The Day Watch Part 19

Only native Muscovites go home from the railroad stations in taxis. If their financial status permits it, of course.

Any provincial, even if he has the kind of money I had, will take the metro. There's something hypnotic about this system of tunnels, with its labyrinth of connections, about the rumbling of the trains as they go hurtling past and the rush of air that fades away and then starts up again. About the constant movement. Down here there is unspent energy seething and swirling around under the vaults of the station halls: free for the taking, more than I could possibly use.

And there is protection. I think it's connected somehow with the thick layer of earth above your head... and all the past years that are buried in that earth... Not even years-centuries.

The doors of the train parted and I stepped in. There was a repulsive, insistent buzzing from the loudspeakers, and then a finely modulated man's voice announced: "Please mind the closing doors. The next station is Komsomolskaya."

I was riding the circle line. Counter-clockwise. And I was definitely not getting out at Komsomolskaya. But after that... after Komsomolskaya I apparently would get out. That would be Peace Prospect. And, by the way, it would be worth walking up the platform at Komsomolskaya to get closer to the front of the train. Then I'd be nearer the exit for my connection.

That meant I was changing onto the brown line, and probably going north, because otherwise I'd have gone around the circle line in the opposite direction and changed at Oktyabrskaya.

The carriage shook as it moved, and since I had nothing better to do, I studied the numerous advertis.e.m.e.nts.

There was a long-haired man standing on tiptoe, but squatting down at the same time, who was advertising pantyhose for women, and someone with a felt-tip pen had taken the opportunity to endow the hairy poser with a phallus of impressive proportions. The next stick-on poster suggested that I should go chasing around the city after a jeep painted in bright colors, but I failed to grasp the point of this pursuit. A prize, probably. Miracle tablets for almost every ailment-all in a single bottle-real estate agencies, the most yogurty yogurt of all yogurts, genuine Borzhomi mineral water with a picture of a ram on the bottle... And here was Komsomolskaya.

I was fed up with the advertis.e.m.e.nts, so I dropped my bag by the door and went to look at the plan of the metro system. I don't know why, but at the first glance my attention was immediately caught by the little red circle with the letters AEEA above it-the All-Union Exhibition of Economic Achievements.

That was where I was going. No doubt about it. To a ma.s.sive horseshoe-shaped building. The Cosmos Hotel.

No one can deny that life feels easier when you know what your goal is. I heaved a sigh of relief, went back to my bag, and even smiled at my dull reflection in the gla.s.s of the door. The door also bore traces of the mindless hyperactivity of the city's own pithecanthropoids-the inscription "Do not lean against the doors" had been reduced to "Do lean again do."

The unknown author of this pointless statement wasn't even a pithecanthropus; he was more likely a monkey, a dirty, smug little monkey. Dirty and stupid, precisely because he was too much like a human being...

I was glad that I was an Other, and not a human being.

Here was Peace Prospect; stairs, a turn to the right, an escalator, and there was the train just arriving.

Rizhskaya, Alexeevskaya, AEEA. Out of the carriage and turn right-I'd always known that.

A long, long escalator, on which for some reason I have no thoughts about anything at all. Those annoying advertis.e.m.e.nts again. A pedestrian underpa.s.s. And there's the hotel. A horseshoe-shaped monstrosity of French architecture. The hotel has changed, though, and quite noticeably. They've added illuminated billboards and bright lights; and then there's the casino, with the prize foreign automobile displayed on a pedestal. Some street girls standing around outside smoking, despite the hard frost. And the doorman inside, whose hands instantly swallow up a hundred-ruble bill.

It wasn't really late yet, so it was still busy in the foyer. Someone was talking on a cell phone, rapping out phrases in Arabic loud enough for everyone to hear, and there was music coming from several directions at once.

"A deluxe suite for one," I said casually. "And please, no phone calls offering me girls. I've come to work."

Money is a great thing. A suite was found instantly and I was immediately offered dinner to be delivered to my room and promised that no one would call me, although I didn't really believe it. And they suggested I should register straightaway, because I had a Ukrainian pa.s.sport. I registered. But then, instead of quietly making for the elevator to which I was solicitously directed, I set out toward an unremarkable little door in the darkest and emptiest corner of the foyer.

There were no plaques at all on this door.

The receptionist watched me go with genuine admiration. I think everyone else had stopped noticing me at all.

Behind the door I discovered a grubby little office-probably the only s.p.a.ce in the hotel that hadn't been given a European makeover. It looked as if it had come straight out of the uncivilized Soviet '70s.

A standard-type desk-not really shabby, but it had seen plenty of service, a standard-type chair, and an ancient Polish "Aster" telephone in the center of the desk. Perched on the chair was a puny little guy wearing a militia sergeant's uniform. He looked up at me inquiringly.

The sergeant was an Other. And he was a Light One-I realized that straightaway.

A Light One... Hmm. Then who was I? I didn't think I was a Light One. No, definitely not a Light One.

Well then, that decided the matter.

"h.e.l.lo," I said to him. "I'd like to register in Moscow."

The militiaman addressed me through clenched teeth, with a mixture of surprise and irritation in his voice: "The receptionist handles registration... When you check in. You have to check in to register." He rustled the newspaper that he had been studying with a pencil in his hand before I arrived-I think he was marking interesting announcements from the incredibly long list.

"I've been through the ordinary registration already," I explained. "I need the Other registration. By the way, I haven't introduced myself: Vitaly Rogoza, Other."

The militiaman immediately straightened up and looked at me differently, with a perplexed expression now. He didn't seem able to recognize me as an Other. So I helped him.

"Dark," he muttered after a while, with a feeling of relief, or so it seemed to me. He also introduced himself: "Zakhar Zelin-sky, Other. Night Watch employee. Let's go through..."

I could clearly hear in his tone of voice the old complaint about all these foreigners flooding into our Moscow.

Others could never help dragging human models and stereotypes into their own relations.h.i.+ps. This Light One definitely seemed annoyed by the arrival of yet another provincial and the need to get up off his backside, tear his eyes away from the newspaper, drag himself to his computer, and go through the ha.s.sle of a registration...

There was another door in the middle of the wall, one that an ordinary person never could have seen. But there was no need to open it-we walked through the wall, surrounded by the gray twilight that had instantly filled the s.p.a.ce around us. Our movements became soft and slow, and even the flickering of the light bulb on the ceiling became visible.

The second room looked far more presentable than the first.

The sergeant immediately sat down at a comfortable little desk with a computer and offered me a seat on a plump divan.

"Are you staying in Moscow for long?"

"I don't know yet. I think for at least a month."

"Show me your permanent residence registration, please."

He could have seen it for himself, using his sight as an Other, but apparently the rules obliged him to use the simplest method.

My jacket was already open, so I just pulled up my sweater, s.h.i.+rt, and T-s.h.i.+rt. There on my chest was the bluish mark of a permanent registration in the Ukraine. The sergeant read it with a pa.s.s of his open hand and began slowly fingering the keyboard of his PC. He took a while to check the data, then rustled away on the keyboard again. He opened a ma.s.sive safe that was locked with more than just keys, took something out, ran through the necessary procedures, and concluded by flinging a small bundle of bluish light at me. For an instant my entire upper body was flooded with fire, and a second later I had two seals decorating my chest. The second was my temporary Moscow registration.

"Your registration is temporary, but it has no fixed period," the sergeant explained without any particular enthusiasm. "Since our database indicates that you are an entirely law-abiding Dark Other, we can go easy on you and issue an unlimited registration. I hope the Night Watch won't have any reason to change its opinion about you. The seal will self-destruct as soon as you spend twenty-four hours outside the Moscow city limits. If you have to leave for more than twenty-four hours, I'm afraid you'll have to register again."

"I understand," I said. "Thank you. Can I go?"

"Yes, you can go... Dark One."

The sergeant said nothing for a few moments, then he locked the safe (with more than just keys), left the computer as it was, and gestured with his hand toward the door.

Back in the grubby little room, he asked me uncertainly: Sergei Lukyanen "Pardon me, but who are you? Not a vampire, not a shape-s.h.i.+fter, not an incubus, not a warlock-I can tell all that.

And not a magician either, I think. I don't quite understand..."

The sergeant himself was a Light magician, about fourth level. That wasn't very high, but it wasn't exactly nothing either...

Yes, indeed-who was I?

"That's a difficult question," I replied evasively. "More a magician than anything else, I think. Goodbye."

I picked up my bag and went back out into the foyer.

Five minutes later I was already making myself at home in my suite.

I'd been right not to believe the receptionist-the first call with an offer to provide me with entertainment caught me while I was shaving. I morosely but politely asked them not to call again. The second time there was less politeness in my tone of voice, and the third time I simply poured so much sticky, viscous Power into the innocent phone that the person at the other end choked and stopped in mid-word. But at least they didn't call me anymore.

I'm learning, I thought. But am I really a magician or not?

To be honest, I hadn't really been surprised by what the Light sergeant had said. Vampires, shape-s.h.i.+fters, incubuses... They all exist. They certainly do. But only for their own kind, for the Others. For ordinary people, they don't exist. But for the Others, ordinary people are the very source of existence. Their roots and their nourishment. For both the Light Ones and the Dark Ones, no matter what nonsense the Light Ones might trumpet on every street corner. They also draw their energy from the lives of human beings. And as for their goals... We both have the same goals. It's just that we and the Light Ones both try to overtake our compet.i.tors and reach our goals first.

I was distracted from this torrent of revelations by a knock at the door-they had brought my dinner. After I'd fed the waiter a hundred-ruble bill (where did I get this lordly habit of handing out such incredibly generous tips?), I tried to concentrate again, but I'd obviously lost the wavelength. A pity.

But in any case, I had climbed up one more step. At least now I knew there were two different kinds of Others: Light Ones and Dark Ones. I was a Dark One. I wasn't very fond of Light Ones, but I couldn't say that I hated them. After all, they were Others too, even if they did follow rather different principles from us.

And I'd begun to understand a bit more about what lay behind my threat to the werewolf in the park, behind the vague but imposing t.i.tle "Night Watch." What it signified was the observation of Dark Ones at night-precisely at night, because the Dark Ones' time was the night. Naturally, there was a Day Watch as well. They were my kind, but I had to be careful with them too, because if I did something wrong it wouldn't earn me a pat on the back. And this whole system was in a rather shaky state of equilibrium, since both sides were constantly seeking means and methods to finally rout their opponents and acquire undivided control over the world of human beings...

That was all I had so far. And from the height of this step I couldn't make out anything more in the encircling Twilight...

I heard the Call just as I was finis.h.i.+ng my dinner.

Neither too quiet, nor too loud, neither pleading nor imperious. The person it was intended for heard it too. And couldn't resist.

It wasn't intended for me. So it was strange that I could hear it...

That meant I had to do something.

Something implacable inside me was already giving orders. Put your jacket on! Put the bag in the cupboard! Lock the windows and the doors! And not just with the locks and latches, you blockhead!

Drawing in Power from everywhere I could reach, I made sure that ordinary people wouldn't take any interest in my room. Others had no business being here anyway.

The dead-drunk Syrian in the next room suddenly sobered up. On the next floor down the Czech who had been suffering torment with his stomach finally puked and collapsed in relief with his arms round the toilet bowl. In the room across the corridor an elderly businessman from the Urals slapped his wife on the cheek for the first time in his life, putting an end to an old, lingering quarrel-an hour later the couple would celebrate their reconciliation in the restaurant on the second floor. If there was a Light One around then, I'd already set the table for him...

But all this didn't really interest me. I was following the Call. The Call that wasn't intended for me.

Evening was smoothly merging into night. The avenue was full of noise, the wind howled in the trolley wires. For some reason the sounds of nature drowned out the voices of civilization-maybe because I was listening so intently?

To the right, along the avenue. Definitely.

I pulled my cap down tighter on my head and set off along the sidewalk.

When I had almost reached a long building with shop windows along its first floor displaying absurd phoney samovars, the Call stopped. But I already knew where to go.

Beside the next building there was the dark tunnel of a narrow alley. And right now it was filled with genuinely intense darkness.

As if to spite me, the wind grew stronger, las.h.i.+ng at my face and shoving me back like a rugby player, and I had to lean forward in order to move at all.

There was the alley. It looked like I was too late. An indistinct silhouette froze for a moment against the vague patch of light that was the other end of the alley; all I could make out was a pale face that was obviously not human and the dull gleam of two eyes. And I think I saw teeth.

That was all. Someone had been here and disappeared, but there was someone else still here, and they wouldn't be going anywhere.

I leaned down over the motionless body and took a close look. A girl, still very young, about sixteen, with a strange mixture of bliss and torment in her glazed eyes. There was a fluffy knitted scarf and a matching hat lying beside her. Her jacket was unb.u.t.toned, exposing her neck. And there were four puncture marks clearly visible on her neck.

Somehow I wasn't surprised that I was able to see in almost total darkness.

I squatted down beside the girl. Whoever had drunk her blood-not a lot of it, no more than a quarter of a liter-had also drunk her life. Sucked out all of her energy right down to the last drop. A lousy way to go.

And then people burst into the alley from both ends simultaneously, or rather, not people-Others.

"Stop there! Night Watch! Leave the Twilight!"

I straightened up, not realizing immediately what they wanted from me, and received a hard blow-but not from a fist or a foot. It was something white, as white as a surgeon's coat. It didn't really hurt, but it was annoying. One of the watchmen was pointing a short rod at me. There was a red stone on the end of it, and he looked as if he were getting ready to hit me again.

And then I was immediately thrown one more step up the stairway. Not even just one, but two at least.

I left the Twilight. Now I understood what was happening when everything around me slowed down and I could suddenly see in pitch darkness. It was the world of the Others. And I'd been ordered-not asked, but ordered-to return to the world of human beings.

So I did, obeying without any objections. Because it was the right thing to do.

"Name yourself!" they demanded. I couldn't see who they were, because they were s.h.i.+ning a flashlight in my face. I could have made out their faces, but just at that moment that wasn't the right thing to do.

"Vitaly Rogoza, Other."

"Andrei Tiunnikov, Other, Night Watch agent," said the one who had struck me with his battle wand, clearly taking pleasure in introducing himself.

Now I could tell that I hadn't been hit with full Power; it had just been a warning shot. But if they wanted, they could strike a lot harder-the charge in the wand was strong enough.

"Well now, Dark One. What do we have here? A fresh corpse, and you standing beside it. Are you going to explain? Or maybe you have a license? Well?"

"Andriukha, hold your horses," someone called sharply to him from out of the darkness.

But Andriukha took no notice and just gestured in annoyance.

"Wait!"

He spoke to me again: "Well, then? Why don't you talk, Dark One? Nothing to say?"

I wasn't saying anything.

Andriukha Tiunnikov was a magician. A Light magician, naturally, and just barely up to the fifth level.

I'd been that strong yesterday.

He obviously hadn't charged the amulet himself-I could sense the work of a much more experienced magician than him. And I thought the two young guys behind his back looked a bit more powerful too.

On the other side the alley was blocked off by a girl, standing on her own. She was young and not very tall, but she was the most experienced and dangerous member of the group. She was a shape-s.h.i.+fting battle magician.

Something like a Light werewolf.

"Well, come on, Dark One!" Andriukha insisted. "Still got nothing to say? I see. Show me your registration! And someone let the Day Watch know we have a Dark poacher here..."