Twelve (29 page)

His indirect meanderings about the city might have been put down to his unfamiliarity with its geography, but it seemed to me more that he was merely trying to pass the time. It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that he finally reached his destination and went up to the doorway of a particularly grand house, certainly owned by one of the wealthier families in the city. It was not far from the cellar where I had left Iuda and Ioann to burn so many weeks before. This residence appeared strangely unravaged in comparison with those around it. The area had not been molested by the fires, but no street in Moscow had been left unmolested by looters, be they native or invader. All along the street, windows were smashed and doors kicked in. Rejected booty – and times were harsh enough that only the most impractical of items (books, paintings and so forth) were counted so valueless as to be rejected – lay strewn outside. But this house had its windows intact, its door still a barrier. Even the street outside, though not clean, was at least clear of the debris that lay outside its neighbours. It was as though some faithful servant had remained behind in the house and had – out of habit and oblivious to the tumult around him – kept the building in the tidiness that befitted it. And yet in the chaos that had befallen Moscow, no amount of diligence alone could have maintained such order. A terrifying strength would have been required. The absence of refuse around the house was reminiscent of the absence of insects around the dark corner of a room in which a spider lurks.

The soldier unlocked the door and went inside without fear of encountering the true owner of the residence. Although the rich and the powerful had not yet begun to return to Moscow in any great numbers, many had at least sent servants ahead to reoccupy their property. Perhaps the owners of this place had done so too. Any servant arriving to open up the house would be little expecting to find it infested with vampires and would be quickly dealt with.

Despite the sanitary atmosphere that hung around the building – for which the explanation was all too easy to imagine – I could not in all certainty be sure that this was where the creature planned to sleep. It was still some time until dawn and so I waited a while to see if he re-emerged. After about an hour, no one had come out of the house and no one else had entered. Despite knowing what I might encounter within, there was little debate in my mind that I had to go inside.

I went up to the door and tried the handle. He had not locked it behind him. Inside, the hallway was dark, but on a table I found an oil lamp, which I lit and carried with me. It was a large house of many rooms – the vampire could be hidden in any one of them. I drew out my wooden dagger and grasped it firmly, knowing that at any moment I might be called upon to use it.

I went first into the cellar, having learned from experience that that was where a
voordalak
would make its nest, but I found nothing untoward. The only thing of note was that the cellar wall had been roughly knocked down, so that it connected to the cellar of the next building. I glanced briefly in there, but saw nothing. A faint smell of sewage greeted my nostrils. I realized that the street outside must be close to the Neglinnaya, the tributary of the Moskva into which many of the city's sewers flowed. In Moscow's good times – when people were plentiful enough and nourished enough to make the sewers full to overflowing – the stench would have been far stronger, but still somewhere beyond the broken-down wall was an underground path to that public drain.

The rooms on the ground floor too were empty, though they were surprisingly well furnished; surprising in contrast with other houses I had seen in the city. Those houses that had not been cleared out by their departing owners had been cleaned out by the invading French, but this place remained disquietingly habitable; almost homely. It all fitted in with the image that the building was somehow 'blessed' – protected from any who would dare to despoil it. Indeed some of the rooms seemed to have too much furniture, as if it had been shifted here to make space in other rooms elsewhere in the house. The only sign of serious upheaval – somewhat incongruous – was that in a number of rooms the floorboards had been removed, adding a challenge for me to pick my way between the joists.

I was suddenly reminded again of my grandmother's house. These rooms, like many of hers, were unlived in, but no serious attempt had been made to close them up or to either protect or remove their contents. For my grandmother, it would have been an admission of her decline to formally abandon the unused rooms of her home. For the occupants of this house, it was probably more a case of laziness than pride. Here, I guessed, as in my grandmother's house, there would be one or two rooms at the heart of the building where its residents dwelt. But unlike another visitor to another grandmother's house – from a story which my own grandmother had told me – it would not be a wolf that I would find living there, but something far worse.

I began to climb the stairs. The shadows cast by my lamp through the balustrade made strange shapes on the walls of the upper hallway as I ascended. Suddenly I heard a rustling noise and something scuttled across the hall into a corner. I held up the lamp and peered in the direction it had gone. It was a rat, frozen in the corner, looking almost pitifully scared, its beadlike eyes reflecting the lamp's flame. Glancing around, I could see by similar reflections that there were dozens of rats up here, each marked out by the same two tiny points of light. This struck me as odd. I had seen no rats on the ground floor, or even in the cellar. Why should they all have chosen to congregate here on the first floor? What, I wondered, had those staring, shining eyes struck upon up here that they could not find down below?

It was then, as I continued to climb the stairs and my head rose above the level of the floor, that I noticed the smell. It was the smell of a charnelhouse. I thought instantly of the stench of Zmyeevich's breath, which I now knew to be the stink of the raw, decaying human flesh and blood that rose from his stomach. Holding back the rising need to vomit, I followed the smell into a room to the left of the stairs. I heard the scampering of the rats as they fled out of my way. As I stepped into the room, the stench was stronger and its source was immediately revealed to me. On the floor were laid out ten corpses – all in assorted French uniforms, or those of their allies. They were in various stages of decay. On some, no human features remained recognizable. On others, the telltale throat wounds that betrayed both the manner and the motivation of their deaths were still clear. In between, the wounds had begun to vanish into a formless sponge of decomposing flesh.

I didn't inspect any of the bodies very closely. The light of the lamp was faint, and bending down close was not a pleasant experience. I looked around the rest of the room. In addition to the door through which I had entered, there was another that led to an adjacent room. Before I went through, I glanced back and noticed how, in contrast to the careless way in which the bodies had been desecrated by the vampire's fangs, their actual positioning was rather orderly. The ten bodies were neatly placed across the room in two rows, as though they were in a hospital ward. It was no different from a dining table in a grand house such as the one in which I stood. The crockery and wine glasses and cutlery are laid out with punctilious consideration, but little attention is given by the diner to the messy carcass of the chicken left on his plate once he has eaten.

Here I could see why some of the downstairs rooms had been over-furnished. Space had to be made up here to store these mementos, much as a man might overcrowd one room with paintings to leave room in another for the stuffed heads of wolves and bears that he has hunted, oblivious to the protestations of his wife about having such ugly things in the house. Those stuffed beasts would always be placed in poses so much more terrifying and aggressive than the true state of the creature when it was killed. The same could not be said of the bodies laid out here in so orderly a fashion. If anything, it was their defencelessness, not their majesty, that was emphasized in the display. The Oprichniki saw no nobility in their prey, nor did they have wives to moderate their sense of décor.

The orderliness of the layout revealed something else to me. There were only ten corpses in the room because it had reached its capacity. The doorway to the next room beckoned. As I stepped through I heard behind me a rustling sound as the rats returned to the activity from which I had disturbed them.

The next room was larger and had a few vestiges of furniture left in it. In one corner was a high-backed armchair and near it a folding screen of oriental appearance. Elsewhere a table, chairs and a stool all made this room appear a little more 'lived' in, though the very word brought a grimace to my lips. A second door led back out on to the landing. The windows, like the windows in all the rooms I had been in, were hidden behind thick, heavy curtains. Again there were bodies in here, but the room was not yet full. Only two of them were in French uniforms and both were less decayed than any in the other room. The bodies next to these were very different. They were shabbily dressed in ordinary clothes. By this and simply by their faces, I could tell that these were Russian. Like an archaeologist, I had found a division between strata which I could use to mark a precise date; the date when the French had left and the Oprichniki had chosen not to follow them, but to remain and enjoy an alternative, plentiful food supply.

There were seven Russian bodies in the room. The soldiers had naturally all been men, but once the Oprichniki had switched to civilians, they demonstrated no discrimination over sex. One of the bodies was small, scarcely bigger than a child. Its head, covered in tight curls of black hair, lay on one side, facing away from me, causing the foul lacerations in the throat to gape open even more. For an agonizing moment, I believed it to be Natalia. I bounded across the room and turned her head to look at her face, the wounds on one side of her neck closing up as I did so. It was not her. It wasn't even a girl, but a boy of about Natalia's age. I stood up, relieved that the suffering of grief was not, in this case, to be felt by me but could be transferred to others elsewhere in the city who knew and loved this boy.

I went over to the oriental screen and pulled it to one side. Behind it, a figure stood upright, its awful, contorted face staring directly into mine. I smelled the reeking stench of decay stronger than ever and I threw myself back, knocking the screen to the ground.

I had been mistaken. The figure was not standing; it was hanging – hanging like a coat casually thrown on to a peg. A long nail had been hammered into the wall behind and the body had been thrust upon it so that the head of the nail could just be seen sticking out of the neck under the chin. It was in a position that would not have much hindered the Oprichniki as they ate. The body was old and almost as decayed as some of those in the other room, but it wore no French uniform, just regular clothes. The wounds in the neck had long ago begun to putrefy, to such an extent that it was surprising it still had the integrity to support the weight of the body from that single nail. Most of the flesh of the face had begun to decay, but the full beard still remained, as did the eyes.

And so, despite the darkness and the hideous putrefaction of his face, the body was not unrecognizable. His clothes and his beard and his eyes – especially his eyes – all gave him away.

It was Vadim.

So it became clear that Rodion Valentinovich would never be held in his grandfather's arms; that their lives had overlapped by only a few hours or days, if at all. Vadim could never even have known of his grandchild's existence, and neither I nor anyone else would have the pleasure of telling him. I could not weep. I had known for a long time that Vadim was dead; known since I had seen Iuda arrive at that house in Kitay Gorod without Vadim in tow. Every time I had tried and failed to meet up with Vadim since, I had felt a little fear and a little sadness and suspected that his failure to appear hinted at his utter inability so to do. And so seeing his body now was more of a confirmation than a revelation. Still I wished, as I had done and still did with Maks, for the chance then to say a proper goodbye and the opportunity now to mourn.

I turned away and my foot knocked against something hollow and wooden. Vadim's corpse had not been the only thing hidden by the screen. I had also found what I had come into the house to look for. It was a coffin, but again, like those of Matfei and Varfolomei, not purpose-built; merely a crate of the conveniently correct size and shape.

I pulled it away from the wall, towards the middle of the room, and prised open the lid. Inside was the soldier whom I had so long ago seen dead but not decaying, whom that night I had followed to the house where he now slept. His eyes were closed and his hands lay across his belly. I raised my hand, firmly grasping my wooden dagger high above my head, ready to bring it down on the sleeping monster's heart with all my strength.

His eyes flicked open. He engaged me in the same dead stare that I had seen in him before and once again hissed the only word I had ever heard him utter.

'Murderer!'

I
WASTED NO TIME IN THROWING MY ARM DOWN TOWARDS THE
creature's chest, but a hand grabbed my wrist, and I could not reach my target. Another pair of hands took hold of my left arm and I was dragged away from the coffin and over to the wall. The Russian soldier climbed out of the coffin and approached me.

The two men who had grabbed me relaxed their grip, and the one on my right said to the soldier, 'Hold him.' It was a voice I knew and should not have been hearing; the voice of a creature that I thought I had seen annihilated in a burning cellar many weeks before. It was Iuda.

The soldier pressed his hand against my chest, revealing a tremendous strength, and I found myself unable to move. Iuda and my other captor – as he stepped into the light, I saw it was Andrei – walked to the middle of the room.

'You're surprised to see me, I think,' said Iuda, with the tone almost of a bonhomous host.

'A little,' I replied.

'It must be so irksome,' he continued, 'when you think that you've murdered four of your comrades – men who have willingly come at your invitation to your country to fight on your side – it must be so irritating to find that one of the four has survived.'

I didn't respond.

'It's the same mistake your friend Maksim made,' said Andrei, making none of Iuda's faux effort to hide his loathing.

'So how did you get out?' I asked.

'Can't you work it out?' asked Iuda. 'My good friend Dmitry Fetyukovich rescued me. By the time you arrived, he had already awakened me and helped me to safety.'

'Safety where? You couldn't go out into the daylight.'

'No, of course not, but in these big blocks of connected buildings one can move from one house to the next without ever going outside. Having a little greater strength than living humans helps too. It allows us to knock through the odd wall here and there between houses.'

I had seen examples of these creatures' strength weeks before, and I felt it in the hand that pinioned me against the wall. I wondered what other powers they might possess, and moreover what their weaknesses might be. 'And that's it?' I asked, 'Your strength? Is that the only thing you creatures have that gives you an advantage over us?'

Iuda laughed; I had been very obvious. 'Perhaps you'd like a written list? Three dozen ways that vampires are better than humans? Well, it won't help you, Lyosha. No, our strength is nothing. I think it's just a side effect of the diet. What makes us superior is not something that we have; it is something that we lack. We lack conscience. When we act we are not bound by any rules of what is wrong and what is right. We have no fear of recrimination either on earth or in hell. We can achieve things that you could never dream of because our dreams are not haunted by doubts about our righteousness and concerns for others.'

'And what
have
you achieved?' I asked him, scornfully.

He chose to ignore the question. 'I can do things of which you would never be capable. When I caught Vadim Fyodorovich following me' (he nodded carelessly towards Vadim's hanging corpse) 'my scruples might have told me to let him go, but I didn't. When he told me he had just been curious to see how I worked, I might have believed him, but I didn't. When he begged me for mercy, telling me about the wife and family that he loved, I could have felt pity, but I didn't. Instead I hung him up on that nail over there, just to shut him up, not so as to kill him; otherwise we wouldn't have been able to taste the fresh blood that we all so much prefer.

'Could you have done that, Lyosha?' Iuda continued. 'Of course not – you wouldn't want to. But you'd like to do it to me now, wouldn't you? And yet still you couldn't. I could just beg you for mercy; tell you about my terrible upbringing in the Carpathians and you'd lose all stomach to do it.'

'So that's why you're so hard to kill?' I said, straightening up. The soldier, listening to Iuda, had relaxed his pressure on me a little. 'It's not your strength, but our weakness?'

'Exactly. We are certainly quite easy to kill. Sunlight. Fire.' He nodded down towards my wooden dagger, which had fallen to the floor. 'A stake through the heart. Decapitation. They're all ways that I've seen it happen. Maybe there are others too. I can't say I'm an expert.'

'You mean you don't know?' I asked. I was surprised, but also attempting to goad him.

'Why should I know? You're not a doctor, are you? You don't know every detail of how your body works, nor do I of mine. We're not going to carry out experiments to find out new ways of killing ourselves.' He smirked suddenly, as if he'd just thought of something very funny. If he had, he did not share it.

'Why not?' I asked. 'You're easy enough to replace.'

Iuda raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 'Easy?'

'Like your friend here,' I said, indicating the soldier who had by now, relaxed by my utter defeat, completely forgotten to restrain me. 'Just a quick bite and it's one less human and one more vampire.'

Iuda chuckled. 'If only it
were
that easy, but unfortunately we remain a very exclusive group.'

'You have a long list of membership rules, I suppose, to keep out the riff-raff.'

'We have but one criterion. The individual in question must want to become one of us. One would imagine that most organizations offering such a relaxed admission would be inundated with applications, but we are not. For us, self-selection is the ideal approach. You, for example, would not wish to join us, would you?'

'No,' I said, needing no special effort to inject absolute conviction into my voice.

'And so we would not have you. In fact, this gentleman is the only recruit we've had since we arrived in your deeply pious country. Not that we have the opportunity to ask on every occasion.'

'And what happened to him?'

'He ran into Varfolomei. That, by the way, is why he has a particular dislike for you. We're all upset that you murdered Matfei and Ioann, but he regards Varfolomei as something of a father figure. Anyway, there he was, fleeing from – deserting if you will – the field at Borodino and whom should he meet but Varfolomei? They have a little chat and he decides that yes, a life of immortality would be preferable to being a
ryadovoy
in the Russian army, to be sent to his death at the whim of cowardly officers such as yourself.'

'And so just by wanting to be a vampire, he became one?'

'No, no. There's a mechanism. First Varfolomei drank some of his blood, just enough so that he would die, but not straight away. He then willingly – and it has to be willingly, I'm told – drank some of Varfolomei's blood. It's traditional to drink from a cut to the chest, but I don't think that matters.'

'So you understand that much of how your body works,' I commented. 'How you're created, but not how you are killed.'

He smiled. 'We have an advantage over you in that we can remember the moment, and therefore the process, of our own conception. It makes it so much easier for us the first time we come to do it ourselves, rather than all that messy fumbling about that humans go through.'

'So how many vampire offspring have you produced in your time, Iuda?'

'None,' he replied and then quickly added with a smile, 'that I know of. And I would know. What I have just described could not very well happen by accident. Some of us are different, but I am very like you humans. I like the chase and I like the kill, but I don't want to be concerned with any long-term consequences.' He thought for a moment. 'It's much the same as you feel when you're with that young lady – Dominique. You love the physical experience of her body, but you'd be appalled if your congress with her ever produced a child.' He looked into my face enquiringly and then raised his eyebrows. 'Or maybe not.'

He turned away and the eyes of the other two vampires in the room followed him. I took my chance. I raced across the room towards the window, brushing aside the relaxed arm of Varfolomei's 'offspring' and playing hopscotch over the pitiful corpses which were lined up across the floor. My best guess was that by now it was dawn outside. I grabbed hold of one of the curtains and wrenched at it, pulling it away from its fixings high above me at the top of the window. Andrei took a step towards me as I tugged, but he was too late. The curtain rail gave way and the curtain came tumbling down over my head, blocking my sight completely, but revealing the window behind it.

I quickly wrestled the heavy material off me, the darkness of its covering giving way to the still dim, lamp-lit room. Around me stood the three vampires – two of them utterly impassive at the futility of my action, Iuda with the trace of a mocking smile on his lips. I turned back to the window to see that, behind the curtains, it had been boarded up with the floorboards that had been taken from downstairs. Through the occasional chink I could see that outside it was just daylight, but not enough of it could get inside to do any harm to my captors.

In happier times, parties held in a house such as this would have carried on long into the night and on to the following morning. Sometimes the zealous host would ensure that the windows were shuttered and the clocks stopped so that no guests would realize that dawn had broken and spoil the atmosphere by considering that it might be time to depart. My hosts – the new, undead occupants of this house – had a similar desire to obscure the light of the new day, but with very different motivation.

With a flick of his head, Iuda indicated to the soldier that I should be held fast once again. The soldier pushed me back against the wall and pressed his hand firmly against me.

'So,' I said, feeling the depressing reaction to my failed action sweeping over me, 'I suppose you're going to kill
me
now.'

There followed a brief conversation between Iuda and Andrei in their own language. I think that Iuda wanted me to die there and then, but Andrei disagreed. He mentioned Pyetr a number of times. It was odd that they referred to him as Pyetr even amongst themselves. Did they not know his real name, or were they taking caution to the extreme – making sure that no one could ever find out who they were and use that knowledge to track them down? From their discussion, I presumed that they were waiting for Pyetr to arrive. Any delay was a moment more for me to enjoy life, and any moment was time for me to think how I might escape.

'It's going to be a bit cramped for the three of you all sleeping in that one coffin, isn't it?' I said.

Iuda looked away from his conversation with Andrei to answer me. My attempt to escape seemed to have knocked his earlier good humour out of him. He was now quite dismissive in his mood.

'We don't
need
coffins to sleep in, any more than you
need
beds. How do you suppose we spent all those days out there on the Smolensk road?'

It was a good question. 'How did you?' I asked.

'We'd just dig a hole and bury ourselves in it. All we need is to keep the sun off. It doesn't need to be very deep.'

Before I could reply, we heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The door to the landing opened and in walked Pyetr. He was quickly followed, to my consternation, by Dmitry.

Pyetr and Iuda began talking furtively in their own language. Dmitry spoke directly to me.

'You shouldn't have killed them, Aleksei. I know we couldn't help Ioann, but Matfei and Varfolomei – that was just murder.'

'I suppose you told them about Matfei and Varfolomei,' I said.

'I told them you followed Matfei. They knew he was dead. It didn't take much to work it out.'

'How did Pyetr get here?' I asked. 'It's light outside, isn't it?'

'We came underground. The sewers run right under this street. With a bit of work you can get into any of the cellars. It's dark as night down there.'

'I presume they've agreed to spare your life,' I said bitterly.

'And yours, Aleksei. They have no quarrel with us. They understand you killing them. If we'd told you the truth from the start, you wouldn't have over-reacted.'

He was utterly deceived; deceived by himself as much as by the Oprichniki into the conviction that because their cause – our cause – was right then they themselves must be righteous; deceived into the belief that because they were righteous, anything that they did to support our cause must be to the good. And yet through it all, the thought popped into my head that there was something I had been meaning to tell him next time I saw him. It wasn't relevant, unless Dmitry was in an even greater state of self-delusion than I could possibly believe, but there was little else to discuss.

'Did you hear that Yelena Vadimovna has had a little boy?' As I spoke, my thoughts went to Marfa and an idea began to form.

'That's nice,' said Dmitry. 'Vadim will be pleased.' I was shocked that he did not know, but also relieved that his present attitude was based upon ignorance.

'You have no idea, do you?' I said to him, as I slipped my hand inside my shirt.

'What do you mean?'

'Vadim Fyodorovich is just over there,' I said, gesturing towards where the rotting corpse hung, as yet unnoticed by Dmitry. 'They . . .'

Iuda had been listening and interrupted me. 'We have decided what we are going to do,' he announced loudly.

We never heard his plans. As he spoke I withdrew my hand from my shirt with a jerk. I felt the chain snap around my neck, leaving me free to pull out the icon that Marfa had given me. I held it up to the soldier's face and ominously shouted at him, 'Keep back!'

In the face of the Saviour's image, the
voordalak
's entire strength began to wither away. He released his grip on me and covered his eyes, backing away from me across the room.

The reaction of the other vampires was quite different.

'You fool!' shouted Pyetr at the terrified creature.

'Don't be so damned superstitious!' added Iuda. Pyetr gave a brief hand signal to Andrei, who marched across the room and, without fear, grabbed the icon from me and cast it into a corner. Evidently, there was nothing real for them to fear in the religious symbol, but the young, inexperienced vampire believed that there was, and that was enough to make him afraid. Fortunately, the moment's distraction gave me time to place my hand on something which could have a very real effect on them.