The People's Will (12 page)

‘This is where the myths about our fear of garlic come from,’ Zmyeevich explained. ‘The smell, the taste, the sensation on the skin – these are nothing. But buried in the flesh, it becomes something quite different.’

Dmitry nodded. He’d known even as a human of the belief that vampires feared garlic, but had never experienced it himself. Now, perhaps, he would be a little more wary. Zmyeevich continued the process until there was scarcely an inch of Iuda’s body that had not been implanted with either wood or garlic. Iuda screamed and shuddered with each new penetration, but did not grow weak. By the end of it, Dmitry saw Iuda more as a leg of mutton, prepared in a Petersburg hotel by some expert French chef who knew how to get the flavour of garlic to infuse every last fibre of the meat.

‘Come and look,’ suggested Zmyeevich when he was finished.

Dmitry approached, and peered closely at Iuda’s wounds, first examining one where a thick splinter of oak held open a flap of skin and fat just below Iuda’s bottom rib. Around it the flesh attempted to grow and reform, just as might the flesh of any wounded
voordalak
, but whenever it touched the wood, it was repelled, and so the laceration was in a constant state of flux, always trying to heal – never succeeding.

Next he looked at where Zmyeevich had placed a sliver of garlic. Here things were far worse. The flesh made no attempt to regrow. It lay dead and black, leaving a gaping hole in Iuda’s side. Yellow pus oozed from somewhere in the dark crevice that Dmitry couldn’t see. Even to a human the smell would have been repellent. To a vampire – smelling rotting vampire flesh – it was unendurable. Dmitry stepped away and breathed deeply.

‘Just an address.’ Zmyeevich was talking to Iuda now. ‘You must have had another home here in Moscow. Simply tell us where it is.’

It was only the second time Zmyeevich had bothered to ask, the first being right at the beginning, before he’d even laid a finger on Iuda. But Iuda would not have forgotten. It was a subtle approach; none of the great questions, along the lines of ‘How much of my blood have you hoarded?’ or ‘Where is Ascalon?’ It was just a simple question that could do little harm. And once Iuda was broken and told them the answer, everything else would follow.

But Iuda did not answer.

Zmyeevich turned away and let his eyes wander across the panoply of equipment that he had brought with him. His eyes fell upon an item and he walked over to it – a simple wooden bowl. He placed it on the floor and knelt down in front of it, rolling up his sleeve as he did so. He reached to the pile of knives – of every shape, size and purpose – and selected from them a lancet. He held the blade against the flesh of his forearm, touching it at one place and then another as though attempting to select the perfect spot. Then, without hesitation, he cut. Blood flowed quickly, running across his skin and dripping from his bare elbow into the bowl below.

While he had shown not a glimmer of fear or pain as he made the cut, now Zmyeevich’s face became contorted with strain and concentration. Dmitry understood the reason. If nature were left to run its course then the tiny cut to Zmyeevich’s arm would already have healed, with scarcely a few drops of blood shed. Only by the force of his will could he keep the wound open and deliver from it sufficient blood for his purpose – whatever that might be.

Soon he had enough, and he relaxed, breathing deeply, sweat
glistening on his forehead. The flow of blood waned and died, and the gash began to close. Within seconds there was only smooth skin.

‘Hold his head,’ instructed Zmyeevich, standing and bringing the bowl over to Iuda. Dmitry did as he was told, though unsure of Zmyeevich’s intent.

‘Open his mouth,’ Zmyeevich barked.

Dmitry complied, forcing his fingers between Iuda’s lips and then his teeth, still failing to comprehend what was to come. Zmyeevich held the bowl of his own blood close to Iuda’s mouth and began to tip it forward. Iuda had not seen Zmyeevich bleed himself – his eyes had been closed and his head hung as he tried to cope with the pain of his myriad wounds. At the hint of blood on his lips he opened his mouth a little wider and drank greedily. Dmitry took the opportunity to push his fingers in deeper, so that Iuda would not be able to change his mind.

After a moment, the flavour of it hit Iuda. Dmitry could well imagine it – the blood of one
voordalak
tasted foul to another, at least at first. Even for those who wanted to imbibe, it had to be forced down, like medicine. With practice the instinct could be overcome, but Iuda was far from that point. He tried to spit, but had no strength, and the blood flowed out over his bottom lip and chin.

‘Tastes like piss,’ he muttered, forcing out more blood as he spoke.

‘No.’ Zmyeevich’s voice was almost soothing, like a mother trying to persuade her infant to eat. ‘You must drink it all down. You must savour the blood of your master.’

At these last words Iuda raised his head and looked into Zmyeevich’s face. Suddenly he seemed to understand whose blood it was. At the same moment Zmyeevich raised the bowl again, and began to tip the thick, warm liquor into Iuda’s mouth. Dmitry held his head firmly, but as the fluid dripped on to his tongue a second time Iuda began to writhe, thrashing his head from side to side and kicking out with his legs, his actions a desperate attempt to force the drink from his mouth and to break free of Dmitry’s grip.

Zmyeevich smiled triumphantly, but Dmitry was bewildered.
Vampire’s blood might taste foul to the uninitiated, but it was nothing worse than that. Why should the thought of drinking it produce such terror in anyone, particularly in one usually so calm, as Iuda was? And that it was the blood of a
voordalak
of the eminence of Zmyeevich should make the consumption more an honour than a humiliation.

At last Iuda ripped his head free of Dmitry’s grasp. He jerked it forward and brought the bridge of his nose into contact with the bowl, knocking it to the ground and spilling its contents across the grey flagstones. Dmitry felt a pang of regret at the loss of so precious a fluid.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Zmyeevich, addressing Iuda rather than Dmitry. ‘There’s plenty more.’

He righted the bowl and picked up the lancet once again, preparing to yield another portion of his own vital fluid.

‘No,’ muttered Iuda. ‘Not that. I’ll tell you.’

Still Dmitry could not comprehend why the taste of Zmyeevich’s blood should be regarded by Iuda with such horror, to the point that it had broken him where all Zmyeevich’s twigs and garlic cloves – still protruding from his lacerated body – had failed.

‘You’ll tell me what?’ asked Zmyeevich.

‘Zamoskvorechye,’ he whispered. ‘Klimentovskiy Lane – number 14.’

His knees buckled and he slumped forward, hanging with the wire rope around his neck as his only support, finding even that more comfortable than standing.

Zmyeevich looked at Dmitry and said one word.

‘Go!’

Dmitry was on his way.

Number 14 stood opposite the Church of Saint Clement, after which the road was named. The building was rendered in red stucco, like the church itself. It was not a long walk from the cellars beneath the Kremlin: out through the Nikolai Gate, across Red Square, down the hill past Saint Vasiliy’s to the Moskva Bridge. It was all very familiar, the same pathways that Dmitry had taken in his youth, when he’d first come to Moscow to train as a cavalry officer. Much had changed, but most remained the
same. Once over the bridge it was only a short walk, crossing the Vodootvodny Canal, and he was standing outside the building.

It seemed empty, but not abandoned. It must have been three years, probably a little longer, since Iuda had had the chance to visit. They had not asked about keys; there would have been little point – Iuda certainly did not have them in his possession. Presumably somebody kept them for him, perhaps kept an eye on the building too. They could be watching now. It could all be a trap – but Iuda’s fear had been genuine. Dmitry tried the door and was not surprised to find it locked. He glanced up and down the lane, but saw no one. It was well past midnight now. He threw his shoulder against the wooden panel and the lock broke away easily from the doorframe.

Dmitry stepped cautiously inside. He remembered the swinging blade that could so readily have decapitated Iuda in Geok Tepe. It was by no means beyond Iuda to have rigged up something similar – probably something far better – to deal with the unwary intruder. Dmitry fetched a paraffin lamp from his bag and lit it.

His inspection of the ground floor and first floor was cursory. Every window was curtained and shuttered, and the rooms themselves were empty of all but a few scraps of furniture. The layers of dust were suggestive of far longer than three years’ disuse, but Dmitry knew Iuda would not have spent much of his time here; the instinct for any vampire was to be underground.

The steps down to the cellar lay directly beneath the main staircase. Dmitry opened the door at the top and descended, still circumspect in case of any snare that Iuda had left. What might it be? Would Iuda have merely been defending his lair against human trespassers? Or would he have been afraid of his own kind coming in here and discovering his darkest secrets? It would be like him to cover all eventualities – but there could be no doubt as to which of the two species harboured his truest enemies.

Dmitry reached the bottom of the stairs safely. He was faced with another door. He reached for the handle and opened it. Beyond, the cellar was vast, taking up half the ground plan of the entire building. At its centre was a stone plinth, and on that lay a simple wooden coffin. Its place of honour in the middle of the
room reminded Dmitry of the solitary chair that had held Iuda fast in Geok Tepe.

Dmitry approached. The coffin lid was in place. Still there seemed nothing to protect the slumbering figure of Iuda on those occasions when he lay here. But today he was
not
here. It made sense that he would not have set a snare to catch himself on his own return. Dmitry drew his sword and held it out, slipping its blade into the crack beneath the coffin lid, then twisting and pushing it to one side. If there were any trap installed, he hoped he was standing far enough away.

The lid fell to the floor with a low clatter, but there were no other consequences of Dmitry’s action. He glanced around; nothing in the cellar had changed. He approached the plinth and looked inside. The coffin, as he had expected, was empty, its silk lining still showing the slight imprint of where a body had once lain. This was not what they had been expecting at all. Zmyeevich had been sure that there would be documents, journals – with luck even some of Iuda’s experimental samples. They hadn’t expected Ascalon itself, but at least some clue. But Dmitry had examined the entire house, and this coffin was the only thing that suggested Iuda had ever been here.

Dmitry raised his sword and used the sharp tip to make a long, straight incision in the coffin’s lining, down the whole of its length. He ripped away the smooth material and hurled the bundle into the corner of the cellar. But beneath, there was nothing – just the hard wooden sides and bottom of the casket, and …

Something caught Dmitry’s eye, just where the side and bottom panels joined, about halfway down: a small metal ring attached to a wire, which disappeared into a gap in the wood, no bigger than a wormhole. On the other side was a similar arrangement, except that a longer stretch of wire was visible. The mechanism for some secret door? Dmitry doubted it. More likely it was the switch to activate whatever traps Iuda had to protect him while he slept; one wire to switch them on, when he lay down, the other to disable them before he rose. Dmitry would leave things be, for now.

He returned upstairs and considered. Why would Iuda have bothered telling them, if there was nothing here to be found?
For a momentary respite from his suffering? To allow him the chance to overpower Zmyeevich and escape? It was possible, but it would not get him very far – Zmyeevich could deal with him perfectly well. Merely for the amusement of wasting their time? That seemed feasible, but Dmitry was still doubtful.

In his mind he retraced his steps around the house – upstairs, downstairs and in the cellar. And then he saw it: a gap in the layout of the rooms, on the ground floor, between the stairwell, the kitchen and the large room that looked out on to the street. He walked around it, trailing his fingers across the wall, feeling for any secret latch. The space was definitely there, large enough for a sizeable room, and with no windows – no outside walls – ideal for a vampire.

And that meant the entrance would not be through any of the main rooms of the house. Iuda would want to be able to rise from his coffin in the cellar and go straight to whatever was hidden in there, without passing by any windows and the inconvenience of daylight. Dmitry returned to the cellar steps. He did not go down, but closed the door at the top and examined the wall that had been hidden when it was open.

The switch was easy enough to find. With a click Dmitry felt the panel in the wall loosen. He pushed and it swung back. He stepped through.

It was a study. The walls were lined with shelves and in the centre stood a desk and chair, facing the door. A great mirror with a gilt frame hung quite unnecessarily on one wall, to the side of the desk. Dmitry stood and gazed into it, but saw no reflection of himself, just as Iuda would not have seen himself when he stood there. The small room behind was visible in every detail, but of Dmitry – of any vampire – there could never be any sign. Why would Iuda have put it there? It could be that it dated back to a time when Iuda was human, but it seemed improbable. More likely it was there only to serve Iuda as a reminder of what he was – a
memento mori
, but of what had passed, not what was to come.

It was a reminder for Dmitry too, but as ever when he looked unseeing into a mirror it was not his own death that came to his mind, but that of Raisa Styepanovna, the creature who had taken
him from humanity – his vampire mother. He did not know quite how she had died – and thus could not decide how she was to be avenged – but whenever he saw a mirror he felt a sense of horror and revulsion that he knew came from her in the hours leading up to her death. She had gone mad, but the last lucid thought he had shared with her was her anticipation that soon she would once again be able to see her face.