EPIGRAPH
This text has been approved for distribution as conducive to the cause of Light.
—THE NIGHT WATCH
This text has been approved for distribution as conducive to the cause of Darkness.
—THE DAY WATCH
CONTENTS
Epigraph
Story One: Destiny
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Story Two: Among His Own Kind
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Story Three: All for My Own Kind
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Excerpt from New Watch
Part One: Dubious Intent
Prologue
About the Authors
Also by Sergei Lukyanenko
Back Ad
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
STORY ONE
DESTINY
PROLOGUE
THE ESCALATOR CREPT ALONG SLOWLY, STRAINING UPWARD. In an old station like this, what else could you expect? But the wind swirled like a wild thing inside the concrete pipe—ruffling his hair, tugging the hood off his head, sneaking under his scarf, pressing him downward.
The wind didn’t want Egor to go up.
The wind was pushing him to go back.
Strange, but no one else seemed to notice the wind. There was hardly anyone around—by midnight the station was already emptying. Only a few people riding down toward Egor and hardly anyone on the escalator beside him either. One person ahead of him, two or three behind. That was it.
Except, of course, for that wind.
Egor stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to look back. For a couple of minutes already, from the moment he’d stepped out of the train, he’d had the feeling of being watched. It wasn’t a frightening kind of feeling at all; it felt fascinating, a sudden, pricking sensation.
Down at the bottom of the escalator was a tall man in uniform. Not police, a soldier. Then there was a woman with a sleepy little child, clutching her hand. And another man, young, wearing a bright orange jacket, with a Walkman. He looked just about dead on his feet as well.
Nothing suspicious. Not even for a boy going home too late. Egor looked up again, to where a policeman was lounging against the gleaming handrails, dejectedly trying to spot some easy prey in this sparse stream of passengers.
Nothing to be afraid of.
The wind gave Egor one last nudge and suddenly dropped away, apparently resigned to the pointlessness of the struggle. The boy glanced back once more and started running up the moving steps as they flattened under his feet. He had to hurry. He didn’t know why, but he had to. Again he felt that pricking sensation of senseless anxiety, and a cold shudder ran through his body.
It was the wind again.
Egor slipped out through the half-opened doors and the piercing cold attacked him with renewed fury. His hair, still wet from the pool—the dryer was broken again—was instantly stiff with ice. Egor pulled the hood farther forward over his head, darted past the vendor kiosks without stopping, and hurried into the underpass. Up on the surface there were far more people, but the feeling of alarm was still there. He glanced behind him now, without slowing down, but there was no one following him. The woman with the small child was walking toward a streetcar stop; the man with the Walkman had stopped in front of a kiosk, studying the bottles; the soldier still hadn’t come out of the subway.
The boy walked faster and faster through the underpass. There was music coming from somewhere, so quiet he could hardly hear it, but incredibly soothing. The delicate trilling of a flute, the strumming of guitar strings, the chiming of a xylophone. The music was calling to him, telling him to hurry. Egor dodged past a group of people hurrying in the opposite direction, overtook a happy little drunk who was barely staggering. All his thoughts seemed to have been blown out of his head; he was almost running now.
The music was calling.
And now there were words weaving themselves into it . . . not clear yet, still too quiet to make out, but just as alluring. Egor bounded out of the underpass and stopped for a moment, gulping in the cold air. A trolley was just rolling up to the stop. He could ride just one stop, almost all the way to his house . . .
The boy set off toward the trolley, walking slowly, as if his legs had suddenly become numb. The trolley stood there for a few seconds with its doors open; then the hinged flaps swung together and it moved away from the stop. Egor watched it go with dull, glazed eyes; the music was getting louder all the time, filling the whole world, from the semi-circular lobby of the high-rise hotel to the “box on stilts”—his own house—that he could see not far away. The music was prompting him to walk along the wide, brightly lit avenue, where there were still plenty of people around at this hour. The entrance to his house was only five minutes away.
But the music was even closer . . .
When Egor had walked about a hundred meters, the hotel suddenly stopped sheltering him from the wind. The icy blast stung his face, nearly drowning out the melody that was calling to him. The boy began to stagger, almost coming to a halt. The enchantment was shattered, but the feeling of being watched was back, this time with a strong undercurrent of fear. He glanced back. There was another trolley approaching the stop. And he caught a glimpse of an orange jacket in the light of the streetlamps. The man who had ridden up the escalator with him was walking behind him, with his eyes still half-closed in the same way, but he moved with surprising speed and purpose, as if he could see Egor.
The boy started to run.
The music resumed louder than ever, breaking through the curtain of wind. He could already make out the words . . . he could, but he didn’t want to.
He should walk along the avenue, past the shops that were closed but still brightly lit, alongside the late-nighters on the sidewalk, in full view of the cars rushing by.
But Egor turned into an alleyway, to where the music was calling him.
It was almost completely dark in there; the only moving things were two shadows by the wall. Egor seemed to see them through a dense haze, as if they were lit up by some ghastly bluish glow: a young man and a young woman, very lightly dressed, as if the night air were not twenty degrees below zero.
The music rose to a final, crashing, triumphant chord; then it stopped. The boy felt his body go limp. He was covered in sweat; his legs were giving way; he wanted to sit down on the slippery, ice-covered sidewalk.
“A pretty one . . .” the girl said in a quiet voice. She had a thin face, with sunken cheeks and a pale complexion. Only her eyes seemed to be alive: black, huge, magnetic.
“You can leave . . . just a little bit . . .” the young man said with a smile. They were as alike as brother and sister, not in their features, but in some indefinable quality that they shared, as if their faces were covered by dusty, semi-transparent gauze.
“For you?” For an instant the girl turned her gaze away from Egor. The numbness eased slightly and terror flooded his mind. The boy opened his mouth, but his eyes met the young man’s and he couldn’t shout, as if he were suddenly wrapped in some cold, elastic membrane.
“Yes. You hold him!”
The girl gave a mocking snort. Turning her gaze back to Egor, she stretched
out her lips as if she were blowing a kiss. In a quiet voice she pronounced those familiar words, the ones that had been woven into the alluring music.
“Come, come . . . come to me . . .”
Egor stood there without moving. He had no strength to run away, despite all the horror, despite the scream that had burst out of his lungs and stuck in his throat. But at least he could simply stand there.
A woman walked past the end of the alley with two massive German shepherds on leashes. Walking in slow motion, as if she were moving under water, as if she were part of his terrible dream. Out of the corner of his eye, Egor saw the dogs turn sharply toward the alley, tugging at their leashes, and for a moment an insane hope flared in his soul. The German shepherds started growling uncertainly, with a mixture of loathing and fear. The woman stopped for a moment and glanced suspiciously into the alley. Egor caught her glance—indifferent, as if she were looking into empty space.
“Come on!” She tugged at their leashes, and the dogs gladly returned to her side.
The young man laughed quietly.
The woman with the dogs quickened her step and disappeared from view.
“He’s not coming to me!” the girl exclaimed. “Look, will you, look, he’s not coming!”
“Try harder,” the young man said curtly. He frowned. “Learn.”
“Come! Come to me!” the girl said, emphasizing each word. Egor was standing only two meters away, but it seemed to be important to her for him to cross that gap himself.
Then Egor realized that he had no more strength to resist. The girl’s gaze held him, binding him with an invisible elastic tether; the words summoned him and he could not help himself. He knew that he must not move, but still he took a step forward. The girl smiled, and her white, even teeth flashed. She said:
“Take off your scarf.”
He couldn’t hold out any longer. His hands trembled as he threw back his hood and pulled off his scarf without unwinding it. He stepped toward those alluring black eyes.
Something was happening to the girl’s face. Her lower jaw was stretching down, her teeth were moving, curving. He saw the flash of long fangs that were not human.
Egor took another step.
CHAPTER 1
THE NIGHT GOT OFF TO A BAD START.
It was barely even dark when I woke up. I just lay there, watching the final gleams of daylight fading away in the cracks of the blinds, thinking things over. This was the fifth night of the hunt—and there was still nothing to show for it. And I wasn’t likely to get lucky tonight either.
It was cold in the apartment; the radiators gave off hardly any heat at all. The only thing I like about winter is that it gets dark quickly, so there aren’t many people out on the streets. If not for that, I’d have dropped the whole business ages ago and left Moscow for someplace like Yalta or Sochi. It would have to be the Black Sea, not some faraway island in a warm foreign ocean: I like to hear the sound of my own native language around me . . .
Stupid dreams, of course.
It’s still too soon for me to be thinking of retiring to somewhere a bit warmer.
I haven’t earned it yet.
The telephone must have been waiting for me to wake up—it started trilling in that loathsome, nagging way it has. I fumbled for the receiver and held it to my ear—quietly, without saying a word.
“Anton, answer.”
I didn’t say anything. Larissa’s voice was brisk and focused, but already tired. She obviously hadn’t slept all day long.
“Anton, shall I put you through to the boss?”
“No, don’t do that,” I growled.
“That’s more like it. Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the same again for you today.”
“Anything new happen?”
“No, not a thing. Have you got anything for breakfast?”
“I’ll find something.”
“Okay. Good luck.”
It sounded feeble and unconvincing. Larissa didn’t have any faith in me. No doubt the boss didn’t either.
“Thanks,” I said to the dial tone. I got up and made the trip to the toilet and the bathroom. I was just about to spread toothpaste on the brush when I realized I was getting ahead of myself and put it back down on the edge of the sink.
It was completely dark in the kitchen, but of course I didn’t bother turning on the light. I opened the door of the refrigerator—the small light bulb I’d screwed out of its socket lay there freezing with the food. I looked at the saucepan with the colander sitting on top of it. Lying in the colander was a lump of half-defrosted meat. I lifted out the colander, raised the saucepan to my lips, and took a gulp.
If anyone thinks pig’s blood tastes good, then he’s wrong.
I put the saucepan with the remains of the thawed-out blood back in the refrigerator and walked through to the bathroom. The dull blue lamp hardly lightened the darkness at all. I took a long time cleaning my teeth, brushing furiously, then I gave in, made another trip to the kitchen and took a gulp of icy vodka from the refrigerator. Now my stomach didn’t just feel warm, it felt hot. A wonderful set of sensations: frost on my teeth and fire in my stomach.
“I hope you . . .” I started thinking, about the boss, but I caught myself just in time. He was quite capable of sensing even a half-formed curse. I went through into my room and started gathering together the clothing scattered all over the place. I discovered my pants under the bed, my socks on the windowsill, and for some reason my shirt was hanging on the mask of Chkhoen.
The ancient king of Korea eyed me disapprovingly.
“Why can’t you just watch over me?” I growled, and then the phone started screeching again. I hopped around the room until I found the receiver.
“Anton, was there something you wanted to say to me?” the disembodied voice asked.
“Not a thing,” I said sullenly.
“I see. Now add ‘glad to serve, your honor’ to that.”
“I’m not glad. And there’s nothing to be done about it . . . your honor.”
The boss paused for a moment:
“Anton, I really would like you to take this situation we have on our hands a bit more seriously. All right? I expect you to report back in the morning, in any case. And . . . good luck.”
I didn’t exactly feel ashamed. But I wasn’t feeling quite so irritated anymore. I put my cell phone in my jacket pocket, opened the cupboard in the hallway, and wondered for a while what else I ought to pack. I had a few novel items of equipment that some friends had given me the previous week. But I settled on the usual selection anyway—it’s fairly compact and gives pretty good all-round coverage.
Plus the mini-disc Walkman. I don’t need my sense of hearing for anything, and boredom is an implacable enemy.
Before I went out I took a long look at the staircase through the spy-hole. Nobody there.
And that was the beginning of one more night.
I rode the metro for about six hours, switching aimlessly from line to line without any plan, sometimes dozing, letting my conscious mind take a break and my senses roam free. There was nothing going down. Well, I did see a few interesting things, but they were all ordinary incidents, tame beginners’ stuff. It wasn’t until about eleven, when the metro got less crowded, that the situation changed.
I was sitting there with my eyes closed, listening to Manfredini’s Fifth Symphony for the third time that evening. The mini-disc in the player was totally eccentric; my personal selection, medieval Italian composers and Bach alternating with the rock group Alisa, Richie Blackmore, and Picnic. It’s always interesting to see which melody coincides with which event. Today it was Manfredini.
I felt this sudden cramp—it ran all the way up from my toes to the back of my head. I even hissed as I opened my eyes and scanned the subway car.
I picked the woman out right away.
Very pretty, young. In a stylish fur coat, with a little purse and a book in her hands. And with a black vor
tex spinning above her head like I hadn’t seen for at least three years!
I imagine I looked crazy, staring at her like that. The girl sensed it, took one look at me, back at me, and immediately turned away.
Try looking over your head instead!
No, of course, she’s not able to see the twister anyway. The most she could possibly feel is a slight prickling of alarm. And out of the corner of her eye she can’t get any more than the vaguest glimpse of that flickering above her head . . . like a swarm of midges swirling round and round, like the shimmering above the asphalt on a hot day . . .
She can’t see a thing. Not a thing. And she’ll go on living for another day or two, until she misses her step on the black ice, falls, and bangs her head so hard it kills her. Or ends up under a car. Or runs into a thug’s knife in the hallway . . . a thug who has no real idea why he’s killing this girl. And everyone will say: “She was so young, with her whole life ahead of her; everybody loved her . . .”
Yes. Of course. I believe it, she’s a very good person, kind. There’s weariness there, but no bitterness or spite. When you’re with a girl like that you feel like a different person. You try to be better, and that’s a strain. Men prefer to be friends with her kind, flirt a bit, share confidences. They don’t often fall in love with girls like that, but everybody loves them.
Apart from one certain person, someone who has hired a Dark Magician.
A black vortex is actually a fairly ordinary phenomenon. If I looked closely, I could make out another five or six of them hanging above other passengers’ heads. But they were all blurred and pale, barely even spinning. The results of perfectly ordinary, non-professional curses. Someone yelling after someone else: “I hope you die, you bastard.” Someone had put it more simply and forcefully: “Go to hell, will you!” And a little black whirlwind had moved across from the Dark Side, draining good fortune and sucking in energy.
But an ordinary, amateurish, formless curse lasts no more than an hour or two, twenty-four hours at most. And its consequences may be unpleasant, but they’re not fatal. That black twister hanging over the girl was the genuine article, stabilized and set in motion by an experienced magician. The girl didn’t know it yet, but she was already dead.