Of course, artifacts of that kind really ought to be kept in the Watch office. But after studying it for a week, none of the analysts had been able to discover how to read the prophecy concealed in the chalice (or even if it was really there) and the apartment of two Higher Others (actually three, if you counted Nadya) was effectively defended against any kind of intrusion.
And so, on Gesar’s suggestion, Erasmus’s chalice had been returned to Gorodetsky. It was returned without enthusiasm—the Inquisition was very displeased that Anton had not tried to summon them to detain Arina. But Gesar had come up with a convincing argument: Erasmus might have tuned the chalice in some way so that the prophecy could only be revealed to Gorodetsky.
Gesar could always come up with a convincing argument if he really wanted to.
Anton looked at the chalice for a while, then opened the cupboard and picked it up. He held it to one ear, then the other. Then he walked into the kitchen, splashed some cognac into the chalice, and drank it.
Naturally, the prophecy was not revealed.
“Daddy?”
Anton was standing by the window with the chalice, lost in thought, and he hadn’t noticed that Nadya had come back from school.
“What, my love?”
“Did you . . .” Nadya sniffed demonstratively, but she asked diplomatically: “Did you part the clouds?”
“I admit it. Just a little bit.”
“I noticed.”
Nadya shifted from one foot to the other at the door. She either wanted to ask him about something or she had something to tell him. Anton looked at his daughter and suddenly—completely out of the blue—he realized that his daughter was not completely a child any longer, that she was already treading the mysterious path that leads from childhood to youth, the path on which talking dolls, teddy bears, and beloved parents are left behind, abandoned and forgotten . . .
Nadya had only just stepped onto this path, but there would be no return from it, there could not be . . .
“Did you want to ask me something?” said Anton.
“Daddy, that chalice thing . . . I touched it too.”
Anton nodded, realizing it wasn’t physical touch that was meant.
“I think there’s something there. But it’s really well hidden: you can’t get it out, no matter how cunning or strong you are.”
“If cunning or strength was enough, the Inquisition would already have understood everything,” Anton said with a nod.
“I think there’s some very clever release mechanism,” Nadya went on, brightening up. “You have to do something that you would never ever think of. That you wouldn’t ever do. And then the prophecy will be revealed.”
Anton looked at the chalice in his hand.
Then he nodded again.
“In that case, we’ll probably never find out.”
“Are you upset?”
“No,” said Anton. “Not really. That is, not at all.”
Chapter 1
HE WAS A FINE YOUNG MAN, ONE OF THOSE WHO HAD COME into the Watch the year before, and was dreaming of becoming a field operative. An honest Fourth-Level, with every chance of advancing further. His name was Alexander—or Sasha—and only recently he had been studying at the Moscow Aviation Institute and dreaming of becoming a space-flight engineer. People like that only became Light Ones, because in 2012 in Russia only a complete child or a holy fool could dream of becoming a cosmonaut.
“Anton Sergeevich”—he was trying hard to speak calmly and collectedly, but there was still a slight tremble in his voice—“are you certain they’ll come here?” I shrugged, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit up, and offered one to Sasha, taking no notice of his grimace of disapproval. He started fidgeting, then reached uncertainly for a cigarette.
I pulled the pack away.
“Don’t. First, never smoke. Second, never do anything that authority figures suggest if you don’t like it. If I jump off the bridge, will you do the same?”
“If necessary, I will!” Sasha declared resolutely.
I looked down into the gray water of the river Moscow with the lighted street lamps reflected in it (in Moscow the stars in the sky aren’t often visible). I nodded.
“That’s always the most important thing, understanding whether it’s necessary or not . . . Sasha, they’ll come here, because this is where the Call’s directed. When I was a little bit older than you, but probably not any stronger, it was very hard for me even to sense the vampire Call and to follow it. But now I can do a little bit more . . . and I know that the vampire is walking along the Bersenevskaya Embankment, and the girl is walking along the Prechistenka Embankment. Just recently it has become highly fashionable among vampires to take their victim on a bridge, then throw the body into the water. By the time it’s fished out, no one can tell what the person died of.”
“Why can’t they tell?” Sasha asked indignantly. “What about the loss of blood? And the marks from the fangs?”
“Just think about it,” I said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “You’re a forensic pathologist. They bring you a body fished out of the water, considerably damaged, battered against the riverbank or the supports of a bridge . . .”
Sasha started turning pale. He was still young. A good lad, but young . . .
“Even if you notice that there are small wounds of some kind on the body and there is almost no blood in it, what are you going to think? That there are vampires walking the streets of Moscow? Or that some young fool in love leapt into the water and spiked herself on a piece of metal as she fell?”
“I would consider all the possibilities,” Sasha decided.
“That’s why you’re in the Watch,” I said.
Sasha paused while he glanced vigilantly to the left and the right. Then he asked timidly: “Won’t the church stop them?”
I glanced at the massive, attractively illuminated building and shook my head.
“Not this one, it won’t stop them. In general vampires aren’t afraid of religion—if they believed in God, they wouldn’t have become vampires. But you’re right in the sense that a genuine church, a shrine, can protect the victim. If it’s close by and the victim believes. Do you understand? It doesn’t frighten the vampire, it protects the victim.”
“I think I understand,” said Sasha, nodding thoughtfully. “But why won’t this one help?”
“There are many factors,” I replied evasively.
Sasha stood there, fiddling with a little lock dangling on the railings of the bridge. A funny habit that modern lovers have—come to the bridge, kiss, hang up a lock—and it’s as if they have locked up their love.
But love shouldn’t be locked up. That’s not what it’s given to us for.
“I can sense him,” Sasha exclaimed excitedly. “He’s coming! From the left!”
“I know,” I said.
“He won’t . . .”
“He won’t sense that we’re Others and he won’t even see what we really look like,” I reassured him—without telling him that instead of me the vampire would see a skinny young guy with an earring in one ear, and instead of Sasha he would see a dejected girl. A standard sight for this spot—lovers who have fallen out.
“I can sense the girl too,” Sasha said with relief. “There she is, walking along . . . why, she’s almost a child!”
I turned my head slightly. The girl walked past us, gazing blindly straight ahead, and I agreed: “Yes, only fourteen or fifteen. That’s bad. If she was ten . . .”
“What’s bad about it?” Sasha asked in amazement.
Hadn’t he done his lessons? Did he really not remember that licenses were issued . . .
“They’ve disappeared!” Sasha exclaimed excitedly.
I myself saw the vampire, who looked as young as my partner, take a step towards the girl and smile—his fangs had not extended yet, there was just a faint hint . . . and they both disappeared.
“Let’s go,” I said, pitching my cigarette end over the parapet into the water with a snap o
f my fingers. I sensed my shadow rather than saw it—and stepped into it.
Cold. The usual piercing cold of the Twilight. The world around was veiled in gray and slowed down, sounds became viscous, lingering, and distant. Underfoot there was an uninterrupted covering of blue moss. Our feet sank into it like an expensive carpet.
The vampire was standing a few steps away from us, very young and handsome, aristocratically pale. He was genuinely young, too, not just disguising himself as youthful: he was the real thing—otherwise his Twilight image as an Other would have been quite different.
The vampire was standing there, holding the girl and kissing her on the lips. Kissing, not biting. Out of the corner of his eye he looked at me and at Sasha, who entered the Twilight clumsily behind me.
“Night Watch—everyone leave the Twilight,” I said in a humdrum voice.
I was really hoping that the vampire would expose his fangs and throw himself at me. Or make a run for it. Or start shouting that he hadn’t done anything wrong, he’d only kissed a pretty girl . . .
The vampire stopped kissing the girl and carefully set her aside—she froze like a doll. Then, with a note of resentment in his voice, he asked: “What is the problem here?”
“Anton Gorodetsky, Night Watch of the City of Moscow,” I said, already understanding everything. “Show me your registration.”
“Well, good evening,” the vampire said politely, unbuttoning his shirt, through which I could see the blue lines of a registration mark. “Pleased to meet you, Anton. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Denis Liubimov, vampire, Sixth-Level,” I said, reading from the mark. “You are under arrest for unlicensed contact with a human being.”
“Why do you assume it’s unlicensed?” Denis asked. “Here!”
A thin sheet of “parchment paper” unfurled in his hand. I could have spent a long time drearily checking all the numbers, signatures, seals and magical signs . . . Only I could see perfectly well that the license was genuine.
“She’s not fifteen yet,” I said for some reason.
“And I’m twenty,” Denis said. “Licenses are issued beginning from the age of twelve, if there are no Others among the immediate relatives. It’s all legal.”
Sasha started breathing heavily behind me.
“It’s your right,” I said in an absolutely flat voice. I looked down at my feet—and the blue moss stirred as if someone had splashed petrol on it and set it on fire. “But you are really very young, Denis. I don’t dispute your rights, but I would like to remind you that many vampires live for hundreds of years without using their licenses to hunt. Instead you can be granted various kinds of privileges under the terms of agreement number sixty-four, article seventeen, of the third of July—”
“I have read and signed all the required documents, I know my rights and obligations,” the vampire said politely. “I can confirm once again that everything will be done as humanely as possible, painlessly and quickly. And now, gentlemen of the Watch, I ask you . . . please leave the Twilight!”
“Why?” Sasha suddenly exclaimed. “Tell me why, you ugly vampire scum!”
I swung round and grabbed Sasha firmly by the shoulder. The last thing we needed was a complaint from a vampire to the Day Watch about unprovoked insults and discrimination on the grounds of nutritional preferences.
But this was a modern vampire—young, polite, and restrained.
“Because such are the laws of nature,” he explained amiably. “Because people constantly take great pleasure in devouring each other. Most often in a figurative sense, but far more cruelly and painfully than vampires or werewolves. I did not choose my destiny, I did not choose my way of life—or death, if you prefer. But I will not pretend to be a sheep when I am a wolf. So now leave us . . . The Call is weakening, the girl could come round and become frightened, and you will be to blame!”
“Remember one thing,” I said without turning away. “You may be a wolf, but we are wolfhounds.”
I was already on my way out of the Twilight, dragging Sasha along, when I heard a shout from behind me: “My father kept an Irish wolfhound, a fine dog. Only they don’t live long.”
I had to grab hold of Sasha and thrust him bodily against the parapet, otherwise he would have gone dashing back into the Twilight.
“Why he, he . . .” the young watchman fumed.
“He mocked us and provoked us, especially you,” I said. “Calm down. He’s within his rights.”
“But now he’ll kill the young girl!”
“Yes, most likely,” I said. I took out a cigarette and lit up. “Do you know how many people are killed in Moscow in a single night? And, by the way, most of them are killed by other humans, not by Others.”
“But—”
“We’re not knights in search of a damsel in distress,” I said.
“We’re police! We guard and protect!”
“No, we’re not even police. We’re bureaucrats who ensure the observance of laws that we don’t even like. We’re dogs who guard the herd against the wolves, but we don’t bite the shepherds who cook kebabs in the evenings. Calm down.”
Alexander took a step back, staring at me in horror. Then he shook his head and said with genuine revulsion:
“I don’t believe it. Honestly, I just don’t believe it! You, Anton Gorodetsky . . . you’re a hero, you’ve done so much . . . they told us about you in our classes, I watched the training films about how you—”
“The training films have actors in them,” I said. “And in the classes they tell you legends.”
There was a rustling sound behind my back. The girl’s limp body appeared in midair, hung there for a second, then flew over the parapet and hurtled down towards the water.
A second later the vampire appeared, looking pink-cheeked, cheerful, and handsome. With a slight inclination of the head, as if he was saying goodbye, he swung round and dashed away from us across the bridge at an incredible speed.
Below us, in the cold, dirty water of the river Moscow, there was a barely audible splash.
Sasha stared at me, glassy-eyed.
“Remember, I told you the important thing is to understand whether it’s necessary to jump or not?” I asked.
Sasha didn’t answer.
“Well, that’s the entire problem here,” I explained. I spat the cigarette over the parapet—and jumped after it.
The river struck my legs like repulsive, heavy meat jelly that instantly liquefied, turning into icy autumnal water. I went right under, opened my eyes, and looked at the lights shining through the water. If I didn’t look too hard, I could have taken them for stars . . .
The girl’s body was slowly sinking quite near me. I had already made two broad strokes when the sound of a sharp blow struck my ears—another body had hit the water.
“Are you stupid?” I asked, once I was sure that Sasha had stopped coughing up water. “Why did you jump, if you can’t swim?”
“But you, you said . . .” he groaned, sitting up.
“What did I say?”
“That you . . . have to . . .”
“That you always have to understand what you’re doing,” I reminded him pitilessly. “You’re a Magician. An Other. A Light One. So you should be especially ashamed of being a fool!”
I had dragged Sasha and the girl through the water against the current and out onto the bank at a spot where there weren’t many people—thankfully, the abilities of an Other allowed me to perform tricks like that. We were sitting on the dirty embankment, beside the car park in front of the monstrously ugly statue of Columbus, to which Peter the Great’s head had been attached. Peter-Christopher gazed contemptuously over our heads into his own bronze-yellow distance.
“The girl . . .” Sasha groaned.
“Lying over there,” I said, nodding in her direction. “I dragged you both out. Thanks, you were a great help . . .”
“Is she alive?” Sasha asked hopefully.
“She’s not dead,” I said, af
ter glancing at her aura.
“What?” exclaimed Sasha, finally sitting up properly and looking round. “That bastard—”
“Could have finished her off completely. But I managed to nettle him, with your help. So she isn’t dead—she’ll be a vampire.”
A somber-faced pair walked by—a solid-looking man in a suit and tie and an even more sturdily built man with a bull-neck, wearing a suit slightly too large for him. I automatically extended the Sphere of Inattention to cover the poor girl, but even so the owner of the powerful neck turned his head and slipped his hand in under the flap of his jacket. Good bodyguards are like that—they can sense us Others . . .
“What shall we do?” asked Sasha.
“First, get dry,” I said. “Do you remember the spells? Well done! Second, get up, it’s dirty and cold here, we’re still young men, we don’t want prostate problems. Third, I’ll go home, get washed, and sleep.”
“What about me?” Sasha asked in a quiet voice.
“You’ll stay here and wait for the girl to come round. Call the Day Watch . . . say ‘Situation six, no complications.’ If you don’t remember the number or you’re too squeamish to talk with Dark Ones, ask our operations officer. Is your mobile okay?”
“It’s protected . . .”
“Smart boy. Before the Dark Ones arrive—and they won’t hurry—have a talk with the girl. Explain that she has been bitten by a vampire, that now she will also become—essentially she already has become—a vampire. Well, all the rights and obligations . . . You hand her over to the Dark Ones, and they’ll find a teacher for her. That Denis, for instance. That’s all, after that your work’s over.”
I got up and shook myself down. My clothing gave off clouds of steam that smelled of rotting wood and oil. It was a good job I was wearing my windbreaker: you couldn’t clean a good suit after the river Moscow’s water, not even with magic . . .
The Mercedes with the boss and his bodyguard in it was already trundling out of the car park. I raised my hand, transmitting a light command. Remoralization or the Breath of Teresa wouldn’t do the trick here.