The Twilight Watch (39 page)

The 'grannies' – aged from twenty to seventy – were already
hurrying to answer the call. Now there'd be vodka, beer, roast
chicken legs and pies with dubious fillings.

'Anton!'

I swung round. Las was standing beside me with his bag thrown
over his shoulder. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and an
expression of blissful relief on his face.

'Are you getting off too?' he asked. 'Maybe I can give you a
lift somewhere? I've got a car waiting.'

'A good car?' I asked.

'I think it's a Volkswagen.' Las frowned. 'Is that good enough?
Or do you insist on a Cadillac?'

I turned my head to look at the windows of the chief conductor's
carriage. Gesar, Zabulon and Edgar were watching me.

'That's fine,' I said glumly. 'Right . . . I'm sorry. I'm in a serious
hurry and I need a car. I turn you towards . . .'

'Well, let's get going, why are we standing here, if you're in such
a hurry?' Las asked, interrupting the standard formula for recruiting
volunteers.

He slipped into the crowd so smartly that I had no choice but
to follow.

We forced our way through the mindless, jostling throng in the
station and out to the square. I caught up with Las and tapped
him on the shoulder:

'I turn you . . .'

'I see it, I see it!' Las said, ignoring me. 'Hi, Roman!'

The man who came up to us was quite tall, with a well-fed
look, almost like a plump baby. He had a small mouth with thin
lips and narrow, inexpressive eyes that looked bored behind his
spectacles.

'Hello, Alexander,' the gentleman said formally, holding his hand
out smoothly to Las.

'This is Anton, my friend, can we give him a lift?'

'Why shouldn't we give him a lift?' Roman agreed sadly. 'The
wheels go round, it's a smooth road.' Then he turned and walked
towards a brand-new Volkswagen Bora.

We followed him and got into the car. I impudently slipped
into the front passenger seat. Las cleared his throat loudly, but
climbed meekly into the back. Roman switched on the ignition
and asked:

'Where do you want to go, Anton?'

His speech was as smooth and streamlined as if he wasn't speaking,
but writing the words in the air.

'The airport, it's urgent,' I said sombrely.

'Where?' Roman asked in genuine amazement. He looked at
Las: 'Perhaps your friend ought to find a taxi?'

Las gave me an embarrassed look. Then he gave Roman an
equally embarrassed one.

'All right,' I said. 'I turn you towards the Light. Reject the Dark,
defend the Light. I grant you the vision to distinguish Good from
Evil. I grant you the faith to follow the Light. I grant you the
courage to battle the Dark.'

Las giggled. And then immediately fell silent.

It's not a matter of words, of course. Words can't change anything,
not even if you emphasise every last one of them as if they were
spelt with a capital letter. It's like the witches' spells – a mnemonic
formula, a template implanted in my memory. I can simply compel
someone to obey me, but this way . . . this way's more correct. It
brings an old, tried and tested mechanism into play.

Roman straightened up and his cheeks even seemed to lose some
of their plumpness. A moment ago the person beside me had been
an overgrown, capricious infant, but now he was a man. A warrior.

'The Light be with you!' I concluded.

'To the airport!' Roman declared in delight.

The engine roared and we tore off, squeezing every last ounce
of power out of the small German car. I'm sure that sports sedan
had never really shown what it could do before.

I closed my eyes and looked through the Twilight – at a pattern
of branching coloured lines against a background of darkness. Like
a crumpled bundle of optical fibres – some green, some yellow,
some red. I'm not the best at reading the lines of probability, but
this time I found it surprisingly easy. I was feeling in better shape
than I ever had before.

That meant there was already power flowing into me. Power
from Gesar and Zabulon, Edgar and the Inquisitors. And maybe
at that moment Others were entranced right across Moscow, Light
Ones and Dark Ones – the ones Gesar and Zabulon had the right
to draw Power from.

I'd only ever felt anything like this once before. That time when
I drew Power directly out of people.

'We go left at the third turn, there's a traffic jam ahead,' I said.
'Then we turn right into the yard and out through the archway
. . . into the side street there . . .'

I'd never been in Saratov before. But that didn't make any difference
right now.

'Yes sir!' Roman replied briskly.

'Faster!'

'Very well!'

I looked at Las. He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up.
The car hurtled through the crowded streets. Roman drove with
the wild fury of a tram driver who's been given a chance to lap
Schumacher in a Grand Prix.

Las sighed and asked:

'Now what's going to happen to me? Are you going to take a
little torch out of your pocket and tell me "it was a marsh gas
explosion"?'

'You can see for yourself – no torch required,' I said.

'But will I survive?' Las persisted.

'Yes,' I reassured him. 'But you won't remember anything. I'm
sorry, but that's standard procedure.'

'I get it,' Las said sadly. 'Shit . . .Why is that always the way?
. . .Tell me, since it makes no difference . . .'

The car tore along a side street, bouncing over the potholes.
Las stubbed his cigarette out and went on:

'Tell me, who are you?'

'An Other.'

'What sort of other exactly?'

'A magician. Don't worry – I'm a Light Magician.'

'My, but you've grown, Harry Potter . . .' Las said. 'What a crazy
business. Maybe I've just lost my mind?'

'No chance . . .' I said, pushing my hands hard against the roof.
Roman was really going for it, driving straight across some
flowerbeds to cut a corner. 'Careful, Roman! We need to move
fast, but safely!'

'Then tell me,' Las carried on. 'Does this car race have anything
to do with that abnormally large bat we saw yesterday night?'

'Believe it or not, it does,' I confirmed. The Power was seething
inside me, as intoxicating as champagne. It made me feel like
clowning. 'Are you afraid of vampires?'

Las took a flat bottle of whisky out of his bag, tore the top off
and took a long swig. Then he said cheerfully:

'Not a bit!'

H
ALFWAY TO THE
airport a militia patrol car pulled out and sat
on our tail. I put a spell on the Bora that diverts attention and
the patrolmen immediately fell back and disappeared. Others
normally use that spell to protect their cars against being stolen,
so I was delighted to have found a new use for it. But I quickly
removed it when a truck nearly flattened us a minute later.

'We'll be there in fifteen or twenty minutes,' Roman reported.
'What will our instructions be, boss?'

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Las shake his head and take
another swig. We were already out of town and hurtling along the
road to the airport. A fairly decent road by Central Russian standards.

'Turn the radio on,' I said. 'This journey's getting a bit dreary.'

Roman turned it on. He just caught the end of the news:

'. . . to the delight of millions of readers, whose three-year wait
has finally come to an end,' the presenter declared. 'And to conclude
– an announcement from the cosmodrome at Baikonur, where a
joint Russian-American crew is already preparing for lift-off. The
launch is planned for six-thirty this evening, Moscow time. And
now we continue with our musical . . .'

'Like some whisky?' Las asked.

'No, I've got work to do.'

'Alexander, pull yourself together, this is no time to be drinking!'
Roman declared briskly. 'We've got work to do!'

This extremely amiable man, who probably couldn't even have
slit a chicken's throat in real life, seemed to think that he was
James Bond – or at least his assistant.

We all have something we never got out of our systems when
we were children.

'You will guard the car,' I told him. 'This is a very responsible
assignment. We are relying on you.'

'I serve the Light!' Roman barked.

'I'd never have believed it . . .' Las groaned on the back seat.
'Shall I guard the car too?'

'Yes.' I nodded. 'Only . . . please, please . . . don't try to run
away.'

I heard more gurgling from the back seat. Maybe I ought to
turn Las to the Light too? It would be more humane . . . the poor
man was suffering unnecessary torment.

But I had no time left to think about it – the car flew out onto
the square in front of the terminal building and pulled up at the
entrance with a squeal of brakes. Nobody took any notice –
someone was late for their flight, it happened all the time . . .

I took out Arina's note and looked at the compass.

The pointer was swaying, but it still indicated a definite direction.

Had Kostya sensed my approach? Gesar had been sure he would.

What lay in store for me?

Strangely enough, up until that moment, I hadn't felt any fear.
In my heart of hearts I hadn't been prepared to see Kostya as an
enemy – and especially not the kind of enemy who might kill
me. I was a second-grade magician – that was already something
not to be taken lightly. I had the entire might of the Night Watch
behind me and now – something quite unheard of – the might
of the Day Watch as well. What could one solitary vampire possibly
do to me, even if he was a Higher Vampire?

But just at that moment I recalled Witiezslav's face with his
fangs bared.

Kostya had killed him. Overwhelmed him.

'Las,' I said curtly. 'One small request . . .Walk behind me. At a
distance. If anything happens . . . they'll find you afterwards, tell
them about it.'

Las gulped, dropped the empty bottle on the seat and said soberly:

'I'll do it, why not? Forward, my pale-faced Blade!'

It seemed like he was past the point of worrying about anything.
Getting drunk is a good way to give yourself partial protection
against a vampire. They find the blood of someone who's drunk
unpleasant – and if he's really drunk it's toxic to them. Maybe that
was why vampires had always preferred Europe to Russia?

But a vampire doesn't have to drink the blood of someone he's
killed. Nourishment is one thing, but business is business.

'Don't come close,' I repeated. 'Keep your distance.'

'Watch your back, boss!' Roman told me. 'Good luck! We're
counting on you!'

I looked at him and remembered Zabulon's parting words.

How alike we are.

How alike all of us are – Others and people, Dark Ones and
Light Ones.

'Keep it cool, no rush, no aggression,' I said to myself, glancing
at the men smoking by the entrance to the terminal building.
Most of them were respectable types, wearing ties. The cleaning
woman in an orange work jacket standing beside them and puffing
away on a Prima looked absurd.

'Calmly and quietly . . .'

I walked towards the building. The smokers moved aside to
make way – there was so much Power in me now that even ordinary
people could sense it.

Sense it, and do the sensible thing – move aside.

I looked round as I went in. Las was shambling after me, smiling
benignly.

Where are you, Kostya?

Where are you, Higher Vampire who has never killed for the
sake of Power?

Where are you, boy who dreams of becoming Lord of the
World, like in some Hollywood action movie?

In the same place as the vampire trying to cheat his own
destiny . . .

I will kill you.

Not 'I must kill you', not 'I can kill you', not 'I want to kill you'.
No more auxiliary verbs. I've already been through 'I must' – in
tearful soul-searching and self-justification. I've already been through
'I can' – struggling with the complexes of a third-grade magician
who has reached his ceiling. I've already been through 'I want to'
– with all those turbulent emotions: the passion, the fury, the pity.

Now I'm simply doing what I have to do.

I couldn't give a hoot for false ideals and fake goals, hypocritical
slogans and two-faced principles. I don't believe in the Light
or the Dark any longer. Light is just a stream of photons. Dark is
just the absence of Light. People are our young brothers and sisters.
The Others are the salt of the earth.

Where are you, Kostya Saushkin?

Whatever your goal is – ancient eastern artefacts or a million-strong
army of Chinese magicians – I won't let you win.

Where are you?

I stopped in the middle of the hall – the rather small hall of a
provincial airport. I thought I could sense him . . .

A heavily perspiring man carrying suitcases bumped into me, apologised
and walked on. I noted his aura in passing – an uninitiated
Other, a Light One. He was afraid of flying but he'd arrived safely
and now he'd relaxed, which was what had made him noticeable.

I wasn't interested in that right now.

Kostya?

I swung round as if someone had called my name and stared at
the door with a sign that said 'Service Entrance' and a coded lock.

A melody that no one else could hear threaded itself through
the hubbub of the airport.

He was calling me.

The buttons on the keypad lit up helpfully when I reached
my hand out towards them. Four, three, two, one. A very cunning
code . . .

I opened the door, looked round and nodded to Las, then closed
the door behind me carefully, so that it wouldn't latch shut.

Empty corridors, painted a depressing green. I moved along one
of them.

The melody grew stronger, swirling in the air, soaring upwards
and gliding back down. Like an intricate passage on a classical
guitar, supported by the subtle notes of a violin.

This was it – a genuine vampire's call, directed at me . . .

'I'm coming as fast as I can,' I muttered, turning off towards
another door with a code lock. A door banged behind me – that
was Las following me in.

A new lock, a new code. Six, three, eight, one.

I opened the door, and found myself on the apron of the airport.

A round-bellied Airbus was creeping slowly across the concrete.
Further away a Tupolev was taxiing out to the runway, its turbines
roaring.

Kostya was standing about five metres away from the door,
holding a neat little plastic briefcase – I guessed that was where
the
Fuaran
must be. Kostya's shirt was ripped, as if at some moment
it had suddenly become too small.

When he jumped off the train he must have started to transform
straight away, without taking all his clothes off.

'Hi,' said Kostya.

The music stopped, breaking off in mid-note.

I nodded.

'Hi. You flew here very quickly.'

'Flew?' Kostya shook his head. 'No . . . flying that kind of
distance as a bat is too hard.'

'Then what did you turn into? A wolf?'

This rather farcical conversation was wound up by an especially
ridiculous remark from Kostya:

'A hare. A huge grey hare. I hopped all the way . . .'

I couldn't help smiling as I pictured the giant hare running
through the market gardens, forging streams in massive leaps and
hopping over fences. Kostya shrugged:

'Well . . . it was quite funny. How are you feeling? I didn't hit
you too hard, did I? Have you still got all your teeth?'

I tried to smile as broadly as I could.

'I'm sorry about that,' said Kostya. He seemed genuinely
distressed. 'That's because it was all so sudden. How did you realise
I had the book? Because of the cocktail?'

'Yes. The spell requires the blood of twelve people.'

'How did you know that?' Kostya mused. 'There isn't any information
available on the
Fuaran
. . . but that's not important. I have
something to say to you, Anton.'

'And I've got something to say to you,' I said. 'Turn yourself
in. You can still save your own life.'

'I haven't been alive for a long time,' Kostya said with a smile.
'I'm undead. Or had you forgotten?'

'You know what I mean.'

'Don't lie to me, Anton. You don't believe it yourself. I killed
four Inquisitors!'

'Three,' I corrected him. 'Witiezslav and two on the train. The
third survived.'

'Big difference.' Kostya frowned. 'They've never forgiven anybody
even for one.'

'This is a special case,' I said. 'I'll give it to you straight. The
Higher Ones are frightened. They can destroy you, but the victory
will be too costly. So they will negotiate.'

Kostya just stared at me hard without saying a word.

'If you give back the
Fuaran
and turn yourself in voluntarily,
they won't touch you,' I continued. 'You're a law-abiding vampire.
It's the book that's to blame. The balance of your mind was
affected . . .'

Kostya shook his head:

'There was nothing wrong with my mind. Edgar didn't take
what Witiezslav said seriously. But I believed him. I transformed
and flew to the hut. Witiezslav didn't suspect a trick . . . he started
showing me the book and explaining. When I heard about the
blood of twelve people, I realised this was my chance. He didn't
even object to an experiment. He probably wanted to make sure
the book was genuine as quickly as possible. It was only when he
realised I'd become stronger than him that he dug his heels in.
But by then it was too late.'

'What's all this about?' I asked. 'Kostya, this is insanity! Why do
you want the power to rule the world?'

Kostya raised his eyebrows. He looked at me like that for a
moment and then laughed.

'What are you talking about, Anton? What power? You don't
understand a thing!'

'I understand everything,' I insisted. 'You're trying to get to
China, right? A million magicians under your control?'

'You idiots,' Kostya said, almost whispering. 'You're all idiots.
There's only one thing you ever think about . . . Power . . . I don't
want that kind of power! I'm a vampire! Do you understand? I'm
an outcast! Worse than any of the Others! I don't want to be the
most powerful outcast. I want to be ordinary! I want to be like
everybody else!'

'But the
Fuaran
won't allow you to turn an Other into a human
being . . .' I objected.

Kostya laughed. He shook his head:

'Hello! Anton, switch on! They've pumped you full of Power
and sent you here to kill me, I know that. But think first, Anton.
Understand what it is I want.'

The door squeaked behind me and Las came out. He gaped at
me in embarrassment, then squinted at Kostya.

Kostya shook his head.

'Not a good time?' Las asked, taking in the situation. 'Sorry. I'll
be going . . .'

'Stop,' Kostya said in a flat voice. 'This is a very good time.'

Las froze. I hadn't caught the note of command in Kostya's
voice, but it must have been there.

'A natural experiment,' said Kostya. 'Watch how it's done . . .'

He shook the briefcase. The locks clicked, the briefcase opened
and out flew a book, moving ponderously through the air.

The
Fuaran
.

The book really was bound in skin – it was a greyish-yellow
colour. The corners were encased in triangles of copper, and there
was a lock to prevent the book being opened.

Kostya caught the book in one hand and opened it with incredible
agility, as if simply opening a newspaper, rather than manipulating
a volume that weighed about two kilos. He let go of the
briefcase and it clattered on the concrete.

'Most of the stuff in here is just padding,' Kostya laughed. 'A
record of unsuccessful experiments. The formula's at the end . . .
it's really very simple.'

With his free hand Kostya took a metal flask out of the back
pocket of his jeans. He twisted off the top and poured a drop of
liquid straight on to the open page.

What am I waiting for?

What is he going to do?

Everything inside me was crying out – attack! While he's
distracted, strike with all your power!

But I waited, spellbound by the spectacle.

The drop of blood was disappearing from the page. Melting
away, evaporating in a brown mist. And the book . . . the book
began to sing. A strangled sound, like throat music – it sounded
like a human voice, but there was nothing intelligible in it.