The Last Watch:

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  I knocked on the door of the Dark suite on the fourth floor. No response. I listened, and heard the sound of water flowing somewhere inside. I took Galya’s ticket out of the envelope and pushed it under the door.

  I found the key in my pocket went into my own suite.

  ‘Slowly-slowly-go-over-to-the-armchair-and-sit-down,’ gabbled the young red-haired guy who had introduced himself to me as Jean in the Dungeons of Scotland.

  He had positioned himself perfectly. At the window, with the blinding sunlight pouring in through it. My shadow was behind me – there was no way I could plunge into it.

  ‘Start-moving-towards-the-armchair-slowly-slowly,’ the young guy rattled off.

  He was accelerated, enveloped in the green glow emanating from the amulet on his arm: it looked like an ordinary woven bead trinket, the kind that hippies make. His reflexes now were many times faster than those of a normal human being. And since he was holding an Uzi automatic rifle and its magazine of charmed bullets was glowing bright red, it would have been unwise to object.

  ‘Speak more clearly,’ I said, walking to the chair and sitting in it. ‘Since you didn’t kill me straight away, there must be something to talk about.’

  ‘You’re-wrong-wizard,’ the young guy said, and I noted that funny, childish ‘wizard’. ‘I-was-ordered-to-kill-you-but-there’s-something-I-want-to-ask-you.’

  ‘Ask away.

  I needed my shadow. I needed to turn my head, see my shadow and dive into the Twilight. I would be faster than him there.

  ‘Don’t-turn-your-head! If-you-look-at-your-shadow-I’ll-shoot-straight-away. How-many-of-you-are-there?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How-many-brutes-like-you-are-there-walking-the-earth?’

  ‘Well …’ I thought for a moment. ‘Do you mean Light Ones or Dark Ones?’

  ‘It-doesn’t-matter.’

  ‘Approx … imate … ly … one … in … every … ten … thousand …’ I drawled slowly. Not to be smart, but to try to convince this young guy that he was speeded up too far. But then, was he able to control the effect of the charm?

  ‘Bastards-I-hate-them,’ he said. ‘I-was-told-to-say-you-betrayed-a-friend-and-deserve-to-die …’

  There was a knock at the door. The young guy’s glance darted to the door and then back to me. In a single movement he pulled the tablecloth off the table and covered his automatic rifle, which was still trained on me. He said:

  ‘Open-it!’

  ‘Who’s there? It’s open!’ I shouted.

  If it was Semyon, we’d have a chance.

  The door opened and Galya walked in. The way she looked simply took my breath away. A short little black skirt, an almost transparent pink top – she had Lolita smoking nervously in the corner.

  Jean was dumbstruck too.

  ‘Hi.’ The girl was chewing something. She concentrated and blew out a huge bubble of gum. The bubble burst and Jean started. I was afraid he would start blasting away, but the moment passed safely. ‘And who are you?’ she asked.

  She gave Jean a look that made him blush bright red. He managed to jabber and mumble at the same time:

  ‘I’m-just-visiting.’

  ‘Well, friends of Anthony’s get a discount,’ Galya said, and winked at the young guy. She walked up to me, swaying her hips, and said, ‘I left my knickers in your place – did you find them?’

  All I could do was just shake my head.

  ‘Ah, screw them anyway,’ Galya declared. And she began slowly leaning down, reaching out for my lips with her own, giving Jean a chance to stare … I dared not even think at what!

  But he stared.

  ‘Get ready,’ Galya whispered. The girl’s stare was serious and tense. But she still touched my lips – and sparks of mischief glinted in her eyes.

  She transformed herself instantly into a she-wolf. Crudely, horribly, scattering drops of blood and scraps of skin around her, wasting no time on morphing properly. And she flung herself round and leapt at the killer like a shaggy black shadow.

  He started to shoot at the same moment that I flung two Triple Blades, one after another.

  The first cut off the hand holding the gun and gouged out a chunk of his body. I didn’t realise where the second one had gone at first. I leapt to my feet and jumped towards the she-wolf writhing on the floor. Her body had taken all the bullets intended for me. Not very many – only five or six. If only they hadn’t been charmed.

  Jean stood up, swaying on his feet. He looked at me with wild, insane eyes.

  ‘Who sent you?’ I shouted, hitting him with a Domination, the spell of absolute obedience.

  Jean shuddered and tried to open his mouth – and his head flew apart into three pieces. My second shot had hit him in the head.

  The body swayed and slumped to the floor beside the wolf-girl. Blood pulsed out of its arteries.

  If she had been a vampire, and not a werewolf …

  I leaned down over her, and saw that she was transforming back into a human being.

  ‘Don’t you dare! You’ll die!’

  ‘I’ll die anyway,’ she said in a clear voice. ‘I don’t want to die as an animal …’

  ‘You’re not …’

  Instantly there was note of irony in her voice.

  ‘Silly … Light One …’

  I stood up. My hands were covered in blood and there was blood squelching under my feet. The killer’s headless body was shuddering convulsively.

  ‘What’s happening here?’ Semyon froze in the doorway. He ran his hand over his face and swore.

  His other hand was holding two plastic bags. One had bottles in it. The other probably had scarves

  ‘What’s happening? Nothing,’ I said, looking at the dead girl. ‘It’s all over.’

  I bought the magnet for Zabulon in Edinburgh airport, while Lermont and Semyon were rebooking the tickets. We now only needed two seats in the cabin of the plane and one ticket for an item of non-standard freight – a long wooden box that had been treated with spells. One of them was to protect the contents against decomposition. Another was to persuade the customs men that there was no need to check the box, since it was being used to transport harmless skis.

  The magnet was banal but beautiful: a Scotsman in a kilt, with bagpipes. I put it in my pocket, then stood in front of the display of postcards for a while. I chose one with a photograph of the castle and put it in my guidebook to Great Britain. I didn’t have any reason to send it to the girl Lera as yet. But I hoped very much that sooner or later I would be able to keep the promise I had made to Victor’s girlfriend.

  Semyon was unusually quiet. He didn’t reminisce about the way aeroplanes used to look at the dawn of the aviation industry, he didn’t crack any jokes. We walked through the customs and passport checks, and took our seats in the plane. Semyon took out a flask of whisky and glanced at me enquiringly. I nodded. We each took a mouthful straight from the flask, earning ourselves a disapproving glance from the flight attendant. She immediately went off to her little cubbyhole and came back with glasses and a few little bottles, which she handed to Semyon without saying a word.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for her,’ Semyon said gently. ‘Dark Ones will always be Dark Ones. She would have grown up into a monster. Most likely.’

  I nodded. He was right, of course. Even a silly Light One like me had to understand that …

  I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. I realised that I’d even forgotten to check the probabilities to see if the plane was in any danger of crashing. Ah … what difference did it make? People flew all the time without worrying if anything bad was going to happen. I could try that too …

  ‘I checked the reality lines,’ Semyon said. ‘We leave ten minutes late, but we arrive on time. There’s a tail wind. Lucky, that, isn’t it?’

  I opened the little plastic bag, put the disposable earphones in my ears and stuck the jack into the socket hidden in the arm of my seat. I pressed the buttons to select a channel and stop
ped when I heard a familiar song:

  Do not lose what has been given,

  Do not regret what has been lost.

  This boy at the doorway to heaven

  Is weary of sighing and tears.

  But he can see straight through you,

  And he won’t sing us any psalms.

  He will ask us only one question –

  Did we live and did we love …

  Did we live and did we love …

  Did we live and did we love … 1

  1 Kirill Komarov, ‘At the Doorway to Heaven’.

  Part Two

  A COMMON ENEMY

  PROLOGUE

  THE FIRE-SAFETY INSPECTOR jabbed his finger in the direction of the aromatic joss stick smoking in its stand.

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Opium,’ the young woman replied dreamily.

  There was a sudden silence in the accounts office. The inspector’s face broke out in red blotches.

  ‘I’m not joking. What is it?’

  ‘A joss stick, it’s Indian. It’s called opium.’ The young woman looked round at her colleagues and added self-consciously, ‘But that’s only a name, you mustn’t think … There isn’t really any opium in it!’

  ‘At home you can smoke opium or cannabis, or anything else you like,’ said the inspector, ostentatiously nipping his fingers together and extinguishing the small smouldering stick. ‘But here … you’re surrounded on all sides by nothing but paper.’

  ‘I keep an eye on it,’ the young woman objected resentfully. ‘And it’s in a special stand, see? The ash falls on the ceramic base. It’s a nice smell, everyone likes it …’

  She spoke in a gentle, reassuring voice, in the same tone as adults use when they’re talking to a little child. The inspector was about to say something else, but just then the middle-aged woman who was sitting facing all the other bookkeepers intervened.

  ‘Vera, I’m sorry, but the inspector is quite right. It’s a very sickly smell. By the time evening comes it gives you a headache.’

  ‘In India the windows are probably always kept wide open,’ a third woman put in. ‘And they burn their fragrances all the time. It’s terribly dirty there, there are always cesspits somewhere close by, and everything rots very quickly because of the climate. They have to smother the stench somehow. But what do we need it for?’

  A fourth girl, the same age as Vera, giggled and pressed her face towards the screen of her computer.

  ‘Well, you should have said!’ Vera exclaimed. Her voice sounded tearful. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘We didn’t want to offend you,’ the older woman replied.

  Vera jumped to her feet, covered her face with her hands and ran out into the corridor. Her heels clattered on the parquet flooring, and the door of the restroom slammed in the distance.

  ‘We had to tell her sooner or later,’ the middle-aged woman said with a sigh. ‘I’m really sick of smelling those sticks of hers. It’s always opium, or jasmine, or cinnamon …’

  ‘Do you remember the chillies and cardamom?’ the young girl exclaimed. ‘That was really horrible!’

  ‘Don’t make fun of your friend. You’d better go and bring Vera back, she’s much too upset.’

  The young girl willingly got to her feet and left the room.

  The inspector gazed round at the women with a wild expression. Then he glanced at the man beside him – a plump young, individual wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Beside the inspector in his respectable uniform, he looked very untidy.

  ‘This is a madhouse,’ the inspector declared. ‘Nothing but breaches of the fire-safety code everywhere I look. Why haven’t you been closed down yet?’

  ‘I’m surprised at that myself,’ the other man agreed. ‘Sometimes when I’m walking to work, I wonder: What if it’s all over now? What if they’ve put an end to the whole mess, and from now on we’re going to work according to the fire-safety regulations, without breaking a single rule …’

  ‘Show me the fire-safety board on the second floor,’ the inspector interrupted, looking at his plan of the building.

  ‘Gladly,’ said the man, opening the door for the inspector and winking at the women they were leaving behind in the office.

  The inspector’s indignation was lessened a bit by the sight of the board. It was brand new and very neat and tidy, painted red. Next to it were two fire extinguishers, a bucket of sand, an empty conical-shaped bucket, a spade, a gaff and a crowbar.

  ‘Well, well. Well, well, well,’ the inspector murmured as he glanced at the buckets and checked the date when the extinguishers were last refilled. ‘The good old-fashioned kind. I didn’t really expect that.’

  ‘We make an effort,’ said his guide. ‘When I was still in school, we had one just like that on the wall.’

  The inspector turned his plan round and thought for a moment.

  ‘And now let’s take a look at … at your programmers.’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ the other man said brightly. ‘That’s upstairs – follow me.’

  At the foot of the stairs he stepped aside to let the inspector go first. He turned back and glanced at the fire-safety board, which faded and then dissolved into thin air. Something fell to the floor with a quiet sound. The man smiled.

  The visit to the programmers gave the inspector another reason to be indignant. The programmers (two young women and one young guy) were blithely smoking at their workstations and the wires from the computers were twisted into terrible tangles. (The inspector even crawled under one desk and checked that the sockets were earthed.) When they came back down to the first floor fifteen minutes later, the inspector walked into an office that had the strange title ‘Duty Pointsman’ on the door and laid his papers out on the desk. The young man acting as his guide sat down facing him and watched with a smile as the inspector filled in his report form.

  ‘What sort of nonsensical title is that you have on the door?’ the inspector asked, without looking up from what he was doing.

  ‘“Duty Pointsman”? He has to deal with anything that turns up. If some inspector or other calls, if the drains burst, if someone delivers pizza or drinking water – he has to handle everything. Something between a receptionist and an office manager. It’s a boring job, we take turns to do it.’

  ‘And just what is it that you do here?’

  ‘Is that really any business of the fire-safety service?’ the man asked thoughtfully. ‘Well … we guard Moscow against manifestations of evil.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ said the inspector, giving the ‘duty pointsman’ a dour look.

  ‘Not at all.’

  A middle-aged, eastern-looking man walked in without knocking on the door. The duty pointsman quickly got to his feet as he entered.

  ‘Well now, what have we got here?’ the newcomer asked.

  ‘One item left in the accounts office, one in the toilet, one in the fire-safety board on the second floor,’ the duty pointsman replied eagerly. ‘Everything’s in order, Boris Ignatievich.’

  The inspector turned pale.

  ‘Las, we haven’t got a fire-safety board on the second floor,’ Boris Ignatievich observed.

  ‘I created an illusion,’ Las replied boastfully. ‘It was very realistic.’ Boris Ignatievich nodded and said:

  ‘All right. But you didn’t notice the other two bugs in the programmers’ room. I think this is not the first time our guest has combined the duties of fire inspector and spy – am I right?’

  ‘What do you think you’re—’ the man began, and then stopped.

  ‘You feel very ashamed of carrying out industrial espionage,’ said Boris Ignatievich. ‘It’s disgusting! And you used to be an honest man … once. Do you remember how you went to help build the Baikal–Amur railroad? And not just for the money, you wanted the romantic dream, you wanted to be part of some great effort …’

  Tears began running down the inspector’s cheeks. He nodded.

  ‘And do you remember when you were
accepted into the Young Pioneers?’ Las asked cheerfully. ‘How you stood in line, thinking about how you would devote all your strength to the victory of communism? And when the group leader tied your tie for you, she almost touched you with her big bouncy tits … ‘

  ‘Las,’ Boris Ignatievich said in an icy voice. ‘I am constantly amazed at how you ever became a Light One.’

  ‘I was in a good mood that day,’ Las declared. ‘I dreamed I was still a little boy, riding a pony …’

  ‘Las!’ Boris Ignatievich repeated ominously.

  The duty pointsman fell silent.

  The silence that followed was broken by the fire-safety inspector’s sobbing.

  ‘I … I’ll tell you everything … I went to the Baikal–Amur railroad to avoid paying alimony …’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Boris Ignatievich said gently. ‘Tell us about being asked to plant bugs in our office.’

  CHAPTER 1

  ‘I THINK YOU can guess why I’ve gathered you all together,’ Gesar said.

  There were five of us in the boss’s office. Gesar himself, Olga, Ilya, Semyon and me.

  ‘What’s to guess?’ Semyon muttered. ‘You’ve gathered all the Higher and First-Level Others. Svetlana’s the only one missing.’

  ‘Svetlana’s not here because she’s not on the staff of the Night Watch,’ Gesar said and frowned. ‘I’ve no doubt that Anton will tell her everything. I won’t even attempt to forbid it. But I won’t connive at breaches of the rules, either … this is a meeting of the Night Watch top management. I have to warn Ilya straight away that some of what he hears will be new to him, and under normal circumstances he would never have heard it. So he must not talk about it. Not to anyone.’

  ‘What exactly is that?’ Ilya asked, adjusting his spectacles.

  ‘Probably … probably everything that you are about to hear.’

  ‘A bit more than just “some of it”,’ Ilya said, with a nod. ‘Whatever you say. If you like, I’m willing to accept the mark of the Avenging Fire.’

  ‘We can dispense with the formalities,’ said Gesar. He took a small metal box out of his desk and began rummaging in it. Meanwhile I carried on looking round with my usual curiosity. What made the boss’s office so interesting was the huge number of little items that he kept because he needed them for his work or simply as souvenirs. Something like Pliushkin’s bins in Dead Souls, or a child’s box in which he keeps his most cherished ‘treasures’, or the apartment of some absent-minded collector who’s always forgetting what it is that he actually collects. And the most amazing thing was that nothing ever disappeared, even though there was almost no space left in the cabinets: new exhibits were added all the time.