And that’s probably just the way it ought to be. For the Dark Ones and the Light Ones who simply live among ordinary people, possessing greater powers than they have, but with the same desires and ambitions, for those who choose life according to the rules instead of confrontation.
But once you got to the borderline, the invisible borderline where the watchmen stood between the Dark and the Light … It was war. And war is always a crime. In every war there will always be a place not only for heroism and self-sacrifice, but also for betrayal and backstabbing. It’s just not possible to wage war any other way. If you try, you’ve lost before you even begin.
And what was this all about, when you got right down to it? What was there worth fighting for, what gave me the right to fight when I was standing on the borderline, in the middle, between the Light and the Dark? I have neighbours who are vampires! They’ve never killed anyone – at least Kostya hasn’t. Other people, ordinary people, think they are decent folks. If you judge them by their deeds, they are a lot more honest than the boss or Olga.
Where was the boundary? Where was the justification? Where was the forgiveness? I didn’t have the answers. I didn’t have anything to say, not even to myself. I drifted along, went with the flow, with the old convictions and dogmas. How could they keep fighting, those comrades of mine, the Night Watch field operatives? What justifications did they give for their actions? I didn’t know that either. But their solutions wouldn’t be any help to me anyway. It was every man for himself here, just like the Dark Ones’ slogans said.
The worst thing was I could tell that if I failed to understand, if I couldn’t get a fix on that borderline, then I was doomed. And it wasn’t just me. Svetlana would die too. She’d get embroiled in a hopeless attempt to save her boss. The entire structure of the Moscow Watch would collapse.
If I didn’t get the one thing right.
I went on standing there for a while, with my hand against the dirty brick wall. Digging through my memory, chewing things over, trying to find an answer. There wasn’t one. That meant it was destiny.
I walked across the quiet little courtyard to the ‘box on stilts’. The Soviet skyscraper made me feel strangely despondent. There was no obvious reason, but the feeling was undeniable. I’d felt the same thing before, in a train passing abandoned villages and crumbling grain silos. The sense of wasted effort. A punch thrown too hard, connecting with nothing but the air.
‘Zabulon,’ I said, ‘if you can hear me …’
All was calm. The usual calm of a late evening in Moscow – car engines roaring, music playing somewhere behind the windows, empty streets.
‘There’s no way you can have covered every single possibility,’ I said, speaking to the empty air. ‘Just no way. There are always forks in the road in reality. The future isn’t determined. You know that. And so do I.’
I set out across the road without looking right or left, ignoring the traffic. I was on a mission, right?
The sphere of exclusion.
A trolleybus screeched to a halt on the rails. Cars braked and skidded round an empty space with me at its centre. Nothing else existed for me now, only that building where we’d done battle on the roof three months before, in the darkness, those bright flashes of an energy that human eyes couldn’t see.
And that power, visible to so few, was increasing.
I was right, this was the eye of the hurricane. This was where they’d been leading me all this time. Great. Now I’d arrived. So you didn’t forget that shabby little defeat after all, Zabulon? You haven’t forgotten the way you were sent down in front of your underlings.
Apart from all his exalted goals – and I understood that for him they were exalted – the Dark Magician harboured another burning desire. Once it had been a simple human weakness but now it had been increased immeasurably by the Twilight.
The desire for revenge. To get even.
To play the battle out all over again.
All you Great Magicians share this, Light and Dark – this boredom with ordinary battle, this desire to win elegantly. To humiliate your opponent. You’re weary of simple victories, you’ve had plenty of those already. The great confrontation has developed into an endless game of chess. Gesar, the great Light Magician, was playing it when he assumed another’s appearance and took such delight in taunting Zabulon.
But for me the confrontation still hadn’t turned into a game.
And maybe that was exactly where my chance lay.
I took the pistol from its holster and clicked the safety catch off. I took a deep, deep breath as if I was about to dive into water. It was time.
Maxim could sense that this time it would all be over quickly.
He wouldn’t spend all night lying in wait. He wouldn’t spend hours tracking down his prey. This time the flash of inspiration had been too bright. More than just a sense of an alien, hostile presence – a clear direction to his target.
He drove as far as the intersection of Galushkin Street and Yaroslavskaya Street and parked in the courtyard of a high-rise. He watched the black flame glimmering as it slowly moved about inside the building.
The Dark Magician was in there. Maxim could already feel him as a real person, he could almost see him. A man. His powers were weak. Not a werewolf or a vampire or an incubus. A straightforward Dark Magician. The level of his powers was so low, he wouldn’t cause any problems. The problem was something else.
Maxim could only hope and pray that this wouldn’t keep happening so often. The strain of killing the creatures of the Dark day after day wasn’t just physical. There was also that terrible moment when the dagger pierced his enemy’s heart. The moment when everything started to shudder and sway, when colours and sounds faded away and everything started moving slowly What would he do if he ever made a mistake? If he killed someone who wasn’t an enemy of the human race, but just an ordinary person?
But there was nothing he could do, since he was the only one in the entire world who could tell the Dark Ones from ordinary people. Since he was the only one who’d been given a weapon – by God, by destiny, by chance.
Maxim took out his wooden dagger and looked at the toy with a heavy heart, feeling slightly confused. He wasn’t the one who’d whittled this dagger, he wasn’t the one who’d given it the high-flown name of a ‘misericord’.
They were only twelve at the time, he and Petka, his best friend, in fact his only childhood friend and – why not admit it? – the only friend he’d ever had. They used to play at knights in battle – not for very long, mind you, they had plenty of other ways to amuse themselves when they were kids, even without all these computer games. All the kids on the block had played the game for just one short summer, whittling swords and daggers, pretending to stab at each other with all their strength, but really being careful. They had enough sense to realise that even a wooden sword could take someone’s eye out or draw blood. It was strange how he and Petka had always ended up on opposite sides. Maybe that was because Petka was a bit younger and Maxim felt slightly embarrassed about having him as a friend, the adoring way he gazed at Maxim and trailed around after him as if he was in love. It was just an ordinary moment in one of their battles when Maxim knocked Petka’s wooden sword out of his hands – his friend had hardly even tried to resist – and cried: ‘You’re my prisoner!’
But then something odd had happened. Petka had handed him this dagger and said that the valiant knight had to take his life with it rather than humiliate him by taking him prisoner. It was a game, of course, only a game, but Maxim had shuddered inside when he pretended to strike with the wooden dagger. And there had been one brief, agonising moment when Petka had looked at Maxim’s hand holding the dagger just short of his grubby white t-shirt and then glanced into Maxim’s eyes. And then he’d blurted out: ‘Keep it, you can have it as a trophy.’