The Third Section (50 page)

He slapped the creature on the haunch and Dmitry was off. From behind him he heard Tamara’s shout of ‘Good luck, Mitka!’ He raised his hand in acknowledgement, but did not turn.

The slowest part was getting out of Moscow. The chaussée began over to the west, essentially as a continuation of Tverskaya Street. He rode a little way back into town and turned on to the Garden Ring, following it anticlockwise around the city until it intersected Tverskaya Street. Even then, his pace was slow. It was impossible to go any faster than a trot in the city, with so much traffic about. It was only once he was on the chaussée itself that he could gallop. He pushed the horse on for a few minutes, but realized it would be futile to attempt the long journey at that speed. He pulled back to a trot, occasionally breaking into a canter when he felt the beast could take it.

The road first crossed under the railway a little way beyond Khimki. Dmitry looked up and down the track. There was no sign of the train, but he had not expected there to be, not with the head start it had. He realized that he didn’t know for how long after the train’s departure he had remained unconscious. He should have asked Yudin. At full tilt a horse should be able to
travel
at twice the speed of a freight train, limited by the rules to go no faster than sixteen versts per hour, but a horse could not keep up that sort of gallop – or even a trot – for the ninety versts of the full journey. And with the rise of the railway, the number of hostelries along the way where he might find fresh horses was dwindling. On the other hand, the train would have to stop to take on fuel and water, so there was a chance that he might make it to Klin at around the same time. And there was always the possibility that the locomotive would break down.

After Khimki the chaussée ran roughly parallel to the railway line, a few versts to the north. Occasionally Dmitry caught sight of it when the embankment beneath the rails rose up above the surrounding land. The two thoroughfares began to converge once again as they approached the village of Solnechnaya Gora, where Lake Senezh – now dammed and turned into a reservoir – forced them together. He had been riding for more than three hours.

Dmitry’s horse could barely trot now, but as they plodded into the town Dmitry’s heart was lifted at the sight of a train just pulling out of the station, heading in the direction of Petersburg. It could only be the one Tyeplov was on. Miraculously, he found a hostelry that could provide him with a fresh horse. Tempted as he was to press on and not waste the few minutes it would take him to change, he knew that his current mount would never make it to Klin in time – if at all.

As he waited, he wondered if he himself would make it. He had not ridden very much since he had been wounded, or even before that, once the Siege of Sevastopol had settled into its moribund routine. His legs were stiff, particularly his right ankle, and his head still ached from Mihailov’s blow, but he knew he could not rest, even for a moment. He mounted his new horse – it was not as fine a beast as the one that had brought him this far, but it was fresh. When he left the village he was able to do it at a canter.

The railway line veered away to the left, but the chaussée was almost a perfect straight line from here to Klin, while the tracks meandered to find the shallowest gradient. For Dmitry there was little more than twenty versts to go; on the route the train took, another three or four could be added.

In less than an hour and a half, Dmitry was entering the
outskirts
of the town. He understood Yudin’s advice about going straight to Raisa rather than trying to intercept Tyeplov, but the station was only the slightest of diversions. He didn’t even need to get close to see the rear end of the train again as it pulled away. He didn’t know how long it had been stopped there, but he knew that Tyeplov would have been out of it and on his way to Madame Zhiglova’s as soon as it came to a halt.

Dmitry spurred his horse and carried on, picturing the route that Raisa had described to him in her letters, which she had taken two or three times a week, either in a carriage or on foot, to visit the shops and coffeehouses in the centre of town. The road led directly away from the station, crossing the chaussée at right angles. It was only a few minutes before he saw the house, with its distinctive white walls and the veranda on which Raisa had so often taken tea.

Raisa’s room was directly above it. There was a light at the window, even though it was by now almost four o’clock in the morning. A signal for Tyeplov? Unlikely – with his final letter intercepted, she would not have been expecting him. That must mean she had awoken. He imagined Tyeplov below, calling softly to her, waking her. It would have been no challenge for a
voordalak
to climb up there.

Nor did it prove for Dmitry. His boot clunked against the walls and on the roof of the veranda, but that was all to the good. If he could raise the household, however much they might curse him, it would help put a stop to Tyeplov’s plans. But he wasn’t going to let the idea distract him. Once on the flat roof, he drew his revolver and pulled the cap off the end of his cane. He would give them no warning. He raised his boot and smashed it through the window, throwing himself through the gap created.

The room was empty. A single candle shone from atop the dresser. The bedclothes were rumpled. Dmitry peered at them, terrified that he might see blood, but there was nothing. The door was open. Dmitry went through it and down the stairs. It seemed that no one in the house had heard him. The front door was open too. He looked out. Across the dirt track that led past the house was a church; between him and it, a mass of gravestones, their shadows long in the moonlight.

Then came a flicker of white, only for a moment, close to the church itself, as though a ghost were running from its grave. Dmitry ran across the road and entered the cemetery, heading towards where he had seen it. He had to zigzag through the graves and tombs, some taller than he was, and soon became disorientated. He looked around and found he had veered far to the right of where he had briefly seen the figure. There was another flicker of white and he set off in pursuit, scarcely able to see where he was putting his feet among the shadows cast by the gravestones.

At last he reached the point where he thought he had seen whatever it was, but there was nothing: a patch of coarse grass, a few headstones. He turned a full circle, his cane and his pistol still grasped in his hands, looking around the churchyard for any sign.

And then he was face to face with Tyeplov. The
voordalak
had emerged from behind one of the graves. He was naked from the waist up. In his hand, Dmitry noticed the glint of a small knife, but that was merely a distraction. The feature that transfixed Dmitry was the blood. There were two patches of it; around his lips and on his chest – just below his right nipple. It was easy to guess where the blood on his face had come from, but it took Dmitry a moment to see that the blood on Tyeplov’s chest was his own, oozing from a long, straight, horizontal cut to his skin.

‘She’s ready for you, Mitka,’ he said.

He stepped aside and like a butler guiding a guest into the drawing room, held out his hand to show Dmitry where to go. Dmitry had only to take a couple of steps for the headstone that had been obscuring her to be out of the way.

She was still beautiful, even in death. She had been laid out, or had lain there, in precisely the position of the body beneath her, lying in its grave, the stone just inches above her head, her arms by her side. She was wearing only a simple cotton nightdress, her hair down, spreading as a halo around her face and neck. Even the blood could not detract from the desperate yearning he felt for her.

As with Tyeplov, there were two areas of blood – blood from two quite different creatures, Dmitry realized. For many, it would
have
been the wound to her neck that was most shocking. It reminded Dmitry of what he had seen in the tunnel beneath the Star Fort – though this was far fresher. Blood still trickled down from it, some to the ground, some forming a little pool in the dip of her collarbone. It was enough to tell Dmitry she was dead. But that had not been his darkest fear.

There was also blood around her lips. They were parted slightly, and Dmitry could see it in her mouth too – black in the moonlight – not just stains but an actual mouthful, too much for her to swallow before she died. But he had no doubt that she had consumed enough. Tyeplov’s blood. Yudin had explained the process. The
voordalak
had consumed her blood and, in the moment of dying, she had consumed his. And it had been done willingly, Dmitry could not doubt it. The only thing that Yudin hadn’t told him was how long the process would take, but it was irrefutable that when Raisa Styepanovna finally awoke, it would be as a vampire.

‘She’s beyond death now.’ Tyeplov was still standing just a few paces away.

Dmitry allowed his heart to fill with rage. He realized now that he had still held some slight affection for Tyeplov, even after discovering that he was a vampire. He supposed it was because in some way he had believed Tyeplov’s story about being wronged – about seeking revenge.

Now that sympathy was all gone. What stood before him was a monster, an animal, an undead creature that had sold its soul to Lucifer. It didn’t deserve pity or understanding. It deserved death. The whole of nature screamed at him that Tyeplov should die and die now at his hand.

Dmitry raised his pistol to the level of his shoulder, pulling back the hammer until it clicked into the cocked position and imagining what would become of Tyeplov’s face when he fired – remembering the effect that a single, lucky bullet had had on Mihailov in the casemate in Sevastopol.

He squeezed the trigger and the hammer fell forward with a click. There was no explosion and no bullet. Dmitry tried again, but still the gun did not fire. And now, Tyeplov was walking briskly and purposefully towards him. He grabbed Dmitry’s
left
hand before another shot could even be attempted, and then swung at him with the back of his fist. Dmitry felt the knuckles connect with his jaw, and then blackness came.

For the second time that evening, Dmitry fell painfully into oblivion.

TAMARA HAD HEARD
nothing for almost two days. She had watched Dmitry as he heroically rode off across Kalanchyovskaya Square to save Raisa and then she had returned to Degtyarny Lane. Yudin had walked with her, but little had been said. All either of them could do was pray.

But Tamara should have heard something. If either of them had written on the day after Dmitry got to Klin, then she would have received it by now. She had not heard from Yudin either. She was tempted to go and see him, but it was late for him to be in his office. Anyway, she was busy. The coronation was only a week away and so the city was fuller than ever with senior officers and
chinovniki
. And many deemed that a fitting way to celebrate the accession of their new tsar was to visit a bawdy house and raise their own kind of salute with one of the girls there.

It was after ten o’clock now, just about their busiest time. Someone was knocking at the door again, softly but insistently. Tamara looked around the salon. She would have to turn them away. All the girls were occupied, and there were enough men here – sipping wine, some chatting, some avoiding the gaze of the others – to keep them busy for at least another hour. And Yudin would be pleased with some of them – there were men of real influence here, many of whom would more normally be found in the houses of Petersburg. Thus Yudin would be able to prove the usefulness of his organization here to his superiors in the capital. At the sound of the knocking Isaak stood up impassively and went to do his duty in opening the door.

Tamara waved him away and dealt with it herself. She opened
the
little hatch in the door and clicked her tongue. The bright, shining blue eyes that stared back at her could belong to no one but Raisa. She quickly opened the door and let her in. A coachman followed, carrying her trunk. He tried to concentrate on his work, but eyed the salon curiously. The gaze of every one of the waiting customers fell to the floor.

‘Put it in my office,’ said Tamara. She went over to the door and opened it and he put the trunk inside. By the time she had shown the man out and paid him, Raisa had disappeared upstairs. Tamara knew she should not abandon her role as hostess, but she had to find out what had happened. She lifted her skirts and ran up the stairs, then went into Raisa’s room. Raisa had already removed her outdoor clothes, and seemed to be preparing herself for a night’s work.

‘You’re all right!’ gasped Tamara. She stood still for a moment, then ran over to Raisa to embrace her. She felt her friend’s arms around her, but their response seemed half-hearted.

‘Yes, I’m all right,’ she said blankly.

‘What happened? Where’s Dmitry?’ Tamara sat down on the bed. Now that she knew Raisa was alive and well – albeit a little out of sorts – she was full of enthusiasm to hear the story of Dmitry’s rescue mission.

‘He made it in time,’ said Raisa. ‘He killed Tyeplov. It was quite’ – she smiled – ‘wonderful.’ She continued with her make-up.

‘Where is he now?’

‘Haven’t you seen him? I needed time to pack and take my leave. Madame Zhiglova has been so kind.’

‘Raisa,’ said Tamara, a little more sternly now, ‘I saw the letter from Tyeplov to you, arranging to meet.’

‘Yes, that was silly of me. But Dmitry made me see things properly.’