‘Not quite all of you, I think,’ said Wylie, with half a smile.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the tsar.

  ‘Something in Cain’s notebook,’ explained the doctor. ‘I didn’t understand it at the time, but now it makes more sense. It said something like, “In each generation, the blood can exert its influence on only one sibling. Whichever is first touched, the others become free.” Once Zmyeevich exerted his power over you, he lost any chance of doing the same to your brothers or sisters.’

  ‘My brothers, safe?’ said the tsar joyously, despite his weakness, and sitting up a little. ‘Konstantin, Nikolai, Mihail – all of them?’

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Aleksei, ‘though I wonder how Cain knew.’

  ‘He didn’t write that down,’ said Wylie.

  ‘He didn’t shy from experimenting on humans,’ said Aleksei. ‘Why not an entire family?’ He tried to force the image from his mind as he spoke.

  ‘He’s been planning this for a long time,’ said Aleksandr. ‘Not as long as Zmyeevich, obviously, but this isn’t the first time I’ve encountered him. That was during the Patriotic War.’

  ‘In 1812?’ Aleksei failed to hide his astonishment.

  The tsar nodded. ‘At the very time of Bonaparte’s occupation of Moscow. I was in the capital. He came and offered me much the same arrangement. Back then, he thought I needed to be in agreement, but on the other hand, our country was in direst need. He said Bonaparte would be no match for Zmyeevich and me if we stood together. He even claimed that Zmyeevich was already working to liberate Moscow from the French yoke.’

  Aleksei glanced at the other two men, but realized that no one in the room but himself could know what had really happened in Moscow. It was a surprise to him that Iuda had been to Petersburg in that time, but it was perfectly reasonable. Aleksei had spent most of the five weeks of Bonaparte’s occupation of the old capital hiding in Yuryev-Polsky. He had assumed that Iuda had remained in Moscow, but why should he have? There would have been plenty of time for him to travel to Petersburg, spend several days there, and return. His visit to Aleksandr would have taken only a fraction of that time. But all that was history. Aleksei’s concerns now were for the present, and for the tsar.

  ‘You’re safe now,’ he said. ‘Neither Cain nor Zmyeevich will get to you while we’re here.’

  ‘Safe?’ wailed the tsar. ‘How can I ever be safe? Even in death I can seek no protection.’

  ‘Don’t say such things, Your Majesty,’ said Tarasov.

  ‘Believe me, I would gladly ask you to kill me now if it would free me of this curse, but it will not. To die would be to bring about all that Zmyeevich desires.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I have drunk his blood,’ said Aleksandr, his lips articulating precisely, though only the slightest of sounds escaped his throat.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Tarasov, but it was just as Aleksei had suspected.

  ‘At Chufut Kalye – he gave me wine. I didn’t think. I didn’t understand – not then. I just drank it. When Cain offered me Zmyeevich’s blood, he was toying with me. I had already drunk it. It’s in me. The blood has been exchanged both ways, and there is only one further step before I come to be like him.’

  ‘One step?’

  ‘I must die. You’re right, Aleksei Ivanovich, Cain was about to kill me when you interrupted us, but it was no act of petty vengeance. The blood had been exchanged – that is the purpose of the vampire’s bite, but death itself does not have to be caused by that bite. He wanted to stab me, but I could be poisoned, fall ill. I could have been like that poor fellow Maskov and fallen from my carriage. Cowards die many times before their deaths, but I must truly be afraid to die, for when death comes it will bring for me so awful a resurrection that I cannot bear even to think of it.’

  ‘You’re not going to die,’ said Wylie, though the sorrow in his voice would have done little to convince Aleksandr of his confidence in the statement.

  ‘I think the blood I drank may be poison anyway – or perhaps Cain added something to it. I have felt ill since that day. I’ve been taking quinine in the hope of curing myself, but I feel no better. Cain likened my contamination to malaria, and I reasoned that a similar ailment might respond to the same cure, but who knows? It may even have made things worse.’

  ‘What can we do?’ asked Tarasov. He did not appear to have any expectation of an answer.

  The tsar tightened his grip on Aleksei’s hand. ‘When I die, Colonel Danilov will know what to do. He must be to me as Colonel Brodsky was to my great-great-grandfather.’

  ‘Your Majesty, there would be no greater pleasure for me than to kill Zmyeevich, but he could be anywhere in the world. I would have to . . .’ Aleksei knew this was not what Aleksandr meant, even before the tsar interrupted him.

  ‘Pyotr wasn’t sure whether his plan would succeed. He couldn’t know whether, once Zmyeevich had drunk his blood, he might find irresistible the urge to do likewise. So Brodsky brought the wooden stake; he had been given two alternative sets of instructions for what to do with it. He was lucky Pyotr had such strength of will. I fear you may not be so fortunate, Aleksei.’

  The two doctors stared at Aleksei, dumbfounded. Aleksei himself said nothing, but in his heart he made a silent promise. He would allow no mawkish sentiment to sway him, and his love for his tsar would drive his hand. He prayed it would not come to pass, but he knew that if it did one day become necessary, he would do his duty by his tsar.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  ALEKSANDR OPENED HIS EYES. HE FELT AS THOUGH HE HAD slept for an eternity. He looked around him. All was familiar. He was in his bed, in his room, in his palace, in Taganrog. A memory returned to him. He had spoken to Danilov, Wylie and Tarasov and told them all he knew. He should have done it earlier. He should have told Danilov the first time he set eyes on him – in the flesh. But when General Barclay introduced them, it had been two years since he had seen that image of the colonel, viewed through Zmyeevich’s eyes. His fears over Zmyeevich and Cain had then long since faded, washed away in the jubilation of Bonaparte’s defeat. It had all seemed unreal, and he had convinced himself his recognition of Danilov was a coincidence. And even if it had been him in the vision, did that make him friend, or foe?

  Still, Aleksandr really should have told all to Danilov back at the Nevsky Monastery, as he set out for Taganrog after that first letter from Cain. It had been thirteen years since Cain had spoken to him. Aleksandr hoped he had given up, at least for this generation. But in that time, Danilov had proved himself to be a brave and loyal officer, and Aleksandr had been able to dismiss any doubts over the nature of his relationship with Zmyeevich. But even in Petersburg, Aleksandr had found it difficult to truly appreciate the danger that might come from Cain. It was all too fantastical – a terror by night. The greater danger came from the plotters amongst his own men, and so he had been happier to leave Danilov in the capital, close to where that danger lay. Even so, he had been glad to see him when he first arrived in Taganrog.

  Not that the threat from the Northern – or Southern – Society had diminished. He might still fall prey to one of their assassins. Now the consequences would be worse. His death now carried with it a far greater dread. Perhaps though, it would not be so bad for Russia. If his death – whatever his subsequent fate – marked the beginning of a new dynasty, one that was not touched by Romanov blood, might that not save his country from this curse? Beyond that, if Russia became – God forbid – a republic, it would end Zmyeevich’s hopes for ever.

  But no. It was not for one man, even a tsar, to toy with the succession to the Russian throne as ordained by God Himself. Aleksandr would die and his brother would take his place; a brother who, so Wylie had said, would remain untainted by this plague of the blood. He had asked Danilov to carry out the task. Danilov had seen these creatures; he would not fail. But whatever the outcome, Aleksandr was glad to have unburdened himself to those three. He felt better.

  He really did feel better. He raised his arms from the bed and looked at them. They were still pale, but they did not glisten with sweat as they had done before – and most importantly, they did not shake. He felt his forehead; it was cool. His stomach didn’t tug at him as though desperate for freedom. In fact, he felt hungry. It was a wonderful sensation, having for so many days been unable to tolerate even the smell of any but the most insubstantial foods.

  He threw the bedclothes aside and was about to stand, but a voice interrupted him.

  ‘Whatever are you doing?’

  It was his beloved wife, Yelizaveta. She was seated a little way from the bed.

  ‘How long have you been there?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘Since dawn,’ she said.

  ‘What time is it now?’

  ‘Almost eleven.’

  ‘On what day?’

  ‘Tuesday,’ she said. ‘You’ve been asleep for a day and a half.’

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and attempted to stand. That was not such a wise idea. He ached all over, but that was still no bad thing. The aching was an aftereffect; a reminder of what had been, not a warning of what was to come. It was best to stay in bed for now though.

  ‘Anisimov!’ he bellowed. The sound was louder than he had expected. His voice was returning too.

  His valet’s head appeared around the door. ‘Anisimov,’ said the tsar, ‘open up the shutters. And then go fetch Dr Wylie. And Tarasov. And Danilov.’

  Anisimov followed his master’s instructions in the order they were given. The autumn sunlight flooded in through the window, and the valet left to summon the three men. Yelizaveta came over to the bed, and Aleksandr clasped her hand.

  ‘How utterly beautiful it all is,’ he exclaimed, gazing at the sunlight pouring in.

  The two doctors and the colonel arrived presently. Yelizaveta was perceptive enough to leave the men alone. ‘I must write to my mother and tell her how much better you are,’ was her proffered excuse.

  Wylie and Tarasov poked, prodded and examined Aleksandr in ways with which he was all too familiar. Danilov stood back throughout, leaning against the door. The doctors then moved aside and discussed their patient in undertones. They beckoned Danilov over and the conversation continued in the same vein. At length, they turned to face the tsar.

  ‘Am I better?’ he asked.

  ‘You have no symptoms.’ It was Wylie who responded.

  ‘So I’m better.’

  ‘You are as you were before your visit to Chufut Kalye.’

  ‘Before I drank the blood of a voordalak, you mean?’ said the tsar, irritated by the doctor’s equivocation.

  ‘If your ailments were as a result of . . . what you drank,’ said Tarasov, ‘then it would seem that the effect has passed.’

  ‘For Heaven’s sake,’ said Aleksandr, slamming his arms down on the bed and immediately regretting it. ‘Danilov, will you speak plainly?’

  ‘I’ll speak honestly,’ said Aleksei. It seemed to Aleksandr a quibbling distinction, but the colonel made his meaning very clear. ‘We have no idea what we’re talking about,’ he explained. ‘The good doctors here know about the disorders of men – but your affliction does not fit well into that category. I have encountered vampires, but every one of their victims I have ever seen has either become such a creature himself, or has died and become their prey. I have never met anyone in the limbo in which you find yourself.’

  ‘Take a guess,’ replied the tsar.

  ‘We think Zmyeevich’s blood has left your body,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘Cain’s book said that such a purification might take weeks, even months,’ explained Wylie.

  ‘But Your Majesty’s use of quinine may have precipitated matters,’ added Tarasov.

  ‘So I am not at risk of becoming . . . like Zmyeevich.’ The three men glanced at one another like naughty schoolboys. ‘Well?’ Aleksandr insisted.

  ‘If you were to die now, we believe you would die a normal death,’ said Danilov. ‘Your corpse would putrefy and rot like any other.’

  Aleksandr blanched slightly at the words, then stifled a giggle, then laughed out loud. ‘Was ever a man so pleased to learn of his own mortality?’ he said.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Aleksei, returning the tsar’s smile. ‘Ask a priest.’

  ‘I did,’ said the tsar. ‘I asked Father Fyodotov. He was no help at all, which is why I called on the three of you.’

  The two doctors both expressed their congratulations on Aleksandr’s recovery, as did Danilov, but the colonel watched the tsar throughout with an eye of concern that was unnerving.

  ‘Can I get up now and go about my business?’ Aleksandr asked.

  ‘Not yet, I think, Your Majesty,’ said Wylie, striding over to the bed to ensure that Aleksandr did not attempt to get out. ‘Your body is weakened from fighting its assailant. It has been victorious, but now it needs rest.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said the tsar. He felt he had the energy to go out and run all the way along the perimeter of the town, but he knew the sensation wouldn’t last. ‘Send Volkonsky in, would you?’

  Wylie nodded, and the three men turned to leave.

  ‘And thank you,’ said Aleksandr. ‘All of you.’

  ‘It must be by his death,’ said Wylie. They were the same words Aleksei had heard uttered months before, and then, as now, their object had been the tsar, but on this occasion they were motivated by an affection that would not have been dreamed of in Prince Obolensky’s house in Petersburg. Aleksei was pleased Wylie’s train of thought was following his own.

  They had gone down to the beach, where they felt assured of speaking in privacy. Volkonsky had been summoned to the tsar’s presence, as requested. It was a good thing that, for now, he would not hear their conversation, much as they might need his complicity, when the time came.

  ‘The question,’ replied Aleksei, ‘is when he dies.’

  ‘A long time from now, I should hope,’ said Tarasov.

  ‘I think we need a more precise reply than simply “sooner” or “later”.’

  ‘When he is free of Zmyeevich’s blood, you mean,’ said Wylie.

  ‘But he is free of it,’ said Tarasov. ‘I know it’s guesswork, but we’re all agreed.’

  ‘And that’s why Cain is coming for him,’ Aleksei pointed out. ‘He knows that any dose of Zmyeevich’s blood will wear off eventually. He needs to re-administer it.’

  ‘But why risk coming here?’ asked Wylie. ‘He could gain access to His Majesty at any time – back in Petersburg even – and slip the blood into his food or drink.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Aleksei, ‘but I think Cain will act here and soon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For two reasons. The first is simply that that was what he implied when we spoke in Chufut Kalye.’ Aleksei knew that Iuda could lie just as easily as he could tell the truth, but that did not mean he always lied. If he did, then predicting him would be child’s play.

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘The second,’ replied Aleksei, ‘is that he is afraid the tsar will die.’

  ‘Afraid?’ asked Tarasov.

  ‘Desperately. His Majesty can only die once. If that happens when he is free of Zmyeevich’s blood then all is lost for Cain – and Zmyeevich.’

  ‘And so he’ll try to get His Majesty to drink more,’ concluded Tarasov.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Aleksei. ‘And then kill him – as quickly as possible.’

  ‘But the influence of the blood lasts for weeks,’ said Tarasov. ‘We’ve seen that. Cain would have no need to rush.’

  ‘He can’t take the risk. Cain hasn’t observed the state of the tsar’s health. And anyway, how do we know that the period during which the outward symptoms manifest themselves has any correlation with susceptibility to becoming a vampire?’

  ‘We can make a good guess,’ said Tarasov.

  ‘We can,’ said Aleksei. ‘But that’s not a chance Cain can take. If you ask me, his biggest fear right now is that Aleksandr is so weakened by what he’s suffered he may die anyway.’

  ‘So what can we do?’ asked Tarasov.

  Aleksei hesitated. What he had in mind would be more readily accepted by the tsar himself than by his two loyal doctors. But he knew it could not be executed without them. His reply, when it came, was soldierly.

  ‘We do what the enemy least wants us to do.’

  ‘How?’ asked Tarasov.

  ‘We make sure Cain’s greatest fear becomes a reality.’

  Aleksandr reclined on his bed. It was now a day since his recovery. That, at least, was how he saw it, though his doctors seemed less confident. Should they not at least have faith in their own remedies? Perhaps they knew more than they were telling. He certainly did not yet feel well enough to get up, but he felt no worse than yesterday. Better? It was hard to judge. Time would tell.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come,’ he boomed. There, that proved it. His voice was quite recovered. He had attempted only to raise his voice a fraction above the normal level, but he could not disguise its strength.

  Volkonsky entered. ‘Are you able to receive visitors, Your Majesty?’

  ‘Visitors?’ Aleksandr found himself almost excited at the prospect. ‘Who?’

  ‘Drs Wylie and Tarasov. And Colonel Danilov.’

  Aleksandr tutted. ‘Oh, they’re hardly visitors, are they?’ he said petulantly. ‘Never mind. Send them in. Send them in.’

  Volkonsky left. Aleksandr was not entirely sure he wanted to see Danilov, Wylie and Tarasov. They were all intelligent gentlemen – cleverer than he was, he knew that. And so what he’d managed to piece together over the preceding day would surely have occurred to them much more quickly – particularly if they had been working together. Perhaps, with luck, their minds had got beyond the point which his had reached, and found some alternative to his own dark conclusion, some hidden door in the woodwork that would allow him a quick exit from reality. God knew he had sought one.