The Twilight Watch - By Sergei Lukyanenko Page 0,1
river, tiny lights were coming on in the tower blocks that had no courtyards. Only one in five of the beautiful lamps stretching along the quayside was lit – and that was only to humour the whim of the important man who had decided to take a stroll by the river.
'I repeat it yet again,' the man said in a quiet voice.
The water splashed against the embankment – and with it came the answer.
'It's impossible. Absolutely impossible.'
The man on the quayside was not surprised by the voice that came out of empty space. He nodded and asked:
'But what about vampires?'
'Yes, that's one possibility,' his invisible companion agreed. 'Vampires could initiate you. If you would be happy to exist as non-life . . . I won't lie, they don't like sunlight, but it's not fatal to them, and you wouldn't have to give up risotto with garlic . . .'
'Then what's the problem?' the man asked, involuntarily raising his hands to his chest. 'The soul? The need to drink blood?'
The void laughed quietly.
'Just the hunger. Eternal hunger. And the emptiness inside. You wouldn't like it, I'm sure.'
'What else is there?' asked the man.
'Werewolves,' the voice replied almost jocularly. 'They can initiate a man too. But werewolves are also one of the lower forms of Dark Others. Most of the time everything's fine . . . but when the frenzy comes over you, you won't be able to control yourself. Three or four nights each month. Sometimes more, sometimes less.'
'The new moon,' the man said with an understanding nod.
The void laughed again:
'No. Werewolves' frenzies aren't linked to the lunar cycle. You'd be able to sense the onset of the madness ten or twelve hours before the moment of transformation. But no one can draw up a precise timetable for you.'
'That won't do,' the man said frostily. 'I repeat my . . . request. I wish to become an Other. Not one of the lower Others who are overwhelmed by fits of bestial insanity. Not a Great Magician, involved in great affairs. A perfectly ordinary, rank-and-file Other . . . how does that classification of yours go? Seventh-grade?'
'It's impossible,' the night replied. 'You don't have the abilities of an Other. Not even the slightest trace. If you have no musical talent, you can be taught to play the violin. You can become a sportsman, even if you don't have any natural aptitude for it. But you can't become an Other. You're simply a different species. I'm very sorry.'
The man on the embankment laughed:
'Nothing is ever impossible. If the lowest form of Other is able to initiate human beings, then there must be some way a man can be turned into a magician.'
The dark night said nothing.
'In any case, I didn't say I wanted to be a Dark Other. I don't have the slightest desire to drink innocent people's blood and go chasing virgins through the fields, or laugh ghoulishly as I lay a curse on someone,' the man said testily. 'I would much rather do good deeds . . . and in general, your internal squabbles mean absolutely nothing to me.'
'That . . .' the night began wearily.
'It's your problem,' the man replied. 'I'm giving you one week. And then I want an answer to my request.'
'Request?' the night queried.
The man on the embankment smiled:
'Yes. So far I'm only asking.'
He turned and walked towards his car – a Russian Volga, the model that would be back in fashion again in about six months.
CHAPTER 1
EVEN IF YOU love your job, the last day of holiday always makes you feel depressed. Just one week earlier I'd been sunning myself on a nice clean Spanish beach, eating paella (to be quite honest, Uzbeki pilaff is better), drinking cold sangria in a little Chinese restaurant (how come the Chinese make the Spanish national drink better than the natives do?) and buying all sorts of rubbishy resort souvenirs in the shops.
But now it was summer in Moscow again – not exactly hot, but stifling and oppressive. And it was that final day of holiday, when you can't get your mind to relax any more, but it flatly refuses to function properly.
Maybe that was why I was glad when I got the call from Gesar.
'Good morning, Anton,' the boss began, without introducing himself. 'Welcome back. Did you know it was me?'
I'd been able to sense Gesar's calls for some time already. It was as if the ringing of the phone changed subtly, becoming more nanding and authoritative.