The Nightwatch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  My knees started to buckle—I wasn't used to staying in the Twilight this long. I would have fallen on my knees in front of Zabulon, something I really didn't want to do, but Semyon slid through the Twilight and supported me by the shoulders. He'd probably been doing that for a hundred and fifty years too.

  "About field work…" I repeated, "might suddenly not behave according to plan, not trying to pity and comfort a girl for whom pity is fatal. He had to be distracted. A situation had to be created that would keep him busy. He had to be given a secondary assignment, and feel obliged to carry out that assignment for professional and personal reasons—anything that came to hand would do. An ordinary vampire could be sacrificed for that, couldn't he?"

  Zabulon began transforming back to human form, rapidly assuming his former appearance as a gloomy intellectual.

  That was funny. What for? When I'd already seen what he'd become in the Twilight, what he'd become once and forever.

  "A complex maneuver," I repeated. "I'll bet Svetlana's mother doesn't really have to die from any fatal illness at all. That was a minor intervention from your side, within the permitted limits… But then we have rights too."

  "She's ours!" said Zabulon.

  "No." I shook my head. "The Inferno's not going to erupt. Her mother's going to get well. I'm going straight to the girl now… and I'm going to tell her everything. Svetlana will join the Night Watch. You've lost, Zabulon. No matter what, you've lost."

  The tatters of clothes scattered across the roof crept toward the Dark Magician, grew together and jumped up onto his body, clothing the sad, charming intellectual grieving for the whole world.

  "None of you will leave here," said Zabulon. The Darkness began thickening behind his back, like two immense black wings unfurling.

  Ilya laughed again.

  "I'm stronger than all of you," said Zabulon, squinting at Ilya. "Your borrowed powers are not unlimited. You will stay here forever, in the Twilight, deeper than you have ever dared to look…"

  Semyon sighed and said, "Anton, he still hasn't gotten the picture yet."

  I looked around and asked:

  "Boris Ignatievich, don't you think you could drop the playacting now?"

  The bumptious young field operative shrugged:

  "Of course, Antoshka. But I don't often get a chance to observe the head of the Day Watch in action. Don't hold that against an old man. I hope Ilya found it just as interesting being me…"

  Boris Ignatievich resumed his normal form. Instantly, without any theatrical intermediate metamorphoses or light effects. He was still in his gown and skullcap, but he was wearing soft moccasins on his feet, with galoshes over them.

  Zabulon's face was a sight for sore eyes.

  The dark wings didn't disappear, but they stopped growing and flapped hesitantly, as if the magician was thinking about flying away but couldn't quite make up his mind.

  "Wind up this operation, Zabulon," the boss said. "If you withdraw immediately from this building and from Svetlana's house, we won't lodge an official protest."

  The Dark Magician didn't hesitate.

  "We'll withdraw."

  The boss nodded, as if he'd never expected any other answer. Just for a moment I thought… He lowered the wand, and the barrier between me and Zabulon disappeared.

  "I'll remember the part you played in this…" the Dark Magician hissed at me. "Forever."

  "Do," I said. "It's good to remember."

  Zabulon brought his hands together—the mighty wings flapped together, and the magician disappeared. But before he went, he glanced at the witch—and she nodded.

  I didn't like that one little bit. A spiteful parting gesture may not be fatal, but it's never pleasant.

  Alisa came over to me, walking with a light, dancing step completely out of keeping with her bloody face and dangling, dislocated left arm.

  "You must leave too," said the boss.

  "Of course, I'll be only too delighted," replied the witch. "But before I do, I have one small, very small, debt to collect. Isn't that right, Anton?"

  "Yes," I whispered. "A seventh-degree intervention."

  Who would she strike her blow at? Not the boss; the idea was ludicrous. Tiger Cub, Bear, Semyon… that was stupid. Egor? What suggestion could she implant in him at the very weakest level of intervention?

  "Open yourself," said the witch. "Open yourself to me, Anton. A seventh-degree intervention. The head of the Night Watch is a witness: I won't overstep the mark."

  Semyon groaned, squeezing my shoulder so tight it hurt.

  "She has the right," I said. "Boris Ignatievich…"

  "Whatever you say," the boss answered softly. "I'm watching."

  I sighed and laid myself open to the witch. There was nothing she could do! Nothing! A seventh-degree intervention—she could never turn me to the Darkness with that! The idea was simply ludicrous!

  "Anton," the witch said gently. "Tell your boss what you wanted to say. Tell the truth. Act honestly and correctly. The way you ought to act."

  "Minimal intervention…" the boss confirmed. If there was any pain in his voice, it was so deeply hidden that I couldn't hear it.

  "A complex maneuver," I said, glancing at Boris Ignatievich. "From both sides. The Day Watch sacrifices its pawns, and the Night Watch does the same. For the great goal. In order to win over to their side a sorceress of immense, unprecedented power, a young vampire who is longing for love may die. A little kid with feeble powers may disappear forever in the Twilight. Operatives may be hurt. But there's an end that justifies the means. Two great magicians who have opposed each other for hundreds of years cook up another little war. And the Light Magician is in the toughest spot… he has to stake everything. And for him to lose is more than just an inconvenience; it's a step into the Twilight, into the Twilight forever. But still he stakes everyone's lives. His own side's and the other's. Right, Boris Ignatievich?"

  "Right," replied the boss.

  Alisa laughed and walked toward the trapdoor. The witch was in no shape for flying; Tiger Cub had given her a good mauling. But even after that she was feeling victorious.

  I looked at Semyon and he turned his eyes away. Tiger Cub slowly transformed back into a girl… also trying not to look me in the eye. Bear gave a short, sharp howl and trudged toward the trapdoor without changing his form. It was toughest of all for him. He was too uncompromising. Bear, the great warrior and opponent of all compromise…

  "You're all bastards," said Egor. He stood up, moving jerkily—not just because he was tired; the boss was feeding his reserves now; I could see the fine thread of power streaming through the air—because at first it's always hard to tear yourself out of your shadow.

  I was the next out. It wasn't difficult; during the last quarter of an hour so much energy had been splashed out into the Twilight that it had lost its usual aggressive clamminess.

  Almost immediately I heard a disgustingly soft thud: It was the warlock who'd fallen off the roof hitting the asphalt.

  Then the others started appearing. An attractive-looking, black-haired girl with a bruise under her left eye and a broken jaw; an imperturbable, stocky little man, a calm-looking businessman in an oriental robe… Bear had already gone. I knew what he'd be doing in his apartment—his "lair." Drinking pure surgical spirit and reading poetry. Probably out loud. And watching the happily burbling TV.

  The girl-vampire was there too. She was in really bad shape. She mumbled something, shaking her head and trying to re-attach a hand that had been bitten off. The hand was making feeble efforts to grow back. Everything around her was spattered with blood—not hers, of course; it was the blood of her latest victim…

  "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 sof
tly. "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 non-ferrous 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 doubt
s 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"…