in him, what he could see in himself when he looked down at his own hands, it was all an illusion. What he saw in that mirror was not sharp and distinct – and that was a blessing – but he knew without doubt it was a truer representation of himself than he had ever laid eyes on before. He peered closer, trying to see through the hazy glass. Various shapes and textures caught his eye, but they did not form a clear image. He did not want them to. He wanted to tear his eyes away before they could fully take in what he saw, but he was unable. He could not step away, nor raise his hands to cover his face, nor close his eyelids, nor even move his eyeballs to look in a different direction. With each passing moment that he gazed into the mirror, the clearer what he saw became, and the greater was his desire to see it.
And through all this came a memory – a memory that he had witnessed such a thing before, and yet a memory that was not his own. It was something he had never understood in the past, but which was now quite clear to him. He knew that the sight of this reflection had led to death. It had done so before and it would do so now.
And then he was no longer staring immobile at the thing reflected in the mirror. He was lying on the ground, on his back. Above him he could see the arched ceiling and, looming closer, Zmyeevich. The ancient vampire’s hands gripped his shoulders, unable to let go after holding him so tightly to drag him away from the mirror, his eyes squeezed shut. His tongue protruded from his lips and his teeth bit down on to it. His precious blood seeped from the corners of his lips. His fingers dug still harder into Dmitry’s flesh.
Dmitry dashed Zmyeevich’s hands aside. He scrambled across the floor, on his back, keeping his eyes averted so that there was no chance of seeing the mirror. When he was far enough away he stood, and edged back along the wall until he was able to slam first one door then the other back over the obscene looking glass. Then he knelt down beside Zmyeevich. His eyes were open now, but he appeared shaken, old, as though he hadn’t fed for weeks.
Dmitry helped him to his feet. He looked over to the mirror, and sighed deeply when he saw that the doors were shut. He turned back to Dmitry, holding on to him for support, his eyes full of fear.
‘What was that?’ asked Dmitry, his voice shaking.
‘I saw …’ Zmyeevich spoke softly, but then paused to think. He seemed to become instantly stronger, and stood upright, stepping away from Dmitry. ‘I saw what I have always known,’ he concluded.
Dmitry wondered if he himself had always known of what he had seen, but pushed the thought from his mind. He had caught only a glimpse of his own image; he did not want to learn more. Zmyeevich was now almost completely himself again. His head twisted from side to side as he scanned the room.
‘Iuda!’ he hissed.
Dmitry looked around too. He looked at the door by which they had entered, but it remained closed. He strode over and tried it but it was still locked. It had been only a matter of seconds that they had stared into the awful glass, but in that time Iuda had vanished.
CHAPTER VIII
THE ICY WATER embraced him, infiltrating every crevice of his body. For a vampire such as Dmitry, it was not a discomfort but it was still a piercing sensation. The cold could not kill him, but it could slow him and weaken him. If it became cold enough for his body’s fluids to freeze, then he would become dormant, but at some point before that ice crystals would begin to form in his blood, and his limbs – and his mind – would stiffen.
It had taken only moments for them to deduce where Iuda had gone. The wire rope that had bound him by the neck was discarded on the floor. In the middle of the cellar the ice on the frozen pool, which before had displayed merely the single crack that Dmitry had caused, was now smashed to a thousand floating, bobbing lumps. The glassy mosaic reminded Dmitry of the mirror into which they had just gazed, but he