Sergei Lukyanenko: Nightwatch

«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.

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 vortex 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…«