The girl turned towards him. And that was another sign, otherwise she would have run; after all, who wouldn't be suspicious of a man lying in wait outside their door early in the morning . . . ?
'I don't know you,' she said, in a voice that was both calm and curious.
'No,' Maxim asserted. '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 judgement.
'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 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, flinging up his hand. The dagger was already in it – a long, narrow wooden blade that had once been pale but had darkened over the last three years, gradually stained . . .
The girl didn't make a sound as the wooden blade slid into her flesh 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?
He raised his left hand to touch the simple little wooden cross that he always wore hanging on his chest. And he continued to stand there, holding the wooden dagger in one hand and clutching the cross in the other, until the girl began to change . . .
It happened fast. It always happened fast: the transformation first into an animal and then back into a human. The animal, a black panther, lay there on the pavement for a few moments, its eyes staring blankly and its fangs exposed, a victim of the hunt, tricked out in matching skirt and jacket, tights and dainty shoes. Then the process was reversed, like a pendulum making another swing.
What Maxim found extraordinary was not the rapid transformation – too late for his victim, as usual – but the fact that there was now no wound on the dead girl. That brief moment of transfiguration had purged her and made her whole. There was only a slash in 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 his role in life.
But it was still a 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, putting something cheerful and moronic – something American – in the VCR, taking a sip of cognac and just falling asleep.
But in the morning everything had changed.
Some cunning conjuror's hand had thrown a blue shawl over the city, 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 any higher than the second floor and all I did was fiddle about with the server, which had suddenly developed a number of bad habits, or install new office software for the women in accounts, even though none of us could understand what they needed it for. In the evening I went to the theatre, or to a soccer match, or 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, at the Night Watch offices, an old four-storey building rented from our own subsidiary, there wasn't a normal human to be found. 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 sales reps, had some modest magical powers. Even the plumber, a classic Moscow alcoholic, was a magician . . . and he'd have been a really good magician too, if it weren't for his drinking.
But the first two floors of the building had to look entirely normal. 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 directly controlled by our boss, but the small-fry didn't need to know that.
And the office conversation was entirely normal too. 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. There were office romances, plots were laid to unseat immediate superiors, the chances of bonuses 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 situated. 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 its ancient brick walls. Maybe some day they'll fall. But that would depend on certain developments, and there's no sign of them coming any time 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 . . .
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. Plus there was also the fact that I was the one who decided whether or not they had internet access and new games on their duty room computer, or just the official information and personnel files.
'You're late, Anton,' he said.
I checked my watch.