheated.