Night Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “You will. And remember, Anton. You’ve only got tonight. The Day Watch won’t have any reason to drag things out. They’ll bring a formal charge against you in the morning.”

  “Boris Ignatievich!”

  “Now remember! Remember who was in the restaurant! Who followed the Dark Magician to the restroom?”

  “Nobody,” Svetlana put in. “I’m sure of it. I kept looking to see when he would come out.”

  “That means the Maverick was waiting for the Dark Magician in the restroom. But he had to come out. Do you remember? Sveta, Anton?”

  Neither of us said anything. I didn’t remember. I’d been trying not to look at the Dark Magician.

  “One man did come out,” said Svetlana. “He was kind of . . .”

  She thought about it.

  “Ordinary, absolutely ordinary. An average man, as if someone had mixed a million faces together and made an average one. I just caught a glimpse and forgot him right away.”

  “Remember now,” the boss demanded.

  “I can’t, Boris Ignatievich. He was just a man. Middle-aged. I didn’t even realize he was an Other.”

  “He’s an elemental Other. He doesn’t even enter the Twilight, just balances right on the edge. Remember, Sveta! His face or some distinctive features.”

  Svetlana rubbed her nose with her finger.

  “When he came out and sat down at his table, there was a woman there. A beautiful woman with dark-blonde hair. It was dyed, and I noticed she used Lumene makeup too; I use it myself sometimes; it’s cheap, not all that good.”

  In spite of everything, I couldn’t help smiling.

  “And she was upset about something,” Sveta added. “She was smiling, but her smile looked wrong. As if she wanted to stay, but they had to leave.”

  She started thinking again.

  “The woman’s aura! You remember it! Let me have the image,” the boss exclaimed, speaking more loudly and changing his tone of voice. Of course, no one in the restaurant heard him, but for a brief moment the expressions on people’s faces were distorted and a waiter carrying a tray stumbled and dropped a bottle of wine and two crystal glasses.

  Svetlana shook her head sharply. The boss had put her in a trance as easily as if she were an ordinary human being. Her pupils opened wide, and a pale, thin, glimmering rainbow connected their two faces.

  “Thank you, Sveta,” said Boris Ignatievich.

  “Did I manage it?” the girl asked, amazed.

  “Yes. You can consider yourself a seventh-grade magician. I’ll confirm that I tested you in person. Anton!”

  This time I looked into the boss’s eyes.

  A brief jolt.

  Streaming threads of an energy unknown to ordinary humans.

  An image.

  No, I didn’t see the face of the Maverick’s female companion. I saw her aura, and that’s worth far more. Blue and green layers intermingled like ice cream in a glass, a small brown spot, a white streak. A fairly complex aura, not easy to forget, and basically quite attractive. It upset me—she loved him.

  She loved him and she was feeling hurt about something. She thought he didn’t love her anymore, but she was still holding on and she was prepared to keep going on like that.

  By following this woman’s trail I would find the Maverick. And hand him over to a tribunal—to certain death.

  “No!” I said.

  The boss gave me a pitying look.

  “She’s not guilty of anything! And she loves him, you can see that!”

  That dismal music was still whining in my ears, and nobody there took any notice of my shout. I could have rolled around on the floor and dived under people’s tables—they’d have just lifted their feet up and kept on devouring their Indian delicacies.

  Svetlana looked at us. She’d remembered the aura, but she hadn’t been able to interpret it. That’s a grade-six skill.

  “Then you’ll die,” said the boss.

  “At least I’ll know what for.”

  “Have you thought about the people who love you, Anton?”

  “I don’t have any right to do that.”

  Boris Ignatievich grinned wryly:

  “A hero! Oh, what great heroes we all are! Clean hands, hearts of gold, feet that have never stepped in shit. Have you forgotten the woman who was taken out of here? And the crying children, have you forgotten them? They’re not Dark Ones. They’re ordinary people, the ones we promised to protect. How long do we spend on getting the balance right for every operation we plan? I may curse our analysts every moment of the day, but why are they all gray-haired by the age of fifty?”

  It felt like the boss was lashing me across the cheeks. He was lecturing me the same way I’d lectured Svetlana just recently, with absolute confidence.

  “The Watch needs you, Anton! It needs Sveta! But it doesn’t need some crazy psychopath, no matter how well-intentioned he might be. It’s easy enough to take a little dagger and start hunting Dark Ones in back alleys and restrooms. Without thinking about the consequences or weighing the guilt. Where’s our front line, Anton?”

  “Among ordinary people.” I lowered my eyes.

  “Who do we protect?”

  “Ordinary people.”

  “There is no abstract Evil; you have to understand that! Its roots are here, all around us, in this herd that goes on chewing and having a good time only an hour after a murder! That’s what you have to fight for. For people. Evil is a hydra with many heads, and the more of them you cut off, the more it grows! Hydras have to be starved to death, do you understand that? Kill a hundred Dark Ones, and a thousand more will take their place. That’s why the Maverick is guilty! And that’s why you, Anton, and no one else, will find him. And make sure he stands trial. Either voluntarily or under compulsion.”

  The boss suddenly broke off and rose abruptly to his feet.

  “Let’s go, ladies first.”

  I’d never seen him behave like that. I leapt up and grabbed my purse—an automatic reflex response.

  The boss wouldn’t get jittery without good reason.

  “Quickly!”

  I suddenly realized I needed to visit the place where the unfortunate Dark Magician had met his end. But I didn’t say a word. We moved toward the exit so fast the security guards would have been sure to stop us, if only they could have seen us.

  “Too late,” the boss said quietly, right beside the door. “We were talking too long.”

  Three people walked into the restaurant as if they were oozing through the door. Two well-built young guys and a girl.

  I knew the girl. It was Alisa Donnikova, the witch from Day Watch. Her eyes opened wide when she spotted the boss.

  She was followed by two barely perceptible silhouettes moving through the Twilight.

  “Would you wait a moment, please?” Alisa said in a hoarse voice, as if her throat had suddenly gone dry.

  “Begone.” The boss made a swift gesture with one hand, and the Dark Ones were forced aside, toward the walls. Alisa leaned over hard, trying to resist the elastic wall of force, but her powers weren’t up to it.

  “Zabulon, I summon you!” she squealed.

  Oho! The witch must be a real favorite of the Day Watch boss if she had the right to summon him!

  The other two Dark Ones emerged from the Twilight. I identified them at a glance as warrior magicians of the third or fourth grade. Of course, they were absolutely no match for Boris Ignatievich, and I could give the boss a hand, but they could drag things out.

  The boss realized that too.

  “What do you want?” he asked menacingly. “This is the time of the Night Watch.”

  “A crime has been committed,” said Alisa, her eyes blazing. “Here, not long ago. One of our brothers has been killed, killed by one of . . .” She stared hard at the boss, then at me.

  “One of . . . ?” The boss asked hopefully. The witch didn’t take the bait. If she’d been foolish enough to hurl an ac
cusation like that at the boss, with her status and at the wrong time, he would have splattered her across the wall.

  And he wouldn’t have paused for a moment to wonder if such a step was reasonable or not.

  “One of the Light Ones!”

  “The Night Watch has no idea who the criminal is.”

  “We officially request assistance.”

  So. Now we had nowhere left to retreat. A refusal to render assistance to the other Watch was as good as a declaration of war.

  “Zabulon, I call on you!” the witch cried out again. I was beginning to hope that maybe the leader of the Dark Ones couldn’t hear her or was tied up with something important.

  “We are willing to collaborate,” said the boss. His voice was like ice.

  I glanced back into the dining area, over the shoulders of the magicians—the Dark Ones had already surrounded us, clearly intending to keep us by the door, and what was happening in the restaurant was just incredible.

  People were gorging themselves.

  They were chomping so loudly it sounded as if there were pigs at every table. Their eyes were dull and glazed, their fingers clutched knives and forks, but they were raking up the food with their hands, choking on it, snorting, and spitting it out. A respectable-looking middle-aged man who’d been dining sedately in the company of three bodyguards and a young woman was gulping down wine straight from the mouth of the bottle. A pleasant-looking young man—a yuppie type—and his pretty girlfriend were fighting over a plate, spilling the thick, orange sauce over themselves. The waiters were rushing from table to table, flinging plates, cups, bottles, braziers, and dishes at the diners . . .

  The Dark Ones have their own methods for distracting outsiders.

  “Were any of you present in the restaurant when the murder was committed?” the witch asked triumphantly. The boss paused before he answered.

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “My companions.”

  “Olga, Svetlana,” said the witch, devouring us with her eyes. “Was there not also present another Night Watch agent whose human name is Anton Gorodetsky?”

  “Apart from us, there were no members of Night Watch present!” Svetlana said quickly. A good answer, but too quick. Alisa frowned, realizing her question had been too vague.

  “A quiet night, isn’t it?” said a voice from the doorway.

  Zabulon had answered the summons.

  I looked at him in despair, realizing that a supreme magician would not be taken in by my disguise. He might not have recognized Ilya as the boss, but the old fox wouldn’t be caught out by the same trick twice.

  “Not so very quiet, Zabulon,” the boss said simply. “Call off your minions, or I’ll have to do it for you.”

  The Dark Magician still looked exactly the same, as if time had stopped, as if the icy winter hadn’t finally given way to a warm spring. A dark suit, a tie, a gray shirt, old-fashioned, narrow shoes. Sunken cheeks, dull eyes, hair cut short.

  “I knew I’d find you here,” said Zabulon.

  He was looking at me. And only at me.

  “How stupid,” he said, shaking his head. “What do you need all this for, eh?”

  He took a step forward and Alisa darted out of his way.

  “A good job, prosperity, self-esteem, all the joys of the world—all in your grasp, all you have to do is decide what you’ll have this time. But you’re so stubborn. I don’t understand you, Anton.”

  “And I don’t understand you, Zabulon,” said the boss, blocking his way.

  The Dark Magician reluctantly turned his gaze to him.

  “Then you must be getting old. The person in your lover’s body is Anton Gorodetsky, the same person we suspect of the serial killings of Dark Ones. Just how long has he been hiding in there, Boris? Didn’t you notice the substitution?”

  He giggled again.

  I looked around at the Dark Ones. They still hadn’t understood. They needed another second, or half a second.

  Then I saw Svetlana raise her hand, with a yellow magical flame flickering on the palm.

  So now she’d passed the fifth-level test—but this was still a battle we could only lose. There were three of us and six of them. If Svetlana struck—not to save herself, but to get me out of this fix—there’d be a bloodbath.

  I jumped forward.

  It was a good thing Olga’s body was well-trained and in such good shape. It was a good thing that all of us—Light Ones and Dark Ones—weren’t really used to relying on the strength of our arms and legs, on simple, crude violence. And the best thing of all was that Olga, who had been deprived of most of her magic, hadn’t neglected the skills of physical combat.

  Zabulon doubled up with a hoarse gasp when my fist—or rather, Olga’s fist—sank into his stomach. I swept his legs from under him with a single kick and dashed outside.

  “Stop!” howled Alisa in a voice filled with admiration, hate, and love all at once.

  The hunt was on.

  I ran down Pokrovka Street in the direction of Zemlyanoi Val Street, with my purse bouncing hard against my back. It was a good thing I wasn’t wearing high heels. I had to get away, disappear. I’d really enjoyed the urban survival course, but it was so short, really short—who could have imagined a Night Watch agent would end up running and hiding, instead of chasing and catching?

  I heard a screeching wail behind me.

  I leapt aside in a pure reflex response, before I could even understand what was happening. A streak of crimson flame came hurtling down the street, coiling and twisting as it passed me, then it tried to stop and turn back, but its inertia was too great: the charge crashed into the wall of a building, momentarily turning the stones white-hot.

  But that was . . . !

  I tripped and fell, glancing back. Zabulon was recharging his battle staff, but he was moving very slowly, as if there were something hindering him, slowing him down.

  He was shooting to kill!

  There wouldn’t have been even a handful of dust left of me if I’d been caught by Shahab’s Lash!

  So the boss was wrong after all. The Day Watch didn’t want what was inside my head. They wanted to eliminate me completely.

  The Dark Ones were running after me. Zabulon was aiming his weapon. The boss was restraining Svetlana as she struggled to break out of his grasp. I jumped up and started running again, already knowing there was no way I could escape. At least there was nobody around: Instinctive, subconscious fear had swept everybody off the street the moment our confrontation began. Nobody else would get hurt.

  I heard a squeal of brakes and looked around just in time to see the Day Watch agents jump out of the way of a car careering wildly along the street. The driver stopped for a moment, evidently thinking he’d driven into the middle of a gangland shootout, then picked up speed again.

  Should I stop him? No, it wasn’t allowed.

  I jumped up onto the sidewalk and squatted down, hiding from Zabulon behind an old Volga, letting the stray driver past. The silver Toyota hurtled past me and then screeched to a halt with a smell of burning brakes.

  The door on the driver’s side opened and a hand beckoned me.

  Things like this just didn’t happen!

  Heroes only got rescued by passing cars in cheap action movies.

  At least that’s what I was thinking as I opened the back door and threw myself inside.

  “Get us out of here!” shouted the woman I found myself next to. But the driver didn’t need any encouragement; we were already moving. There was a flash behind us, and the driver swerved out of the path of a streak of fire. The woman began wailing.

  How did they see what was happening? As automatic gunfire? Salvoes of rockets? A blast from a flame-thrower?

  “Why did you come back, why?” the woman asked, trying to lean forward to hit the driver in the back. I was all set to grab her arm, but before I could, the car jerked forward and tossed the woman back against the seat.

  “Don’t,” I sa
id gently.

  She glared at me indignantly. She had every right. What woman would be pleased to see her husband stop and risk his life for an attractive, dishevelled female stranger and take her into his car when it’s being chased by a gang of thugs?

  At least the immediate danger was past now. We came out onto Zemlyanoi Val Street and drove on in a solid stream of traffic. My friends and my enemies were both left a long way behind.

  “Thanks,” I said to the short hair on the back of the driver’s head.

  “Did you get hit?” he asked without even turning around.

  “No, thanks to you. Why did you stop?”

  “Because he’s an idiot!” the woman beside me screeched. She moved away to the far side of the car, shunning me as if I had the plague.

  “Because I’m not an idiot,” the man replied calmly. “Why were they out to get you? Never mind, it’s none of my business.”

  “They wanted to rape me,” I said, blurting out the first thing that came into my head. But it was a pretty good story. Right there on the table: not like Moscow, even with all its gangland excesses, more like some saloon in the Wild, Wild West.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “This will do fine,” I said, looking out at the flaming red letter M above the metro entrance. “I’ll make my own way home.”

  “We can drop you off.”

  “No need. Thanks, you’ve done more than enough already.”

  “All right.”

  He didn’t argue or try to change my mind. The car braked and I got out. I looked at the woman.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She snorted and jerked away, slamming the door shut.

  Well, there you go.

  But things like that still went to prove that our work did make some kind of sense after all, I thought.

  I automatically straightened out my hair and dusted down my jeans. People walking by eyed me cautiously, but they didn’t shy away, so I couldn’t be looking all that bad.

  How much time did I have before the hunt picked up my trail? Would the boss be able to slow them down?