«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 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, pantyhose 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 decor. 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 had 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:
«Get a move on.»
The door of the conference room was half-open. I glanced inside. There were about thirty people in there, mostly field agents and analysts. The boss was striding in front of a map of Moscow and nodding his head, while his commercial deputy, Vitaly Markovich, a very weak magician, but a born businessman, spoke to everyone:
«And so we have completely covered our current expenditures, and we have no need to resort to… er… special varieties of financial activity. If the meeting approves my proposals, we can increase our employees’ allowances somewhat—in the first instance, naturally, for our field operatives. Payments for temporary disability and pensions for the families of those who have been killed also need to be… er… increased somewhat. And we can afford to do that…«
It was funny to see magicians who could transform lead into gold, coal into diamonds, and neat rectangles of paper into crisp bank notes discussing commerce. But in actual fact it made things easier. It provided an occupation for those Others whose powers were too meager to make them a living. And it reduced the risk of unsettling the balance of power.
When I appeared, Boris Ignatievich nodded and said:
«Thank you, Vitaly. I think the situation is quite clear; there are no complaints as far as your work is concerned. Shall we vote on it? Thank you. Now, while we have everyone here…«
The boss kept a close eye on me as I tiptoed to an empty chair and sat down.
»… we can move on to the most important item of business.»
From his chair next to me, Semyon leaned over and whispered:
«The most important item of business is the payment of Party dues for March…«
I couldn’t help smiling. Sometimes Boris Ignatievich really does act just like an old-time Communist Party functionary. I find that less irritating than when he acts like a medieval inquisitor or a retired general, but maybe that’s just me…
«The most important item is a protest I received from the Day Watch just two hours ago,» said the boss.
It didn’t sink in immediately. The Day Watch and the Night Watch are constantly making problems for each other. There are protests every week: Sometimes it’s settled at the district office level, and sometimes a case goes to the Berne tribunal…
Then I realized any protest that required a full meeting of the Watch couldn’t possibly be ordinary.
«The essential point of the protest,» said the boss, rubbing the bridge of his nose, «… the essential point of the protest is as follows… This morning one of the Dark Side’s women was killed near Stoleshnikov Lane. This is a brief description of the incident…«
Two sheets of paper warm from the printer landed in my lap. Everyone else received an identical gift. I ran my ey
es over the text:
«Galina Rogova, twenty-four years old… initiated at the age of seven, her family are not Others… mentor—Anna Chernogorova, fourth-grade magician… At the age of seven Galina Rogova was identified as a were-panther. Average powers…«
I frowned as I read through the dossier, although there wasn’t much reason for concern. Rogova had been a Dark One, but she hadn’t worked in Day Watch. She hadn’t ever hunted human beings, not even once. Even the two licenses she’d been given, when she came of age and after her wedding, hadn’t been used. With the help of magic she’d reached a high position in the Warm Home construction corporation and married the deputy director. One child—a boy, no Other powers detected. She’d used her powers as an Other for self-protection a few times, and on one occasion killed her attacker. But even then she hadn’t stooped to cannibalism…
«We could do with more shape-shifters like that, right?» asked Semyon. He turned the page and gave a little snort of surprise. Intrigued, I flipped to the end of the document.
That was it. The report of the examination. A cut in the blouse and the jacket… probably a blow with a thin-bladed dagger. Enchanted, of course; a shape-shifter couldn’t be killed with plain ordinary steel. But what was it that had surprised Semyon?
There it was!
No visible wounds had been discovered on the body. Not even a scratch. The cause of death was a total drain of vital energy.
«Very neat,» said Semyon. «I remember during the Civil War I was sent to capture a were-tiger. The bastard worked in the Cheka, and pretty high up too…«
«Have you familiarized yourselves with the data?» the boss asked.
«May I ask a question?» A slim arm shot into the air on the far side of the room.
«By all means, Yulia,» the boss said with a nod.
The Night Watch’s youngest member stood up, adjusting her hair nervously. A pretty-looking young girl, maybe just a little immature. But taking her into the analytical department had been a good move.
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