“There’s such a thing as the television,” the bird whispered.
Darkness and Light! I’d been certain my thoughts were safely concealed.
“Experience of life is an excellent substitute for vulgar telepathy . . . a long experience of life,” Olga went on slyly. “Your thoughts are closed to me, Anton. And anyway, you’re my partner.”
“I wasn’t really . . .” I gave up. It was stupid to deny the obvious. “And what about the boy? Are we just dropping the assignment? It’s not all that serious . . .”
“It’s very serious,” Olga exclaimed indignantly. “Anton, the boss has admitted that he acted wrongly. He’s given us a head start, and we’ve got to make the most of it. The girl-vampire is focused on the boy, don’t you see? For her he’s like a sandwich she never got to eat; it was just grabbed right out of her mouth. And he’s still on her leash. Now she can lure him into her lair from any side of the city. But that gives us an advantage. Why go looking for a tiger in the jungle, when you can tether a little goat out in a clearing?”
“Moscow’s just full of little goats like that . . .”
“This boy is on her leash. She’s an inexperienced vampire. Establishing contact with a new victim is harder than attracting an old one. Trust me.”
I shuddered, trying to shake off a foolish suspicion. I raised my hand to stop a car and said somberly:
“I trust you. Absolutely and completely.”
CHAPTER 4
THE OWL EMERGED FROM THE TWILIGHT THE MOMENT I stepped inside the door. It launched into the air—for just an instant I felt the light prick of its claws—and headed for the refrigerator.
“Maybe I ought to make you a perch?” I asked, locking the door.
For the first time I saw how Olga spoke. Her beak twitched, and she forced the words out with an obvious effort. To be honest, I still don’t understand how a bird can talk. Especially in such a human voice.
“Better not, or I’ll start laying eggs.”
That was obviously an attempt at a joke.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” I told her, to avoid complications. “I was trying to lighten things up too.”
“I understand. It’s all right.”
I rummaged in the refrigerator and discovered a few odd bits and pieces. Cheese, salami, pickles . . . I wondered how forty-year-old cognac would go with a lightly salted cucumber? They’d probably find each other’s company a bit awkward. The way Olga and I did.
I took out the cheese and the salami.
“I don’t have any lemons, sorry.” I realized just how absurd all these preparations were, but still . . . “At least it’s a decent cognac.”
The owl didn’t say anything.
I took the bottle of Kutuzov out of the drawer in the table that I used as a bar.
“Ever tried this?”
“Our reply to Napoleon?” the owl asked with a laugh. “No, I haven’t.”
The situation just kept getting more and more absurd. I rinsed out two cognac glasses and put them on the table, glanced doubtfully at the bundle of white feathers, at the short, crooked beak.
“You can’t drink from a glass. Maybe I should get you a saucer?”
“Look the other way.”
I did as she said. There was a rustling of feathers behind my back. Then a faint, unpleasant hissing sound that reminded me of a snake that’s just been woken up or gas escaping from a cylinder.
“Olga, I’m sorry, but . . .” I said as I turned around.
The owl wasn’t there anymore.
Sure, I’d been expecting something like this. I’d been hoping she was allowed to assume human form sometimes at least. And in my mind I’d drawn this portrait of Olga, a woman imprisoned in the body of a bird, a woman who remembers the Decembrist uprising. I’d had this picture of Princess Lopukhina running away from the ball. Only a bit older and more serious, with a wise look in her eyes, a bit thinner . . .
But the woman sitting on the stool was young; in fact, she looked really young. About twenty-five. Hair cut short like a man’s, dirt on her cheeks, as if she’d just escaped from a fire. Beautiful, with finely molded, aristocratic features. But that dirty soot . . . that crude, ugly haircut . . .
The final shock was the way she was dressed.
Dirty army trousers in the 1940s style, a padded jacket, unbuttoned, over a dirty-gray soldier’s blouse. Bare feet.
“Am I beautiful?” the woman asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, you are,” I replied. “Light and Darkness . . . why do you look that way?”
“The last time I assumed human form was fifty-five years ago.”
I nodded.
“I get it. They used you in the war.”
“They use me in every war,” Olga said with a sweet smile. “In every serious war. At any other time I’m forbidden to assume human form.”
“There’s no war on now.”
“Then there’s going to be one.”
She didn’t smile that time. I restrained my oath and just made the sign to ward off misfortune.
“Do you want to take a shower?”
“I’d love to.”
“I don’t have any woman’s clothes . . . will jeans and a shirt do?”
She nodded. She got up—moving awkwardly, waving her arms around in a funny way and looking down in surprise at her own bare feet. But she walked to the bathroom like it wasn’t the first time she’d taken a shower at my place.
I made a dash for the bedroom. She probably didn’t have much time.
A pair of old jeans one size smaller than I wear now. They’ll still be too big for her . . . A shirt? No, better a thin sweater. Underwear . . . hmm. Hmm, hmm, hmm.
“Anton!”
I piled the clothes into a heap, grabbed a clean towel, and dashed back. The bathroom door was open.
“What kind of faucet is this?”
“It’s a foreign import, a ball mechanism . . . just a moment.”
I went in. Olga was standing naked in the bath with her back to me, turning the lever of the faucet left and right.
“Up,” I said. “You lift it up to get pressure. Left for cold water, right for hot.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
She wasn’t even slightly embarrassed. Not surprising, considering her age and her rank . . . even if she no longer held one.
But I felt embarrassed. So I tried to act unfazed.
“Here are the threads. Maybe you can pick something out. That is, if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Anton . . .” Olga looked at me. “Take no notice. I’ve spent eighty years in a bird’s body. Hibernating most of the time, but I’ve still had more than enough.”
Her eyes were deep, fascinating. Dangerous eyes.
“I don’t think of myself as a human being, or an Other, or a woman any longer. Or as an owl, either, come to that. Just . . . a bitter, old sexless fool who can sometimes talk.”
The water spurted out of the showerhead. Olga slowly raised her arms and turned around, reveling in the sensation of the firm jets.
“Washing off the soot is more important to me than . . . the embarrassment of an attractive young man.”
I swallowed the “young man” without any arguments and left the bathroom. I shook my head, picked up the cognac, and opened the bottle.
One thing at least was clear: She was no werewolf. A werewolf wouldn’t have kept the clothes on its body. Olga was a magician. A female magician maybe two hundred years old who’d been punished eighty years ago by being deprived of her body but still hoped for a chance to redeem herself. She was a specialist in conflicts involving force, and the last time she’d been used for a job had been about fifty years earlier . . .
That was enough information to search the database in the computer. I didn’t have access to the complete files; I wasn’t that senior. But fortunately the top management had no idea how much information an indirect search could yield.
Provided, of course, that I really wante
d to find out who Olga was.
I poured the cognac into the glasses and waited. Olga came out of the bathroom about five minutes later, drying her hair with a towel. She was wearing my jeans and sweater.
I couldn’t say she was totally transformed . . . but she was definitely looking way more attractive.
“Thanks, Anton. You’ve no idea how much I enjoyed . . .”
“I can guess.”
“Guessing’s not enough. That smell, Anton . . . that smell of burning. I’d almost got used to it after half a century.” She sat down awkwardly on a stool and sighed. “It’s not good, of course, but I’m glad this crisis is happening. Even if they don’t pardon me, for a chance to get washed . . .”
“You can stay in this form, Olga. I’ll go out and buy some decent clothes.”
“Don’t bother. I only have half an hour a day.”
Olga screwed up the towel and tossed it onto the windowsill. She sighed:
“I might not get another chance to take a shower. Or drink cognac . . . Your health, Anton.”
“Your health.”
The cognac was good. I took a sip and savored it, despite the total muddle in my head. Olga downed it in one and pulled a face, but she declared politely:
“Not bad.”
“Why won’t the boss let you assume your normal form?”
“That’s not in his power.”
Clear enough. So it wasn’t the regional office that had punished her, but the higher authorities.
“Here’s to your success, Olga. Whatever it was that you did . . . I’m sure your guilt must have been expiated by now.”
The woman shrugged.
“I’d like to think so. I know people find me easy to sympathize with, but the punishment was just. Anyway, let’s get down to serious business.”
“Okay.”
Olga leaned toward me across the table and spoke in a mysterious whisper:
“I’ll be honest with you: I’ve had enough. I’ve got strong nerves, but this is no way to live. My only chance is to carry through an assignment so important that our superiors will have no option but to pardon me.”
“Where can you find a mission like that?”
“We already have it. And it consists of three stages. The boy—we protect him and then bring him over to the side of the Light. The girl-vampire—we destroy her.”
Olga’s voice sounded confident and suddenly I believed her. Protect one, destroy the other. No problem.
“But that’s only the small change, Anton. An operation like that will get you promoted, but it won’t save me. The really important part is the girl with the vortex.”
“They’re already dealing with her, Olga. They’ve taken me . . . us off the assignment.”
“Never mind that. They won’t be able to handle it.”
“Oh no?” I asked ironically.
“They won’t. Boris Ignatievich is a very powerful magician. But not in this area.” Olga half-closed her eyes in a mocking smile. “I’ve been dealing with Inferno eruption breaches all my life.”
“So that’s why it’s war!” I exclaimed, catching on.
“Of course. You don’t get sudden eruptions of hatred like that during times of peace. That son of a bitch Adolf . . . he had plenty of admirers, but he would have been incinerated in the very first year of the war. And the whole of Germany with him. The situation with Stalin was a different case, adoration on a monstrous scale like that is a powerful shield. Anton, I’m a simple Russian woman . . .”—the smile that flitted across Olga’s face showed what she really felt about the word “simple”—“and I spent all the last war shielding the enemies of my own country against curses. For that alone I deserve to be pardoned. Do you believe me?”
“I believe you.” I got the impression she was already getting tipsy.
“It’s lousy work . . . we all have to go against our human nature, but going that far. . . . Anyway, Anton, they won’t be able to handle it. I . . . can at least try, though even I can’t be absolutely certain of success.”
“Olga, if this is all so serious, you should put in a report . . .”
The woman shook her head and straightened out her wet hair.
“I can’t. I’m forbidden to associate with anyone except Boris Ignatievich and my partner on the assignment. I’ve told him everything. All I can do now is wait. And hope that I’ll be able to deal with this—at the very last moment.”
“But doesn’t the boss understand all that?”
“I think he understands it all very well.”
“So that’s the way . . .” I whispered.
“We were lovers. For a very long time. And we were friends too, something you don’t find so often. . . . Okay, Anton. Today we solve the problem of the boy and the crazed vampire. Tomorrow we wait. We wait for the Inferno to erupt. Agreed?”
“I have to think about it, Olga.”
“Fine. Think. But my time’s up already. Turn away.”
I didn’t have time. It was probably Olga’s own fault. She’d miscalculated how much time she had left.
It was a genuinely repulsive sight. Olga shuddered and arched over backward. A spasm ran through her body and the bones bent as if they were made of rubber. Her skin split open, revealing the bleeding muscles. A moment later, and the woman had been transformed into a formless, crumpled bundle of flesh. And the ball kept shrinking, getting smaller and smaller and sprouting soft, white feathers . . .
The polar owl launched itself off the stool with a cry that sounded half-human, half-bird and fluttered across to its chosen place on the refrigerator.
“Hell and damnation!” I exclaimed, forgetting all the rules and instructions. “Olga!”
“Isn’t it lovely?” The woman’s voice was gasping, still distorted by pain.
“Why? Why like that?”
“It’s part of the punishment, Anton.”
I reached out my hand and touched one outstretched, trembling wing.
“Okay, Olga, I agree.”
“Then let’s get to work, Anton.”
I nodded and went out into the hallway. I opened the cupboard where I kept my equipment and moved into the Twilight—otherwise you simply can’t see anything in there except clothes and a load of old junk.
A light body settled onto my shoulder.
“What have you got?”
“I discharged the onyx amulet. Can you recharge it?”
“No, I’ve been deprived of almost all my powers. All they left me is what’s required to neutralize the inferno. And my memory, Anton . . . they left me my memory. How are you going to kill the girl-vampire?”
“She’s not registered,” I said. “I’ve only got the old folk methods.”
The owl gave a screeching laugh.
“Are poplar stakes still popular?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Right. Because of your friends?”
“Yes. I don’t want them to shudder every time they step inside the door.”
“What, then?”
I took a pistol out of a hollow gouged out in the bricks and squinted sideways at the owl—Olga was studying the gun.
“Silver? Very painful for a vampire, but not fatal.”
“It has explosive bullets.” I slid the clip out of the Desert Eagle. “Explosive silver bullets. Forty-four caliber. Three hits and a vampire’s totally helpless.”
“And then?”
“Traditional methods.”
“I don’t believe in technology,” Olga said doubtfully. “I’ve seen a werewolf regenerate after being torn to pieces by a shell.”
“How long did it take to regenerate?”
“Three days.”
“Well, there you are then.”
“All right, Anton. If you have no faith in your own powers . . .”
She was disappointed, I realized that. But then I was no field operative. I was a staff worker assigned to work in the field.
“Everything will be fine,” I reassured her. “Trust
me. Let’s just focus on finding the bait.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
“This is where it all happened,” I told Olga. We were standing in the alley. In the Twilight, of course.
The occasional passersby looked funny skirting around me when they couldn’t see me.
“This is where you killed the vampire.” Olga’s tone of voice couldn’t possibly have been more brisk. “Right . . . I understand. You did a poor job cleaning up the garbage . . . but that’s not important . . .”
As far as I could see, there wasn’t a trace left of the departed vampire. But I didn’t argue.
“The girl-vampire was here . . . you hit her with something here . . . no, you splashed vodka on her . . .” Olga laughed quietly. “She got away . . . Our operatives have completely lost their touch. The trail’s still clear even now!”
“She changed,” I said morosely.
“Into a bat?”
“Yes. Garik said she did it at the very last moment.”
“That’s bad. This vampire’s more powerful than I was hoping.”
“She’s completely wild. She’s drunk living blood and killed. She has no experience, but plenty of power.”
“We’ll destroy her,” Olga said sternly.
I didn’t say anything.
“And here’s the boy’s trail.” There was a note of approval in Olga’s voice. “Yes indeed . . . good potential. Let’s go and see where he lives.”
We walked out of the alley and set off along the sidewalk. The houses surrounded a large inner yard on all sides. I could sense the boy’s aura too, but it was very weak and confused: He walked around here all the time.
“Straight ahead,” Olga commanded. “Turn left. Farther. Turn right. Stop . . .”
I stopped facing a street with a streetcar crawling slowly along it. I didn’t emerge from the Twilight yet.
“In that building,” Olga told me. “Straight ahead. That’s where he is.”
The building was a huge monster, an immensely tall, flat slab set on tall legs or stilts. At first glance it looked like some gigantic monument to the matchbox. Look again and you could see it was an expression of morbid gigantomania.
“That’s a good house for killing in,” I said. “You could go insane in there.”
“Let’s try both,” Olga agreed. “I’ve got plenty of experience.”