The glimmering green figures on the clock flickered and changed: five in the morning. Any moment now the street-sweepers would come creeping out to work. This was an old district, prestigious; they were very strict about keeping things clean around here. It was a good thing it wasn't raining or snowing either; the lousy winter was over, it was dead and gone, and now spring was here, bringing its own problems, including the temptation to «get above himself»…
One of the doors of the nearby building slammed. The young woman who had come out stopped as she adjusted her purse on her shoulder, about ten meters away from the car. These buildings had no courtyards, they were inconvenient to work in and probably to live in as welclass="underline" What was their prestigious reputation worth if the plumbing were rotten and the meter-thick walls were covered with mildew—and it was probably haunted…
Maxim smiled gently as he climbed out of his car. His body obeyed him with no reluctance; his muscles hadn't cramped up during the night; if anything they felt stronger than ever. And that was a sure sign.
But seriously, he wondered, do ghosts really exist?
«Galina!» he shouted.
The young woman turned toward him. And that was another sign he was right, otherwise she would have run for it; after all, who wouldn't be suspicious of a man lying in wait outside the door early in the morning…
«I don't know you,» she said, in a voice both calm and curious.
«No,» Maxim agreed. «But I know you.»
«Who are you?»
«A judge.»
He pronounced the word solemnly, rolling it off his tongue. A judge. Someone who has the right to pronounce judgment.
«And just who are you intending to judge?»
«You, Galina.» Maxim was focused, intent. Everything around him seemed to be turning dark, and that was a sure sign too.
«Oh, really?» She looked him over quickly, and Maxim caught a glint of yellow fire in her eyes. «You think you'll be able to manage that?»
«Sure I will,» replied Maxim, raising up his hand. The dagger was already in it—a long, narrow blade made of wood that had once been light-colored but had become darker over the last three years, gradually stained…
She didn't make a sound as the wooden blade slid into her chest and pierced her heart.
As always, Maxim felt a momentary panic, a brief, searing surge of horror—what if he'd made a mistake this time, after all? What if?
He lifted his left hand to touch the simple little wooden cross that he always wore hanging on his chest. And he continued standing there, holding the wooden dagger in one hand and clutching the cross in the other, until the woman began to change…
It happened fast. It always happened fast: The transformation into an animal and then back into a human being. The animal, a black panther, lay there on the sidewalk for a few moments, its eyes staring blankly and its fangs exposed, a victim of the hunt, dolled up in a matching skirt and jacket, pantyhose and dainty shoes. Then the process was reversed, like a pendulum making its final swing.
What Maxim found amazing was not the rapid transformation that came too late for his victim, as usual, but the fact that there was no wound left on the body. That brief moment of transfiguration had purged her and made her whole. There was nothing but a cut on her blouse and her jacket.
«Glory be to Thee, O Lord,» Maxim whispered, looking down at the dead shape-shifter. «Glory be to Thee.»
He didn't really resent the role allotted to him.
But it was still a great burden for a man who didn't like to get above himself.
Chapter 1
That was the morning I knew spring had really arrived.
The evening before, the sky had been different, with clouds drifting over the city, and the air had been filled with the scent of a chilly, damp wind and snow that hadn't fallen yet. I'd felt like snuggling down deep into my armchair, sticking something cheerful and moronic—something American—in the VCR, taking a sip of cognac and just falling sleep.
But in the morning everything had changed.
Some cunning conjuror's hand had thrown a blue shawl over the town, running it over the streets and the squares and wiping away the final traces of winter. Even the heaps of brown snow left on the street corners and in the gutters didn't seem to have been overlooked by spring; they were an integral element of the decor. A memento.
I smiled as I walked to the metro.
Sometimes it feels really good to be human. That was the way I'd been living for a week now: When I got to work, I didn't go up any higher than the second floor, and all I did was fiddle with the server that had suddenly developed a number of bad habits, or install new office software for the gals in accounting, even though none of us could see why they needed it. In the evening I went to the theater, to a soccer match, to various small bars and restaurants. Anywhere at all, as long as it was noisy and crowded. Being human in a crowd is even more interesting than just being human.
Of course, in the Night Watch offices, an old four-story building rented from our own subsidiary, there wasn't a single normal human being to be found anywhere. Even the three old cleaning women were Others. Even the loose-mouthed young security guards at the entrance, who were there to frighten off petty gangsters and commercial salesmen, had some modest magical powers. Even the plumber, an absolutely classic Moscow alcoholic, was a magician… and he'd have been a really good magician too, if it weren't for his drinking problem.
But the first two floors of the building had to look perfectly ordinary. The tax police were allowed in here, as well as our human business partners and the thugs who provided our «protection»—the racket was actually controlled directly by our boss, but the small-fry didn't need to know that.
And the conversations people had here were perfectly mundane, too. About politics, taxes, shopping, the weather, other people's love affairs and their own. The women gossiped about the men, and we gave as good as we got. Romances sprang up; bosses were trashed; bonus possibilities were discussed.
Half an hour later I reached Sokol station and made my way up to street level. It was noisy and crowded, and the air was filled with exhaust fumes. But it was still spring.
There are plenty of districts in Moscow worse than the one where our office is. In fact, it's probably one of the best—that's not counting the Day Watch offices, of course. But then, the Kremlin wouldn't suit us, anyway: The traces of the past lie too heavy on Red Square and the ancient brick walls. Maybe someday they'll get worn away. But that would require certain conditions, and there's no sign of them coming anytime soon… no sign at all, unfortunately.
I walked from the metro; it wasn't far. The faces on every side looked friendly and welcoming, thawed by the spring sunshine. That's why I love the spring: It takes the edge off that feeling of weary helplessness. And there are fewer temptations around…
One of the security guys was smoking outside the door. He gave me a friendly nod. Thorough checks weren't part of his job description. And as it happened, I was the one who decided whether they had Internet access and new games on their computer in the duty room, or just the official information and personnel files.
«You're late, Anton,» he said.
I checked my watch.
«The boss has called everyone together in the conference room; they were looking for you.»
Strange; I wasn't usually brought in on the morning briefings. Had one of my computer networks crashed? Not likely, or they'd have dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night without a second thought, and it wouldn't have been the first time either…