Sixth Watch, Page 3

  Her frankness was simply astounding. The kind you sometimes see in a train, when total strangers who have been brought together for a day or two on their journey get absolutely plastered, knowing that they’ll never see each other again. And people are equally frank when they know they don’t have long left to live.

  But strictly speaking, that was how things stood here too. The present Olya Yalova would disappear forever—after all, twelve hours of her life would be wiped out. And a new Olya Yalova would appear. Version 1.1. Updated and debugged.

  I didn’t say anything. It was a good thing the girl had told me about the boy. That meant I would have to . . .

  “Don’t forget to wipe his memory clean,” the girl went on. “Make him forget we had feelings for each other. And I want to forget that too.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit too harsh?” I asked.

  “He ran away. Do you understand that? He abandoned me! Left me to that monster!”

  “Olya,” I said, taking hold of her hand and hoping the gesture looked friendly, or fatherly, and not flirtatious. “A vampire’s call, and its glance and smell, affect everybody, even the very strongest person. You couldn’t help going to her. Your friend couldn’t help running away. She ordered him to run—and he ran. To be quite honest, I don’t think this is the love of your life, but don’t be too hard on the boy.”

  The girl thought for a minute and then sighed, but apparently in relief.

  “All right. Then let him think he was frightened away by a gang of hooligans. And let me think the same thing. That we both ran off, only in different directions. Let him feel ashamed anyway, and let me be a bit angry with him. Say just for a week or two . . .”

  “What guileful creatures you women really are!” I couldn’t help exclaiming. “More cunning than any vampire!”

  Olya finally relaxed completely and smiled a broad, open smile.

  “Yes, that’s the way we are!”

  “Now sleep,” I said.

  And, of course, she fell asleep.

  I left Olya, snuffling peacefully on the bed, to Ivan’s care. He could tidy her up, dress her, put her in a taxi, and send her home. He was a doctor, after all. I also told him about young Oleg, whom Olya was on her way to meet—the authority of a Fourth-Level Other was adequate to dispatch a patrol to find the boy and wipe his memory clean.

  And I went to the archives.

  A huge section of our documents and the information accumulated by the Watch has been transferred to electronic form. Of course, it can only be accessed on the internal computer network; there’s not even an inkling of any access to the Internet.

  But by far the greater part of the documents and information remains in paper form.

  As well as on papyrus and parchment, and even just a smidgen on clay.

  Gesar once told me this is a matter of security—it’s far simpler to put protective spells on physical items than on—how can I put it?—gigabytes and terabytes of information. But I think that’s just double-talk.

  Most of this information couldn’t be transferred into electronic form anyway. Or at least it would be incredibly difficult to do.

  Take, for instance, the Witches’ Spell Book. Written in children’s blood on pages made from the skin of virgins. A revolting thing, I quite agree. But you have to know your enemy . . .

  The children’s blood, we discovered, can be replaced by old people’s blood. Or adults’ blood. Or pigs’ blood. It makes no difference.

  But if you write the spells in the blood of an Other, they stop working when you read them. And the same thing happens with dogs’ or cows’ blood too.

  But chickens’ blood and cats’ blood are okay!

  And what’s more, the skin of virgins is not necessary at all; it can be replaced by any kind of skin, any kind of parchment, or any kind of paper. Even toilet paper or emery paper. Witches have so many recipes with blood, skin, tears, and parts of virgins’ bodies because most witches are old and hideous. Rejuvenating spells don’t work on them; only the camouflaging ones do. That’s why witches hate beautiful young girls and do abominable things to them whenever they get a chance. Hang-ups . . .

  But blood really is necessary. How and why is something scientists haven’t completely figured out yet. But uploading a book like that onto a computer is pointless, it won’t work. You can’t learn any spells from it.

  Or take the healers’ recipes. Light magic, no horror involved . . . as a general rule. Looking at the popular recipe for a migraine elixir, we discover that five of the seven ingredients are not written down, but are denoted by smells! That is, you have to sniff the pages of the book!

  And yes, you’re quite right, if you write in “vanilla,” “chestnut honey,” or “rye bread” instead of including the smells, the elixir won’t work.

  The healer has to sniff the ingredients as he makes up the recipe, even “powdered chalk,” which doesn’t smell of anything much. Even “spring water,” which doesn’t have any kind of odor at all.

  And by the way, on this point the scientists are almost unanimous: The smell stimulates the Others’ hippocampus and the cortex of the temporal regions, and this influences the spell in some way.

  But in what way?

  And what can we say about magical objects? Or the methods that require tactile contact? They can be described, of course, but the value of the description will only be approximate at best.

  So on the computer (which, of course, was where I started) there was only a brief information bar:

  VAMPIRES, REANIMATION (incorrect; the correct term is RENEWED PSEUDOVITALIZATION)—the process of restoring the pseudovital functions of vampires after ultimate dispersal (see DISPERSAL), final laying to rest (see LAYING TO REST), or total physical destruction.

  Described by Csaba Orosz (C. Orosz, 1732–1867), index no. 097635249843; Amanda Randy Grew Kaspersen (A. R. G. Kaspersen, born 1881), index no. 325768653166.

  I took this printout and went down to the sixth floor, where, after passing the security post (a bit more serious than the security for the infirmary—two Others), I was finally allowed into the premises of the archive.

  Helen Killoran was Irish—a rare thing for the Moscow Night Watch. Of course we have heaps and heaps of immigrants from all the republics of the former Soviet Union. We also have a Pole. And a Korean. And the interns on work-experience programs come from all over the place. But they don’t stay here for long.

  One day, about ten years ago, Killoran came to Moscow too. Black haired, easygoing, punctual, bashful, a nondrinker—basically, she was nothing at all like an Irish woman as popular culture portrays them. She was a Fifth-Level Other, which didn’t embarrass or bother her in the least. Her passion was the past and ancient times. If she hadn’t been an Other, she still would have spent her whole life in archives, and to her mind magic was merely the icing on the cake of old documents and artifacts.

  Helen Killoran adored systematizing. And for her, Moscow became a paradise that had long ago become unattainable in Europe.

  Yes, we have good archives. Nothing there disappears. Everything lies there safe and sound.

  For centuries.

  I vaguely recalled that before Killoran the archive was supervised by a jolly, affable man who had one shortcoming—he couldn’t find anything. Except by accident. And so the most a visitor could count on was an open door and a powerful flashlight, because the wiring was always on the blink and you could be left in total darkness in the center of a huge hall at any moment.

  Helen had spent one year putting the archive in order—or rather, in what we were willing to acknowledge as order. Then she had catalogued and classified everything, including the unsorted materials—which turned out to be about ninety percent. After that she informed Gesar that there was enough work here for forty or fifty years, so she would take Russian citizenship and sign a contract with the Night Watch. Gesar gaped at her and said that as a bonus the Night Watch would buy her an apartment near the office. Helen was embarra
ssed and said there was no need to buy anything, just paying the rent would be enough. Gesar reasonably explained that over fifty years the cost of renting would be enough for several apartments, after which he attached me to Helen—to help her clear all the bureaucratic hurdles.

  In my opinion, Helen shouldn’t have bothered with any of the formalities, neither the citizenship nor the apartment. She practically lived in our archive anyway, only getting out once or twice a week—the archive had been thoughtfully equipped with a small studio apartment. But I dutifully helped her deal with the Moscow bureaucracy, after which we became friends (as far as it was possible to be a friend of Helen’s, if you weren’t an ancient manuscript).

  I opened the door of the archive and walked into a huge, dark hall lined with shelving all the way from the floor right up to the immensely high ceiling. There were several dozen halls like this in the basement, but Helen always worked in the first hall; even she felt lonely down here. Clearing my throat to announce my presence, I moved through the semidarkness toward a blinding cone of light at the center of the hall. Helen was sitting at a desk that had an immense cardboard box from an old Horizon-112 TV set towering above it, and she was sorting through the school exercise books packed into the box. A single powerful lamp in a metal shade was burning above the archivist’s head. Helen was wearing worn jeans and a warm knitted jacket—the heating system couldn’t cope with the immense basement.

  Helen was genuinely delighted to see me. I was offered tea (and politely refused it—which, however, made no difference) and any help I required. By way of reciprocal politeness, I chatted with Helen about the work of Constable and Turner (my entire contribution to the minilecture was attentive listening and encouraging noises) and I drank half a mug of tea.

  I made a mental note that we should arrange archive and infirmary duty for our colleagues. They could call in occasionally with their questions and their work concerns to visit their colleagues who were dug in so deep in their lairs. There were probably others, apart from the doctor and the archivist. The scientists in the science section. The armorers . . . although no, colleagues called in to see them frequently and quite willingly. But I hadn’t visited Killoran for heaven only knew how long, it could have been a year, or even longer . . .

  We really ought to send the young people to visit our hermits. It would brighten things up for them and be good for the novice Others.

  “Why do you want such rare information, Anton?” Helen asked, glancing through my request, then immediately checked herself. “If it’s not a secret, of course.”

  My level and position in the Watch allowed me, in principle, to request any information at all without any kind of explanation. But I couldn’t see anything wrong with consulting Helen on things.

  “There’s been a series of attacks on people,” I said. “The victims are all alive.”

  “And how many are there?”

  “Seven,” I said. And I repeated: “All alive.”

  Helen raised one eyebrow, looking at me.

  “Alexander Borisov,” I said, starting to list them. “Nikolai Evgeniev. Tatyana Rumiantseva. Oxana Elizeeva. Nina Andronnikova. Gennady Davydov. Olya Yalova.”

  “You’ve given me the first names and surnames,” Helen said thoughtfully. “You haven’t given me their age, what they do, the circumstances of the attack. That’s the first strange thing. The victims include men and women, although the bloodsuckers usually specialize . . . There’s a strong sexual side to vampirism. That’s the second strange thing. All the victims are alive, which means the vampire has good self-control. But in that case, how did the Watch find out about the attacks? It’s easy enough to conceal the crime, if the victim is still alive. Simply wipe someone’s memory clean, and they’ll think up some explanation for the weakness . . . flu . . . And that’s the third strange thing.”

  I nodded. I was genuinely enjoying the conversation.

  Of course, Helen wasn’t a field operative and never had been.

  But didn’t I already tell you that she likes systematizing things?

  “And the fourth strange thing is why you’ve told me all this,” Helen concluded. “You are apparently seeking either confirmation of your own conjectures, or my advice . . . which is also strange, of course . . . Oh no! There’s a fifth strange thing too. Why on earth have you, a Higher Magician who trains novice Others, taken on this case anyway?”

  “Bravo!” I said.

  “Theory number one,” Helen continued. “You have decided . . . or Gesar has decided . . . that I’ve been stuck in the archives for too long. You yourself were once dragged out of the computer center and dispatched to patrol the streets. I don’t like this theory; I’m very fond of this archive of yours.”

  “Helen,” I said, pressing my hand to my chest. “I swear that I have no intention of dragging you out of your cozy archive into the noisy streets of Moscow.”

  “Then the second theory. You are expecting advice.” Helen took a scuffed notebook and a stump of pencil out of a pocket of her jeans. She jotted something down quickly on a clean page.

  Then she nodded.

  “Aha. There was a reason why you gave me the names. Alexander, Nikolai, Tatyana, Oxana, Nina, Gennady, Olya. Let’s take the first letters: A-N-T-O-N-G-O . . . Anton Gorodetsky. The vampire was hinting that it’s you he wants. The vampire only attacked, he didn’t kill, because he wanted the Watch to find out about the attacks. The vampire couldn’t give a damn about who he bit—a little girl or a retiree—as long as the letters matched. Obviously, Gesar understood all this too—and that’s why he assigned the investigation to you. This vampire is a vampire out of your past—right?”

  “Yes, that’s the way it is,” I said. “Only the vampire is female.”

  “Did someone remember her?” Helen asked in surprise.

  “The latest victim, Olya. The vampiress gave her a severe sucking and didn’t wipe her memory clean. But even that’s not the point.”

  Helen didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then she looked into her notepad again.

  “Why yes,” she said. “Of course. Borisov, Evgeniev, Rumiantseva, Elizeeva, Andronnikova, Davydov, Yalova: B-E-R-E-A-D-Y. Be ready.”

  “Intriguing,” I said.

  “Intriguing, you say . . .” Helen said with a nod, studying the notepad. “Be ready . . . Maybe she was trying to frighten you? Interesting. What was she going to write at the end, with these bites? Did Gesar spot it?”

  “Who knows? The boss is probably no more stupid than I am.”

  “But what do you want from me, that’s the riddle,” Helen muttered. She started chewing on her nails, without the slightest sign of self-consciousness. “I’ll find you all the materials in any case. Advice. Well, I’m flattered, if that’s it . . .”

  “Advice,” I confirmed. “You have a cast of mind that’s . . . original. If you’ve set this shambles in order, you can do the same with this data.”

  “It’s some vampiress out of your past,” said Helen. “Judging from the information you requested, you laid her to rest . . . but you fancy that she has come back.”

  “I didn’t lay her to rest. The Inquisition did. But she really was laid to rest. Gesar checked that. She’s the only female vampire who could have a bone to pick with me . . . although vampires don’t pick bones, do they? It’s logical to assume that somehow she has risen from the dead.”

  “I’ll find all the documents,” Helen murmured. “But how else can I help . . . you’re no fool, you spotted everything yourself.”

  “Just think about it a bit, Helen,” I asked her. “I don’t want to make this business a matter of public discussion.”

  “But what is there to think about here?” Helen closed her notepad. “You’ve already got everything you can out of these surnames, first names, and patronymics, haven’t you?”

  We stared at each other.

  Then Helen chuckled.

  “You! A Russian! You Russians have that unique middle name—the patronymic. And y
ou never even thought that if the first name and surname have a meaning, you ought to check . . .”

  I was no longer listening to her. I closed my eyes and remembered. In my young days, when I used to study for exams, I was certain I had a poor memory, but the abilities of an Other can work wonders . . .

  “Alexander Igorevich, Nikolai Timofeevich, Tatyana Sergeevna, Oxana Yurievich, Nina Orestovna, Gennady Ustinovich, Olya Robertovna.”

  “I-T-S-Y-O-U-R,” said Helen, telling me what I’d already realized for myself. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting to hear.

  “Be ready . . .” I said, stating the message of the first letters of the patronymics.

  “It’s your . . . Your what?” Helen continued.

  “Anton Gorodetsky, be ready, it’s your . . .” I concluded. “So that foul slime bag has something in store for me, does she? Maybe she’s decided to take revenge?”

  “Calm down,” Helen said gently. “She hasn’t mentioned your daughter or your wife, has she?”

  My rapid heartbeat slowed down again.

  “Yes. You’re right, it could have been worse,” I said. “Thanks, Helen, you really did see something that I missed.”

  “That’s because I’m not Russian and I’m looking in from the outside,” the Irishwoman said didactically. “Anton, you’re a Higher Other. And so is your wife. And your daughter’s an Absolute Other. What can one vampiress do against you? Even if she has come back to life? Even if she’s become a Higher Vampire?”

  I didn’t answer. All this was right . . . only the blatant audacity of the attacks, this challenge thrown down so openly—it all seemed to cry out: “It’s not that simple!”

  “It’s not all that straightforward,” I said.

  “Stay here, Anton.” Helen sighed. She picked up my printout and took a huge flashlight out of the desk drawer. “I’m going to get your documents.”