CHAPTER XXVII

WHEN I AWOKE, I WAS INSTANTLY UNEASY. MY SURROUNDINGS were vaguely familiar, but I was aware of some pressing issue that had to be resolved. Memory quickly returned. My first, perhaps unremarkable observation was that I was alive. I reached out to my right, but Domnikiia was no longer beside me. She must have awoken. She would have seen me. Surely I would have to have been awake to have drunk her blood and become a vampire. Had I woken to do that and then gone back to sleep, forgetting what had taken place? I considered myself, trying to determine whether physically or mentally I felt any different. I could find nothing.

I glanced to the window and looked outside. As far as I could judge, it was late morning. The snow shimmered in the light of the sun. The reflected light shone into my face and cast a shadow of my hand on to the empty pillow beside me. I was no vampire. As I had thought, I needed to be conscious to become one of those creatures, so that I might imbibe the blood of the one who created me. Domnikiia had not yet transformed me into a creature like herself, but she soon would. I heard a footstep outside and the doorknob began to turn. My earlier conviction that I would become a vampire had completely left me. I found it impossible to retrace the line of reason that had led me to it. Now, the prospect of letting Domnikiia sink her teeth into my neck and of my drinking her blood in return was both sickening and frightful. I would gladly kill her in order to save myself from such a fate.

I reached over the side of the bed to where I had dropped my dagger the previous night. I felt a twinge of pain, but at the same time I noted that the wound to my arm had been bandaged while I slept. The dagger was not there. I glanced around the room and saw it. It was on a chair, sitting on top of my neatly folded coat. My boots were beside it and my sword hung from its back. I would have no time to reach it before the door opened. Then my panic abated. It was daylight. Whoever was entering the room, it could not be a vampire. If it was Domnikiia then she would be quickly destroyed without any need for my intervention. Even so, I could not help but cower against the bedstead, clutching the blankets up to my chin.

It was her. She was carrying a tray on which I saw some bread and some cold meats and a pot which, from the smell, I immediately knew to contain coffee. She walked across the room, past the window, and put the tray down on the dressing table.

'Good morning,' she beamed. I said nothing. She came over to the bed and sat beside me. Even though it was now clear to me that she was no vampire, still I shrank from her. There was no sign that she noticed. She put her arms around me and laid her head on my shoulder, kissing my neck and squeezing me tightly.

'That was a nice surprise,' she said.

'What?' I managed to whimper.

'Waking up with you, of course!' She sat up and slipped her legs underneath the blankets. 'I did know you were back in town, though. Pyetr Pyetrovich said you'd called. Even so, I didn't expect you'd go to quite such lengths to see me. I don't know how you're going to get back out without anybody noticing. You could have bathed first, too.' She rose and went over to the dressing table.

'I'm sorry,' I mumbled, simply as an instinctive response. My heart was pounding and I felt a heady relief. It was like the resurgence of reality after a nightmare – a nightmare that has contained a horror so dreadful that there is no solution to it but to turn back time and discover that the horror never existed. What I had seen at Domnikiia's window the previous night had been no nightmare, but it was just such a horror. And yet, somehow, its inevitable consequence had not taken place. Domnikiia was human. In all my contemplation through the night I had found no sensible course of action to take, and yet now the solution came in a simple, inexplicable fact. She was not a vampire.

'Oh, I'm sorry, Lyosha,' she said with genuine distress. 'I was joking. You know I'll always love you however much you stink.' It felt cruel not to smile and acknowledge her humour, especially on seeing the disappointment in her face, but I was too deep in thought to react in any way. She came back over and handed me a cup of coffee. 'How's your arm?'

'Where were you last night?' I asked.

'I was visiting a client, if you must know. I don't do all my work here.'

'What time did you get back?' My voice was hushed and passionless as I tried to disguise my shock and fear.

'What is this, Lyosha?' she said, rising to her feet in anger. 'You know what I do. Do you want details all of a sudden?'

'Tell me!' I moaned with a pleading intensity, leaning across the bed towards her. She knelt down beside the bed and put her hands to my face.

'What is it, Lyosha?' she asked, staring into my eyes to discover what had brought this on in me. 'Why are you like this?'

'I saw you with Iuda last night,' I told her simply.

'What?' Her incredulity appeared genuine.

'Through that window,' I explained, pointing. 'I was watching.'

'You were spying on me?' She was more disappointed than angry.

'It's too late for that,' I said, taking her by the wrists and rising to my feet. 'I saw the two of you together and I saw what you did.'

'Lyosha, I saw no man in this room last night.' She was icy calm, perceiving that her life might depend on what she told me.

'Ha!' I snorted. 'You should be a lawyer. You saw no man, but you saw Iuda.'

'I didn't return here until almost midnight, and then I went straight to bed. Tell me what it was that you saw.'

'I saw what happened. I saw you and him, together. I saw him when he carried you over to the window. I saw when he bit you.

I saw when you . . .'

Domnikiia put her hand to the collar of her nightdress and ripped it away to expose her neck. 'If he bit me, then where are the marks?' She arched her head first to one side and then the other, stretching her neck so that I could clearly see that there was no sign of any contact with a vampire.

Dumbstruck, I put my hand to her throat and stretched the skin, peering closely to verify what was already quite evident. I sat back down on the bed, bewildered, and she sat beside me. I lay my head in her lap and stared vacantly at the ceiling.

'I think perhaps you dreamed it, Lyosha,' she said soothingly, reminding me, for the first time, quite specifically of my mother. I shook my head miserably.

'No. It was no dream. I saw it. I saw something.'

'And you thought I had become a vampire?' There was a mocking tone in the question.

'Yes,' I said, and a tear came to my eye. I took her hand in mine and pressed it to my lips. She thought for a moment before the obvious question came to her.

'So what were you doing here this morning?'

'I came to kill you.'

She took it well. 'I see.'

'But I couldn't,' I explained.

She thought for a moment longer. 'So . . .' She didn't complete her question. Instead I felt her hands on my chest, pulling my shirt open, searching for something. 'You're not wearing it,' she said. 'The icon – you've taken it off.'

'I gave it to Dmitry.'

'But it would have protected you. If I had been . . . If I had been a vampire, I could have killed you – or worse. Are you mad? You gave away your only protection.'

'It doesn't work as protection,' I explained. 'They're not superstitious.'

'I'm superstitious,' Domnikiia shouted. 'It would have kept me off you.' She thought for a moment more. 'Is that what you wanted?' she asked, incredulous. 'You're an idiot, Aleksei Ivanovich; a sentimental idiot.' She paused before adding quietly, 'But thank you.'

'As if anything could keep you off me,' I muttered. She smiled and then bent forwards to kiss me.

'We still don't know what you saw,' she said, returning to the point. 'Perhaps they can do that – change their faces to look like someone else.'

'I never saw her face,' I confessed. I had realized already that my reasons for supposing it had been Domnikiia at all were scarcely substantial.

'Well, it looks like I had a lucky escape. I wouldn't like to have been killed by an idiot while I slept. So what did you see?'

'Just her back – her hair. It was so like yours.' I had already realized the implication.

'Oh my God!' whispered Domnikiia. 'Margarita! She sometimes uses this room when I'm not here. It's bigger than hers. The connecting door's never locked.' She sprang to her feet and went over to the door.

'Wait!' I called. 'Given what I saw, she'll be a vampire too by now.'

'So what am I supposed to do, just leave her?'

'Let me go first.'

'What if she is a vampire?'

'It's daytime,' I explained. 'She won't be able to do much.'

I picked up my dagger from the chair and then went over to the door. I felt Domnikiia, behind me, pressed close to my body. For all that I feared for her safety, it was reassuring to have her there. As I turned the door handle, I felt a debilitating weariness within me. I had no more stomach to be chasing around Moscow killing vampires, or even killing Frenchmen. I just wanted them all to go away and leave me to enjoy my life. But I knew I had to go on. I opened the door.

Inside, it was dark. The curtains were closed and in the little light that there was, I could make out a figure on the bed.

'Stay there,' I whispered to Domnikiia, and I began to edge my way towards the window, keeping my back always to the wall. When I got there, I wasted no time in pulling the curtain to one side and flooding the bedroom with light.

Iuda had not changed his attitude towards offspring. He remained, as he had once told me in that room of rotting corpses, free from the responsibility of long-term consequences. The purpose of the previous night's theatricals had not been to convert Margarita into another vampire who could accompany Iuda across the centuries. It had been purely a charade for my benefit, so that I would believe that Domnikiia had become a vampire and would then, as I so nearly had, kill her. For me to know that she died at my hand would make a vengeance upon me far sweeter than anything that Iuda could have done to her.

But once the performance had been acted out, Iuda had no further need for the bit players. On the bed, Margarita lay naked on her back. Her legs were together and straight and her arms lay limply stretched out on either side of her, in a grim mimicry of our crucified Lord. Her long, dark hair radiated from her head across the pillows like a halo, surrounding a face from which her dead eyes gazed blankly at the ceiling.

To her right side, sheets and pillows were drenched in vivid, red blood, which was also smeared over her stomach, breasts and cheeks. The right side of her throat was ripped open in a style that only a voordalak could achieve.

Domnikiia screamed.

 

Domnikiia did not stay at the brothel after that. None of them did. The authorities began an investigation. A brief look at my papers was enough to persuade them not to pester either myself or Domnikiia, although I doubt whether it did much to convince them of my innocence. I could have told them to terminate the investigation with all possible haste, but I chose not to. I wanted the nature of Iuda and the other Oprichniki to be known by everyone, but it was something that the police would have to find out for themselves. A simple account of the truth from me would not be believed.

As it was, they showed little interest in the history of one more body amongst the thousands. They were more concerned with identifying those in Moscow who had collaborated with the invaders. If they had chosen to speak with Domnikiia, they might well have perceived a discrepancy between her description of Margarita's body and what they found. An additional wound would have appeared.

After I had guided Domnikiia out of her colleague's room and into her own, but before summoning the police, I had returned to see Margarita once more. Her body was lifeless. Her dead eyes gave no reaction to changes in the light. Her flesh did not burn when it came into contact with the sun. For all anyone could tell, Iuda had caused her death, not begun her transformation. But I recalled another body that I had once seen in a not dissimilar state – the body of a young Russian soldier named Pavel, carried on a wooden cart through the streets of Moscow. He too had seemed dead. He too had been able to lie unaffected under the gaze of the sun. But his body had not decayed, the reason being that he had exchanged blood with a vampire and so had, within days or weeks, become one.

I could not let that happen. It took a single, swift, undebated thrust from my hand to rupture her dead heart with the wooden shaft of my dagger. How much easier it was for me to do that to Margarita than it ever could have been with Domnikiia.

Domnikiia stayed with me at the inn. It was not the best of times in our relationship. Domnikiia may have kept her soul, but her spirit had been dealt a heavy blow by the death of Margarita. Her vitality had faded to almost nothing. She didn't smile; she didn't joke; she didn't even hate. All those reactions were, I was sure, quite natural under the circumstances, and those qualities would return with time, but for now she was not even a shadow of the Domnikiia I had known and had loved. Worse, though, than losing those things I admired in her, I now found her dependency upon me stifling. Again this was no more than a temporary reaction to her shock, but it was a reminder to me that, whatever might happen to us, while we were together she would be my responsibility. I already had responsibilities – Marfa and Dmitry. It was not that I could not cope with another; it was simply that I didn't want to. Domnikiia was supposed to be my irresponsibility – the person with whom I need have no concern for the future or for the world outside. Now, more than ever, that was what I needed. The carnage that I had witnessed in those autumn months of 1812 had left me as an old man. I had lost the three people closest to me; Maks and Vadim by their very lives, Dmitry by the insuperable mistrust that had grown up between us. Dmitry's cowardly retreat from what faced him had turned out to be a wise response, one which now, only a few days later, I followed. The terror that had consumed me in Moscow after the fire had returned. Then safety had seemed to lie in flight, now it lay in immobility. Yet I would have liked Domnikiia – the real Domnikiia – to have been there to distract me from the reality of my inaction; either to fill my days with trivial frivolity or to stand up to me in a way that would either force me to justify my torpor or would shatter it.

Instead, she was simply meek. She could have goaded me into chasing west after either the French or the two surviving Oprichniki, or she could have begged me to stay with her in Moscow. As it was, I stayed, but not because she begged – she hardly spoke at all. The excuse for staying was my wounded arm, but it was well on the mend and I had ridden into battle with worse injuries. The reason for staying was fear.

 

Margarita's funeral took place three days after her death. She proved to have many friends and acquaintances who had taken the time out of their lives to attend, though few spoke to one another – particularly the men. Of the nine uniformed officers who attended, I was surprised to see that four outranked me. What was truly remarkable was that Margarita should have a funeral at all. The fires in Moscow had not killed many, but subsequent starvation had eradicated thousands, both native and invader. Most were still to be hauled into mass graves. From what I could gather, it was Pyetr Pyetrovich who had paid for the ceremony. His diligence in looking after his property now proved to stretch beyond simple good business.

Most significantly, the funeral marked a turning point in Domnikiia's mood. Having bid a formal farewell to her friend and colleague, some hints of her former charm began to re-emerge. Even so, the memory of her at her lowest always haunted me.

A few days later, as we sat in my rooms at the inn, she made an announcement.

'I'm going to get a job.'

'You have a job – or you will when Pyetr Pyetrovich reopens,' I told her. It sounded odd even as I spoke. Most men in my position would be delighted for their mistress to be giving up such a profession, but I had grown used to it.

'I can't go back there. What happened to Margarita . . . Well, even if it hadn't been Iuda, it could have been someone else. It could happen to me one day.'

'Will Pyetr Pyetrovich let you leave?' I was not trying to place obstacles in her way, but it must have come across as such.

'If he doesn't, he'll have you to answer to.'

I went over and kissed her cheek. 'He certainly will.' I sat down beside her. 'So what will you do?'

'I could work in a shop, or go into service.'

'I might know people who would take you on as a maid.'

'Here or in Petersburg?'

'Some here; mostly in Petersburg though.'

'I'd prefer Moscow,' she replied. I'd prefer you in Moscow too, I thought, but didn't say it.

'On the other hand,' she asked thoughtfully, 'wouldn't your wife like a new maid?'

A momentary image of the convenience of such an arrangement was quickly banished by the unending riskiness of its reality. A wife in one city and a mistress in another was a comfortable arrangement. To have both in the same city would add spice. To have both in the same household was the stuff of Molière. It could never be. I knew she would understand that in the long run, but in her present mood a blunt refusal could be damaging.

'Wouldn't you like that?' she went on. Still I could find no response to give to her. 'Prostak,' she murmured softly.

It was a word that one heard a lot in the army, especially among card-players; an insult that they applied to anyone who was an easy mark.

'I beg your pardon,' I said with mock offence.

'You heard,' she replied. I don't know whether she had been trying to trick me all along, or whether this was just to save us both embarrassment. Either way, it was a joy to hear her speak again with that easy impertinence. 'I'm not surprised Iuda found it so easy to fool you,' she added slyly.

Sometimes her humour could be less of a joy.

'Captain Danilov!'

 

I had just walked out the door of the inn. It was a week now since Margarita's death; a month since Bonaparte's departure. Snow lay thickly on the ground. I turned my head to see where the call had come from.

I smiled broadly, recognizing the familiar face that emerged from a doorway across the street. It was Natalia.

She ran over to hug me. I held her tightly for a few moments, clinging to her as the only person in my world who had not become terrifyingly unfamiliar over the past days and weeks.

'And how are you, my dear Natasha?' I asked.

'I'm good. Well, better than when you last saw us. We have a roof over us. Father has work. What about you?'

'I'm well – a little war weary. I meant to come and see you.'

We walked along the street as we talked, as Muscovites habitually do in winter, avoiding the cold that would penetrate our bones if we stayed still.

'That's all right,' she said. 'Captain Petrenko said you'd be busy fighting the French.'

'You've seen Dmitry?' I asked, surprised that he had been in Moscow.

She nodded. 'He said he's going after them too.'

'After the French?'

'No, after the English,' she said with heavy sarcasm. And why not? She had no reason to suspect that Dmitry or I had any enemy other than Bonaparte.

'When did you see him?'

'Um . . . five days ago.'

'How was he?'

'Like you – exhausted, but he still carried on.' I wondered if this was meant as a jibe at me. 'I told him not to go – said the French would leave without his help. But he said he owed it to you. Did you make him go?'

'Not on purpose.'

'Are you going to go after him?'

I thought for a while, but with no conclusion. 'I don't know,' I told her.

'Then today, I got a letter from him,' she continued. I was taken aback by the fact that a girl of her status could even read, but the possibility of news from Dmitry was far more consuming.

'What did he say?' I asked urgently.

'That's between him and me,' she replied, with a proud smirk. 'But he did enclose this for you.' She handed me a small envelope. 'He said it was safer than sending it to you. Does that mean there are still French spies about?'

I looked at the package in my hands. The word 'Aleksei' in Dmitry's hand was all that was written on the outside. It was very thin – it might only contain a single sheet, but I was desperate to read it.

'Do you think?' asked Natalia.

'Think what?'

'That there are still French spies in Moscow.'

'Probably not,' I said distractedly. 'But Dmitry is always cautious.'

'You want to read that, don't you?'

I nodded.

'I thought you would. That's why I brought it straight here. I'll let you get on with it.'

'Thank you,' I said with a smile. I kissed her hand and said goodbye.

'Will you come and visit us?' she asked.

'Of course.'

'That's what Mitka said.'

'Then that's what he'll do.' And that was one thing concerning Dmitry of which I felt sure.

 

I opened the letter as soon as I got back to the inn. It was dated the third of November, three days previously, and was typically succinct.

Aleksei,

I think I have tracked down Iuda and Foma. They have infiltrated the French army and are retreating with them. While my every instinct is to leave them to it, I know you will disagree, and I think it is time that I deferred to you on this. I am staying in Smolensk, at the hostelry by the Dnieper where we stayed last time we were here (8). Please join me here with all speed,

Your friend and comrade,

Dmitry Fetyukovich Petrenko.

I no longer had the excuse of my arm to keep me in Moscow – it had almost healed. I no longer had the excuse of not knowing where I should go – Dmitry's letter told me. There was no way that I could avoid setting out once again, nor did I want to.

I showed the letter to Domnikiia. She read it swiftly. 'How long do you think it will take?' she asked.

'Who says I'm going?'

She pulled a face to tell me that I was fooling her no more than I was fooling myself. My fear required excuses, and the letter left me with none.

'You think I should go, after all Dmitry's done?' I asked her.

'No, but you think you should.'

'And you don't mind?'

'Would it make any odds if I did?' She was probably right.

I rushed downstairs and ordered a horse to be prepared, then returned and began to pack, with Domnikiia's help. I was soon ready. I wrote down a list of names of people that I knew in Moscow who might employ her, along with a hasty letter of recommendation. I held both her hands as I stood at the doorway. It suddenly felt more like adieu than au revoir.

'You'll have a job by the time I get back,' I told her.

'Maybe,' she said quietly, then she gazed intently into my eyes. 'Please don't go, Lyosha,' she implored. I considered for a moment, but no longer than that.

'I have to.'

She smirked. 'You see,' she said. 'No odds whatsoever. You're so easy, Lyosha, you prostak.'

I smiled broadly and embraced her tightly.

'I will be back,' I whispered.

I went out into the winter street, mounted my horse and set off westwards once again, this time in pursuit not of the French, but of the last two remaining Oprichniki.