He felt a knot in his stomach, a revulsion at the sight of blood – his own blood – that he had never felt before. But the feeling quickly changed. It was still located in his stomach, but the sensation was now one of hunger. He licked his lips and stared down at the red droplets that glistened against the white porcelain. He reached out with his finger to scoop one up, but then stopped as he noticed his own reflection gazing back at him, tinted with red. His bald forehead was familiar, but he looked old – as old as he felt. He frowned and touched his upper lip with his fingers. There was nothing there, but in his reflection, he could clearly see a long moustache of dark, iron grey.

The nausea returned and the room around him began to swirl.

His eyes flicked open suddenly. It was morning and – though he could not see it – the sun was high. Now should be the hour of his deepest slumber, but the passenger of R zbunarea felt awake and vibrant. The sides and lid of the coffin squeezed in tight around him, but it did not matter. He did not need to rise in order to enjoy the experience – it was not his experience anyway, but a stolen one, taken from a mind linked, however weakly, to his own.

Within moments, the sensation faded. The pain to his chin was inconsequential. The blood was of more interest, but he was old, and perhaps becoming jaded. Blood was commonplace.

What was of significance was that he had experienced anything at all. Until then, there had been nothing. When he had urged the tsar, from the prow of R zbunarea, to visit Chufut Kalye, he had sensed no response. When he had imagined himself above the caves, guiding Aleksandr down into them, he had had only his imagination to see that what he had asked had been done.

But now, with the blood that was already in Aleksandr, and with the shock of the blood that had left his body, a connection had been made. It had not lasted long, but that would come. Aleksandr was alive, and that could only heighten the resistance of his mind. Soon things would be different.

Aleksei arrived at the palace in the midst of uproar. He saw the back of Tarasov’s heel as it disappeared in the direction of the tsar’s rooms. Volkonsky was in close pursuit. Aleksei joined the chase and soon found himself in Aleksandr’s bedchamber. There was a small crowd gathered around the washstand, and Tarasov pushed his way through. Aleksei stepped into the gap and saw for the first time what had attracted so much attention.

The tsar lay on his back on the floor. His head was being cradled by his valet, Anisimov. There was blood on the tsar’s chin, but it was no more than a smear; blood loss was certainly not the cause of his collapse.

‘What happened?’ demanded Volkonsky.

‘His Majesty cut himself whilst shaving,’ said Anisimov, almost whimpering. ‘He fainted. I didn’t catch him in time.’

‘Did he hit his head?’ asked Tarasov.

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Anisimov. ‘Not hard.’

Dr Stoffregen – the tsaritsa’s personal physician – arrived and knelt down beside the prostrate figure. He looked over the tsar briefly, then began to rub eau de cologne into his forehead and temples.

‘Too late. Too late,’ moaned a voice quietly in Aleksei’s ear. It was Wylie. The sight of his patient in so weakened a condition had sent him into a panic.

‘Get him on to the bed,’ shouted Aleksei. The command had some effect, and those around him began to lift the tsar off the floor.

At that moment, the tsaritsa arrived. Aleksei had scarcely seen her move from her own rooms since arriving in Taganrog. Stoffregen immediately stepped away from Aleksandr and went to her side. Fortunately, there were enough others around to take the tsar’s weight, and soon they had him on the bed.

‘Stand back! Let him breathe!’ ordered Tarasov. The crowd moved away from the bed. The tsar groaned and threw his head from side to side. Then he became calmer, and his eyes flickered half open. The tsaritsa went to him. Tarasov and Wylie stood in quiet discussion. First Aleksei then Volkonsky joined them.

‘What can you do for him?’ asked Volkonsky.

‘I would suggest leeches,’ said Tarasov.

‘You want to let his blood?’ asked Aleksei, aghast.

‘It’s a standard medical practice.’

Volkonsky nodded. ‘I’ll ask him,’ he said. He went over to the bed and bent down to speak in the tsar’s ear.

‘Send them to the devil!’ Aleksandr’s answer was loud and forthright. He stared over at Wylie and Tarasov as he rejected their advice, but within seconds the effort was too much, and his head fell back on the pillow.

‘What he needs is a spiritual physician,’ said the tsaritsa.

‘I think what he also needs is a little peace and quiet,’ said Volkonsky softly and out of the tsaritsa’s earshot, although the remark was not directed at her. It was sound advice. The room began to clear, leaving only Tarasov, Stoffregen and Yelizaveta inside.

‘Cain is not dead,’ announced Aleksei. It was more than an hour since he had arrived back at Taganrog, and the first opportunity he had had to speak to the two doctors alone.

‘What?’ gasped Wylie. ‘How do you know?’

Aleksei told them the story, or what they needed to know of it, from his return to Chufut Kalye up to Iuda’s departure, though he avoided ever using that name.

‘But you escaped,’ commented Tarasov, stating the obvious.

‘Cain wanted me to escape,’ stated Aleksei bitterly. ‘He said that he wanted a head start, and that’s what he meant. I was released at dawn, giving him a little over twelve hours’ lead on me. He wants to ensure that I witness his victory.’

‘Released?’ said Tarasov. ‘So he had an accomplice?’

Aleksei glanced over at Wylie and saw a knowing smile on the Scotsman’s face. ‘I don’t think he needed one, did he?’

‘Did he mention it in his notebook?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Not specifically,’ replied Wylie, ‘but he did speculate on the endless uses to which the by-products of a vampire’s body might be put.’

‘By-products?’ said Tarasov. ‘Like the skin on the book, you mean?’

‘Or the hair on the head. I’m right, am I not, Colonel Danilov?’

‘Entirely,’ said Aleksei, quietly impressed at Wylie’s perspicacity. ‘The rope was made from the hair of a voordalak. At dawn, when the sun hit it, it just burned away.’ He held out his hands, palms up, and showed them the charred skin where the rope had been in contact with his wrists. It still itched.

‘And where do you think Cain is now?’ asked Tarasov.

Aleksei looked around, almost fearing that his answer would be even more literal than he meant it to be. ‘Here,’ he said simply.

‘In Taganrog? But why?’

‘Because of the Romanov Betrayal.’

‘And what is that?’

‘That’s something that only His Majesty can tell us.’

‘And will he?’ demanded Wylie.

‘He’ll have to,’ replied Aleksei, ‘eventually.’

‘He’s asked for a priest.’

Tarasov looked ashen as he spoke. It was a little after five the following morning, and few of them had got much sleep.

‘Is it as bad as that?’ asked Volkonsky.

‘He seems to think so.’

‘I’ll go fetch Father Fyodotov,’ said Diebich, who had been waiting outside the tsar’s room with the rest of them. He marched out swiftly.

‘I don’t understand it,’ whispered Aleksei to Wylie, who sat beside him. ‘There’s been no sign of Cain, but still the tsar’s condition worsens.’

‘Perhaps whatever Cain gave him in the cave was enough,’ suggested Wylie.

‘Then why did Cain need his book? There was something more he planned to do. He’s not done it, and yet still Aleksandr is dying.’

Wylie looked at him harshly. It was not something that any of them wanted to hear uttered out loud. ‘It may be that that is precisely Cain’s concern,’ he said. ‘The death of His Majesty – a true, Christian death – might not suit his plans at all.’