Night Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “Time to go,” I said, lifting the heavy pistol. My hand trembled treacherously.

  The bullet smacked into the dead flesh, and a ragged wound appeared in the girl’s side. The vampire groaned and squeezed it shut with her one good hand. The other was dangling on a few threadlike tendons.

  “Don’t,” Semyon said softly. “Don’t, Anton . . .”

  I went ahead, taking aim at her head. But at that moment a huge black shadow swooped down out of the sky, a bat grown to the size of a condor. It spread its wings, shielding the girl-vampire and convulsing as it transformed.

  “She’s entitled to a trial!”

  I couldn’t fire at Kostya. I stood there, looking at the young vampire who lived in the apartment above me. The vampire’s eyes were trained directly on me. How long had you been sneaking around after me, my friend and enemy? And what for—to save your fellow vampire or to prevent me from taking a step that would make me your mortal enemy?

  I shrugged and stuck the revolver into my belt. You were right, Olga. All this equipment is useless.

  “She is,” the boss confirmed. “Semyon, Tiger Cub, escort her.”

  “All right,” said Tiger Cub. She gave me a glance, more of understanding than sympathy, and set off toward the vampires with a spring in her step.

  “Even so, she’s for the high jump,” Semyon whispered, and followed her.

  That was how they left the roof: Kostya carrying the groaning girl-vampire, who had no idea what was going on, with Semyon and Tiger silently walking behind him.

  The three of us were left alone.

  “Son, you do have some powers,” the boss said gently. “Not great ones, but then most don’t even have that. I’d be happy for you to be my pupil . . .”

  “You can go . . .” Egor began. The remainder of the phrase had no place in polite conversation. The boy was crying silently, struggling to hold back the tears, but he couldn’t stop them.

  One tiny little seventh-degree intervention, and he’d feel better. He’d understand that to fight the Darkness, Light has to use every possible weapon available to it . . .

  I looked up at the somber sky and opened my mouth to catch the cold snowflakes. I wanted to freeze. To freeze solid. Not like in the Twilight. To become ice, not mist; snow, not slush; to freeze, solidify, and never melt again . . .

  “Egor, come on, I’ll see you home,” I offered.

  “It’s not far, I’ll be okay . . .” the kid said.

  I went on standing there for a long time, gulping down snow mixed with wind, and I didn’t notice him leave. I heard the boss ask: “Will you be able to wake your parents up on your own?” but I didn’t hear the answer.

  “Anton, if it’s any comfort to you at all . . . the boy’s aura’s the same as it was. Still indeterminate . . .” He put his arm around my shoulders. He looked small now, pitiful, not at all like a well-groomed entrepreneur or a top-flight magician. Just a sprightly old man who’d won another brief battle in a war that had no end.

  “Great.”

  That’s what I’d really like—to have no aura at all. To make my own destiny.

  “Anton, you still have things to do.”

  “I know, Boris Ignatievich . . .”

  “Will you be able to explain everything to Svetlana?”

  “Yes, I expect so . . . I will now.”

  “I’m really sorry. But I have to use what I have . . . the people I have. You’re linked with her. A standard mystical link, impossible to explain. No one can take your place.”

  “I understand.”

  The snow was settling on my face, thawing on my eyelashes, melting and dribbling down my cheeks. It felt as if I’d almost managed to freeze solid, but I didn’t have the right.

  “Remember what I told you? Being on the side of the Light is much tougher than being on the side of the Dark . . .”

  “I remember . . .”

  “It will be even tougher for you, Anton. You’ll fall in love with her. You’ll live with her . . . for a while. Then Svetlana will move on. And you’ll see her moving farther away from you, see her contacts extending into places far higher than you can ever reach. You’ll suffer. But nothing can be done about it. You play your part at the beginning. That’s the way it is with every Great Magician, with every Great Sorceress. They achieve greatness by trampling over the bodies of their friends and loved ones. There is no other way.”

  “Yes, I understand . . . I understand everything . . .”

  “Let’s go then, Anton?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Shall we go?”

  “Aren’t we late already?”

  “Not yet. The Light has its own paths. I’ll take you there by the short way, and after that, you follow your own path.”

  “Then I’ll just stand here for a while,” I said. I closed my eyes so that I could feel the snowflakes landing on my eyelids, so tenderly.

  “If you only knew how many times I’ve stood like that,” said the boss. “Just like that, looking up into the sky, asking for something . . . Maybe a blessing, maybe a curse.”

  I said nothing; I already knew there wouldn’t be any answer.

  “Anton, I’m frozen,” said the boss. “I feel cold. As a man. I want to drink a few glasses of vodka and snuggle down under a warm blanket. And lie there, waiting for you to help Svetlana . . . for Olga to deal with the vortex. And then take a vacation. Leave Ilya here in charge, since he’s already been inside my skin, and head for Samarkand. Have you ever been to Samarkand?”

  “No.”

  “It’s no great shakes, to be honest. Especially nowadays. There’s not much good there, except the memories . . . But they’re only for me . . . How are you doing?”

  “Let’s go, Boris Ignatievich.”

  I wiped the snow off my face.

  There was someone waiting for me.

  And that’s the only thing that stops us from freezing solid.

  STORY TWO

  AMONG HIS OWN KIND

  PROLOGUE

  HIS NAME WAS MAXIM.

  Not such a very unusual name, but not ordinary either, not like all those Sergeis, Andreis, and Dmitrys. And a name with a fine Russian ring to it, even if its roots did go back to the Greeks and the Varangians, maybe even the Scythians.

  He was happy enough with his appearance. Not the cloying good looks of an actor from some TV serial, but not a dull, ordinary face either. A handsome man, he stood out in a crowd. And he’d built his body too, but without overdoing it—no bulging veins, no fanatical workouts at the gym.

  He was happy with his job as auditor for a major foreign firm, one that was profitable—he could afford to indulge all his interests, and he didn’t need to worry about the protection rackets.

  It was all just as if one day his guardian angel had simply decided: “You shall be a bit better than all the rest.” Only a bit, but still better. And that suited Maxim just fine. Why try to scramble higher up the ladder and fritter his life away on acquiring a fancy car, invitations to high-society parties, or an apartment with an extra room . . . what for? He enjoyed life for its own sake, not for material possessions. Life was the exact opposite of money, which in itself meant nothing.

  Of course, Maxim had never thought about this quite so clearly. One of the quirks of people who’ve managed to find their place in life is that they believe that’s the way things ought to be. Everything simply works out the way it ought to. And if someone feels shortchanged by life, then he has only himself to blame. He must be either lazy and stupid. Or else he thought too much of himself and tried to “get above himself.”

  Maxim was fond of that phrase: “getting above yourself.” It put everything in perspective so neatly. For instance, it explained why his intelligent and beautiful sister was throwing her life away on an alcoholic husband in Tambov. She’d gone off looking for someone with better prospects . . . and just look what she’d found. Or take his old school friend who’d been lying in a hospital ward for more than a month now.
He’d wanted to expand his business, and he had. He was lucky still to be alive, lucky his competitors happened to be so civilized . . . the market in nonferrous metals had been carved up a long time ago.

  Maxim might be in danger of “getting above himself” in only one part of his life, and it was such a very strange and complicated part that he preferred not even to think about it. It was much easier to simply accept the strange thing that sometimes happened to him in spring, occasionally in the fall, and only very, very rarely at the height of summer, when the oppressive heat became totally unbearable, emptying his head of all logic and caution, including even those vague doubts about his psychological balance . . . Maxim didn’t think he was in any way schizophrenic, though. He’d read quite a lot of books and consulted specialists . . . only, of course, without going into all the details.

  No, he was normal. Obviously some things that existed simply defied reason and couldn’t be judged by the usual human norms. Still the idea he might be “getting above himself” bothered him . . . Could he be?

  Maxim was sitting in his car, a neat, well-cared-for Toyota, with the engine running quietly. It wasn’t the most expensive of cars but it was still way better than most in Moscow. In the dim light of early morning, no one could have made out his face behind the steering wheel, even from just a few steps away. He’d spent the whole night like that, listening to the gentle purring sound of the engine, chilled through but determined not to turn the heater on. As usual when this happened to him, he didn’t feel like sleeping. Or smoking. He didn’t feel like doing anything at all; it felt good just to sit there like that without moving, like a shadow in the car parked at the curb, waiting. The only thing that troubled him was that his wife would think he’d been with his mistress. How could he prove to her that he didn’t have a full-time mistress and all his flings amounted to no more than brief vacation romances, fleeting affairs at work, and occasional professional services when he traveled on business . . . and he hadn’t even bought those on the family’s money; they’d been provided by clients. He couldn’t have refused, they’d have been offended. Or decided he was gay and offered him boys the next time . . .

  The glimmering green figures on the clock flickered and changed: five in the morning. Any moment now the street-sweepers would come creeping out to work. This was an old district, prestigious; they were very strict about keeping things clean around here. It was a good thing it wasn’t raining or snowing either; the lousy winter was over, it was dead and gone, and now spring was here, bringing its own problems, including the temptation to “get above himself” . . .

  One of the doors of the nearby building slammed. The young woman who had come out stopped as she adjusted her purse on her shoulder, about ten meters away from the car. These buildings had no courtyards, they were inconvenient to work in and probably to live in as well: What was their prestigious reputation worth if the plumbing were rotten and the meter-thick walls were covered with mildew—and it was probably haunted . . .

  Maxim smiled gently as he climbed out of his car. His body obeyed him with no reluctance; his muscles hadn’t cramped up during the night; if anything they felt stronger than ever. And that was a sure sign.

  But seriously, he wondered, do ghosts really exist?

  “Galina!” he shouted.

  The young woman turned toward him. And that was another sign he was right, otherwise she would have run for it; after all, who wouldn’t be suspicious of a man lying in wait outside the door early in the morning . . .

  “I don’t know you,” she said, in a voice both calm and curious.

  “No,” Maxim agreed. “But I know you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A judge.”

  He pronounced the word solemnly, rolling it off his tongue. A judge. Someone who has the right to pronounce judgment.

  “And just who are you intending to judge?”

  “You, Galina.” Maxim was focused, intent. Everything around him seemed to be turning dark, and that was a sure sign too.

  “Oh, really?” She looked him over quickly, and Maxim caught a glint of yellow fire in her eyes. “You think you’ll be able to manage that?”

  “Sure I will,” replied Maxim, raising up his hand. The dagger was already in it—a long, narrow blade made of wood that had once been light-colored but had become darker over the last three years, gradually stained . . .

  She didn’t make a sound as the wooden blade slid into her chest and pierced her heart.

  As always, Maxim felt a momentary panic, a brief, searing surge of horror—what if he’d made a mistake this time, after all? What if?

  He lifted his left hand to touch the simple little wooden cross that he always wore hanging on his chest. And he continued standing there, holding the wooden dagger in one hand and clutching the cross in the other, until the woman began to change . . .

  It happened fast. It always happened fast: The transformation into an animal and then back into a human being. The animal, a black panther, lay there on the sidewalk for a few moments, its eyes staring blankly and its fangs exposed, a victim of the hunt, dolled up in a matching skirt and jacket, panty hose and dainty shoes. Then the process was reversed, like a pendulum making its final swing.

  What Maxim found amazing was not the rapid transformation that came too late for his victim, as usual, but the fact that there was no wound left on the body. That brief moment of transfiguration had purged her and made her whole. There was nothing but a cut on her blouse and her jacket.

  “Glory be to Thee, O Lord,” Maxim whispered, looking down at the dead shape-shifter. “Glory be to Thee.”

  He didn’t really resent the role allotted to him.

  But it was still a great burden for a man who didn’t like to get above himself.

  CHAPTER 1

  THAT WAS THE MORNING I KNEW SPRING HAD REALLY ARRIVED.

  The evening before, the sky had been different, with clouds drifting over the city, and the air had been filled with the scent of a chilly, damp wind and snow that hadn’t fallen yet. I’d felt like snuggling down deep into my armchair, sticking something cheerful and moronic—something American—in the VCR, taking a sip of cognac and just falling sleep.

  But in the morning everything had changed.

  Some cunning conjuror’s hand had thrown a blue shawl over the town, running it over the streets and the squares and wiping away the final traces of winter. Even the heaps of brown snow left on the street corners and in the gutters didn’t seem to have been overlooked by spring; they were an integral element of the décor. A memento.

  I smiled as I walked to the metro.

  Sometimes it feels really good to be human. That was the way I’d been living for a week now: When I got to work, I didn’t go up any higher than the second floor, and all I did was fiddle with the server that had suddenly developed a number of bad habits, or install new office software for the gals in accounting, even though none of us could see why they needed it. In the evening I went to the theater, to a soccer match, to various small bars and restaurants. Anywhere at all, as long as it was noisy and crowded. Being human in a crowd is even more interesting than just being human.

  Of course, in the Night Watch offices, an old four-story building rented from our own subsidiary, there wasn’t a single normal human being to be found anywhere. Even the three old cleaning women were Others. Even the loose-mouthed young security guards at the entrance, who were there to frighten off petty gangsters and commercial salesmen, had some modest magical powers. Even the plumber, an absolutely classic Moscow alcoholic, was a magician . . . and he’d have been a really good magician too, if it weren’t for his drinking problem.

  But the first two floors of the building had to look perfectly ordinary. The tax police were allowed in here, as well as our human business partners and the thugs who provided our “protection”—the racket was actually controlled directly by our boss, but the small-fry didn’t need to know that.

  And the conversations people h
ad here were perfectly mundane, too. About politics, taxes, shopping, the weather, other people’s love affairs and their own. The women gossiped about the men, and we gave as good as we got. Romances sprang up; bosses were trashed; bonus possibilities were discussed.

  Half an hour later I reached Sokol station and made my way up to street level. It was noisy and crowded, and the air was filled with exhaust fumes. But it was still spring.

  There are plenty of districts in Moscow worse than the one where our office is. In fact, it’s probably one of the best—that’s not counting the Day Watch offices, of course. But then, the Kremlin wouldn’t suit us, anyway: The traces of the past lie too heavy on Red Square and the ancient brick walls. Maybe someday they’ll get worn away. But that would require certain conditions, and there’s no sign of them coming anytime soon . . . no sign at all, unfortunately.

  I walked from the metro; it wasn’t far. The faces on every side looked friendly and welcoming, thawed by the spring sunshine. That’s why I love the spring: It takes the edge off that feeling of weary helplessness. And there are fewer temptations around . . .

  One of the security guys was smoking outside the door. He gave me a friendly nod. Thorough checks weren’t part of his job description. And as it happened, I was the one who decided whether they had Internet access and new games on their computer in the duty room, or just the official information and personnel files.

  “You’re late, Anton,” he said.

  I checked my watch.

  “The boss has called everyone together in the conference room; they were looking for you.”

  Strange; I wasn’t usually brought in on the morning briefings. Had one of my computer networks crashed? Not likely, or they’d have dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night without a second thought, and it wouldn’t have been the first time either . . .

  I nodded and started walking faster.

  The building has an elevator, but it’s ancient, and I preferred to run up to the fourth floor. There was another security post, a bit more serious this time, on the third-floor landing. Garik was on duty. As I approached he screwed up his eyes and peered through the Twilight, scanning my aura and all the markings that we Night Watch agents carry on our bodies. Then he gave me a friendly smile: