The Third Section (58 page)

‘What’s the matter, Richard?’ she said, using the name by which she had known him so long before. ‘Aren’t you curious?’

Yudin kept his eyes averted. He felt his heart pump. His fear was visceral and he could not entirely account for it. It came from her, and however much Yudin might think of himself as different, he was one of them; a
voordalak
. Just as one terrified ox could spread its fear invisibly to the entire herd, so Raisa’s terror seeped into him.

‘Don’t you want to see what you’ve become?’ Raisa continued. ‘I was beautiful and I’ve faced myself. What do you have to fear?’

He could sense she was approaching him, but still did not turn to look. He searched the shelf behind his desk – the only place he could risk looking – trying to find something that might be of help.

‘I’m curious too,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen me, but I haven’t seen you. All I need to do is tilt the mirror, then I’ll see your face. And if you look, you’ll see mine.’ There was a pause and then she began to laugh, just as the old woman had. Yudin could only presume that she had done what she threatened and was now staring at his reflection instead of her own. ‘Oh, Richard,’ she said. ‘You really should look. You make me look quite, quite plain. It’s you who’s the fairest in the whole land.’ She continued to laugh but it was the forced, cold laughter of madness, the only possible reaction to a situation that was beyond sorrow, beyond tears and beyond hope.

Yudin turned and took the briefest glimpse at her, just enough to judge the position of the mirror. He was an inverted Perseus, daring only to gaze upon the gorgon in the flesh, not in her reflection. He fired the revolver that he had picked up from the
shelf
. The shot rang out and Yudin allowed himself another glimpse of what was going on. The bullet had missed the looking glass, but had hit Raisa in the wrist. Her thumb was bent at a peculiar angle, its tendon severed. Raisa herself did not seem to notice. She continued to laugh and gaze into the mirror even as it teetered and fell from her fingers.

It hit the stone floor and shattered, its fragments flying in all directions. The harsh sudden sound of its fracture brought an end to Raisa’s laughter. She gasped and fell to her knees, then picked up one of the small fragments of the looking glass and tried to peer into it, gripping it so tightly that it cut into her flesh and drew blood.

‘No,’ she moaned softly, and then louder, ‘no!’ She put the fragment back on the ground and reached out for others near her, placing them beside the first in an attempt to re-create the whole. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘One last look. Just one more.’

Yudin fired the gun again. This time there was no inaccuracy. He hit the shard of crystal that she had put down and it shattered to powder. Those around it were flung away. Raisa turned and looked at him.

‘Pity me!’ she said. She looked around the room as if not knowing where she was, as if Yudin was not even there, and then she was on her feet and running up the stairs to the world above. It was dark now and she would be safe outside, but if Yudin had possessed the ability to pity her, he would have prayed that it was still day and that her misery would have ended in an excruciating but mercifully brief inferno.

He took a few steps towards where the fragments of broken mirror still lay – at least twenty of them – preparing to clear them up. Then he froze. They had fallen randomly, facing in every direction. Those that lay flat on the floor were no problem, but some were raised up at just such an angle that they reflected Yudin’s image back at him, following him like eyes as he moved. None was large enough to see himself in clearly, but with every step he took he caught a glimpse of some dark creature slithering across the room. He saw shapes that he could make some sense of, but not relate to any part of his own body.

He reached out to pick up one of the fragments and saw his
hand
reflected in it. He pulled back. That it was the image of his hand, he knew simply from the physics of the matter, but he would never have recognized it. And yet, as had been the case with Raisa, he yearned to see more. He reached out again and picked up the piece of crystal, curling his fingers around the edge so that he could just see them reflected, black and hard.

He almost raised it to look into his face, but then sanity prevailed. He threw the fragment to the ground and in the same movement flung himself back across the room. The temptation to see the truth still filled him, but he resisted. He grabbed the embroidered shawl from his desk and shook it out, opening it fully, then tossed it across the floor as though it were a tablecloth and it was his job to prepare for dinner. The shawl swirled and descended gently as the air caught it and tried to prevent it from falling, but eventually it settled, covering almost all of what remained of the mirror. Two shards of the Iceland Spar glinted in the light. Yudin stuck out his foot tentatively and kicked them under the cloth.

It was the best he could do. To clear it away properly he would need help – human help. He strode to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Gribov!’ he bellowed. ‘Gribov! Get down here!’

But Gribov did not respond.

IT WAS DMITRY’S
first night back in Moscow. he had been forced to travel on horseback, riding along the chaussée by night and sleeping rough by day, burying himself beneath a light covering of earth. He knew from Raisa that she and Yudin travelled by train between Petersburg and Moscow, having themselves delivered as luggage to be loaded into one of the baggage wagons, but he did not feel sure enough of himself to risk it, nor did he know of anyone he could ask to help him. Every friend he had believed him to be dead.

He got into the city only just before dawn, and had found a churchyard with more than one tomb that was large enough for him to crawl into and sleep. It was the most comfortable night he had spent since slinking from his own grave. Physically he had lain upon the hard, stone floor of the vault, but that was hardly a matter of significance. What was good was to be lying among the dead. They could not communicate with him, they did not even know that he was there, but somehow they made him feel he was where he was meant to be.

Once darkness had fallen Dmitry emerged into the night, determining to sleep there again if at all possible. Partly through instinct, partly through the knowledge that Raisa shared with him, he understood it was necessary for a
voordalak
to have several places in a city where he could hide. This would be the first, and perhaps the favourite. He was not even sure if he would be staying in Moscow for very long. He might return to Petersburg – or go somewhere else entirely. He wasn’t sure of anything – except for his hunger.

And that was why he had come to Moscow; to speak to Yudin. He knew enough from Raisa to understand that it was Yudin who had strung him along for all those years, that it was Yudin who had made the decision that he should at last become like them. Should Dmitry bear him any grudge? He did not regret the fact that he was no longer human, even though he knew he had been tricked into it. It was not now in Dmitry’s nature to admire honesty in others, any more than to treasure it in himself. All he wanted from Yudin was advice on how to live his new life – it had to be more than mere hunger which drove him. Surely Yudin would not have brought him to this state if he had not planned ultimately to explain that. And yet Dmitry did not relish an existence like Raisa’s, serving only as Yudin’s abetter.

But for now, an encounter with Yudin was not Dmitry’s primary concern. He had eaten only once since leaving Petersburg; a coachman who had dismounted and stepped into the woods to relieve himself. Dmitry wondered if he should have stuck around and enjoyed the coach’s passengers too, but at the time one had seemed sufficient. He knew he would grow to better understand the cycles of his appetite.

Another thing he had to get used to was passing himself off as a human. Yudin, Raisa, Tyeplov, all of them seemed to do it so effortlessly. In reality there was little to it – he had the physical appearance of a man and years of experience of being one. The problem was his own fear; his own sense of being an outsider who would easily be spotted. For the first days of his new existence he had truly been a creature of the night, hiding in darkness and stalking his prey. Now, in Moscow, he dared to be seen. He walked down the street towards Lubyanka Square as any gentleman about town would on a cool autumn evening. It had not snowed yet, but it would within the next days or weeks – and the nights would grow longer. It was the perfect time to be here.

He had been tempted more than once to pop into a tavern or club; not one of his old haunts, for fear he might be recognized, but somewhere he could further test his ability to blend in. So far, though, he had resisted. He imagined the taste of alcohol – of any liquid other than blood – on his lips and of the feel of it slithering down his throat. It repelled him. It was a sensation he would have
to
overcome; Raisa and Yudin had managed it – he had seen them drink. But for now he had no stomach for it.

Neither did he have the need for it, not tonight. Tonight he would easily find himself a victim without having to go to any effort of ingratiating himself with strangers. He turned on to Kuznetskiy Bridge Street, taking the route he had so often followed in life, towards his Moscow lodgings. The memories of his former life came to him through a strange filter. The emotions, the love, hate, excitement and boredom of it all, were mere echoes, as though described in a badly written novel, informing him that they existed but not conveying how they felt. But details such as the names, addresses, habits and tastes of all those he had known were still utterly clear to him. Sometimes the memories of those things were more lucid than when he had been alive.

He knocked on a door just a little way down from his own former rooms. Behind it he heard the sound of feet running downstairs. The last time he had been here it had been to ensure the safe delivery of two letters, one to Tamara and the other to Yudin, in the event of his death. That was nothing compared with what he came for today. The door opened.

‘Milan Romanovich,’ he said with a smile that he hoped was not too broad, not least so that it would not reveal his teeth. He could see the blood draining from Milan’s face – an unpleasant image considering the reason Dmitry had come here.

‘Dmitry!’ Milan exclaimed, his voice a mixture of shock and joy. ‘They told me you were dead. What happened?’

‘It’s a long story,’ said Dmitry, ‘but well worth the hearing. May I come in?’

‘My God, of course!’ said Milan. ‘And tell me everything.’ He stepped back inside and indicated that Dmitry should enter. Dmitry took one glance up and down the street. It did not matter too much if he was seen, but it would be better if there were no witnesses.

He stepped inside and his friend closed the door behind them.

Tamara turned the doorknob and went into Raisa’s room. It was dark outside now, but the curtains were still open and the moon shone in through the newly repaired window, augmenting the
light
from her lamp. All was as she remembered it: the bed, the two heavy wooden wardrobes; the doorway through to what had been Irina’s room; the dressing table with no mirror.

That, of course, made sense now, if the folk stories were true. Raisa would not want the world to see that her image was not reflected in the glass. Tamara corrected herself. There had been no mirror in all the time she had known Raisa, not just in the weeks since Tyeplov had made her into a vampire. But it was oddly prescient that Raisa should avoid it even in anticipation of what she would one day become. It did not matter. What mattered was Tamara’s overwhelming urge to remove every trace of Raisa from the room and from the building. It was irrational, she knew – Raisa had no further need of her worldly possessions – but Tamara felt that action was necessary, and this was all that she could achieve. This place had always been Raisa’s – since before Tamara had even arrived. To clear it out would be one step towards erasing her memory.

She went over to the interconnecting door and unlocked it, and then the other just a little way beyond. It would be a shorter route to the stairs to carry things out through the other room – the room that had once been Irina Karlovna’s – though why Tamara didn’t just throw everything out of the window and into the street below, she did not know. Tamara pondered the details of the night of Irina’s death. Irina had borrowed a set of keys to all the doors in the building from Nadia. Why would she have done that? She had her own key to the main door of her room, but not to these. Was it through here that she had let the vampire into her room? It seemed unnecessary.

Tamara couldn’t doubt that it was a
voordalak
that had killed Irina. What would a year ago – months ago – have seemed a preposterous fantasy was now a rational, inescapable verdict. And yet there were still questions. Which of them had it been? Tyeplov? Ignatyev? Dmitry had spoken of his encounters with them in Sevastopol, but he hadn’t been specific as to dates. He had travelled north in the autumn of 1855, but Irina was killed that spring. Could the vampires have left the city so long before he did?

Tamara paused before opening the second door. The space
between
the two was as large as a small closet – enough for someone to hide in. The wall between the rooms was of the same thickness. That meant that the wall was also wide enough for a person to hide in.

It was an inescapable possibility. From her position between the two doors, Tamara tapped on the painted wall. It certainly wasn’t made of brick or stone. That meant little. In a house as old as this – dating back to before the fires of 1812 – much of the construction was wood rather than anything more substantial. But it didn’t explain why the wall needed to be so wide.