Сергей Лукьяненко - Day Watch

I was left wondering for a while why he hated the Dark Ones so much.

But then, everybody hates us. Well, almost everybody. And they just don't want to believe that what we feel about them is mostly indifference-just as long as the Light Ones don't get in our way. And they do, all the time. But I suppose we get in their way too.

No one from the Night Watch bothered me. I don't think they even made any attempt to find me and question me. They must have realized that a Dark magician has no need to drink human blood. Of course, I could have done it, and given myself a chronic digestive disorder-if I hadn't been sick in disgust… I was totally absorbed in waiting for the next step up along the stairway, for when something inside me would force me to make use of magic, but apparently for that to happen required an extreme, unambiguous situation. Not just minor actions, like getting rid of the fat-faced ticket inspectors in the bus with their shaved heads, or a mantle of calm for the agitated people standing in line for metro cards when I couldn't be bothered to wait-no, all that was quite literally yesterday's level as far as I was concerned. In order to learn something new and reveal another layer of my sealed memory, in order to take possession of the knowledge that was still slumbering, I needed more serious shocks.

I had to wait for them, but not very long.

Like many other Dark Ones, I turned out to be an inveterate night owl. Since I was living among ordinary people, I couldn't completely ignore the day, but I didn't feel like resisting the al-luring call of the night either. I rose late, about midday or even later, and I only returned to the hotel at dawn.

My fourth night in Moscow was already streaked with the first hints of dawn, the blackness had already admitted the first shades of dark gray into itself, when I ran smack into the next step upward. I was strolling along deserted Izmailovsky Boulevard when I suddenly sensed the flash of a powerful magical discharge somewhere in among the buildings in the distance.

When I say "discharge," I don't mean that uncontrolled energy had simply escaped. No. The energy was discharged and then immediately absorbed, otherwise the final result would have been a banal explosion. Others transform themselves, and the world, and energy. But in the final analysis the balance of energy emitted and absorbed always amounts to zero, otherwise…

Otherwise the world simply couldn't exist. And we couldn't exist in it.

I felt something urging me to go there. Go!

So I had to go

I walked for about twenty minutes, confidently turning corners at intersections and sometimes taking shortcuts through courtyards. When I was almost there I sensed Others-they were approaching rapidly from two different directions, and at the same time I heard the sound of several automobiles. Almost immediately I picked out the house and the apartment I needed from the faceless palisade of high-rises. That was where the event had occurred that had caught the attention of the other me, still concealed somewhere in the depths of my ordinary being.

A standard five-story Khruschev-period building on Thirteenth Park Street. Rubbish containers standing along the end wall, and not a sign of the trading kiosks I was so used to seeing in the South.

Three vehicles at the entrance: a Zhiguli, a humble and very unkempt-looking station wagon, and a pampered BMW. There were actually plenty of other cars standing all around, but they were obviously parked for the night, while these had just arrived in a hurry and been dumped.

The fifth floor. At the entrance to the stairwell (the metal door, by the way, was standing wide open) I sensed powerful magical blocks, and they made me pull my shadow up from the ground and enter the Twilight.

I think the Twilight draws Power out of Others-if they don't know how to resist it, of course. Nobody told me what to do. I just started doing it instinctively, as if I'd always known how. Maybe I always had, and I just remembered when I needed to.

The blue moss that inhabits the first level of the Twilight had spread in luxurious abundance over the walls and the stairs, even the banisters. The people living in this entrance must be highly emotional if it was flourishing so well.

Here was the apartment I wanted. More powerful blocks, and the door locked even in the Twilight.

And at that point I was flung up another two steps. Overcoming a momentary weakness, I raised my own shadow from the floor again and went deeper.

I could immediately tell this was a place where not many came. There was no building. There was almost nothing at all except a dense, dark gray mist and the moons that I could vaguely make out through it. All three of them. There ought to have been a raging wind-the wind doesn't recognize any difference between the ordinary world and the Twilight-but at this level, time flowed so slowly that I could hardly feel it at all.

I began slowly falling, sinking into this mist, but I held myself up. Apparently I knew how to do that. A certain effort-as always, hard to describe and more instinctive than conscious- and I moved forward. Another effort, and I glanced out into the preceding level of the Twilight.

Everything was happening in syrupy slow motion, as if the world had sunk into a layer of transparent gray tar, and at first, sounds seemed like deep, distant peals of thunder, but I managed to adjust to their slowness. I must have set my rate of perception to the same pace, attuned myself to this new reality, and from that moment on, everything that was happening began to remind me again of the ordinary world-the world of human beings.

A narrow hallway, as they all are in those buildings. Two doors on the left-to the bathroom and the kitchen. One room farther along on the left and one on the right. The room on the right was empty. In the room on the left there were five Others and a body lying on a disheveled bed. The body of a guy about thirty: He had several ragged wounds in the area of his crotch and stomach, which immediately put to rest any idea that he could be saved. The wounds were covered with a crumpled, bloody bed sheet.

There were three Light Ones and two Dark Ones. The Light Ones were a lean young guy with a rather asymmetrical face and two acquaintances of mine-the music lover Gorodetsky and the girl shape-shifter. The Dark Ones were a plump magician with a keen, intense expression, and a gloomy individual who looked to me like an unsuccessful parody of a lizard-he was wearing clothes, but his hands and face were green and scaly.

The Others were arguing.

The Light One I didn't know was talking.

"It's the second incident this week, Shagron. And another murder. I'm sorry, but it's beginning to look like you've thrown the treaty out the window."

The Dark One glanced involuntarily at the corpse.

"We can't keep track of everybody, you know that perfectly well," he blurted out, but I didn't hear any trace of guilt or regret in his voice.

"But you undertook to warn all the Dark Ones about Clean Week! Your chief promised officially."

"We did warn them."

"Well, thank you!" The Light One clapped his hands in theatrical applause. "The result is impressive. I repeat: We, the agents of the Night Watch, officially request your cooperation. Call your chief out!"

"The chief isn't in Moscow right now," the magician replied morosely. "And, by the way, your chief knows that perfectly well, so he needn't have bothered to authorize you to request cooperation."

"Does that mean," Gorodetsky asked with the hint of a threat in his voice, "that you are refusing to provide cooperation?"

The Dark magician shook his head rather more quickly than he need have. "What do you mean, refusing? No. We're not refusing. I just don't understand what we can do to help."