Last Watch

“I understand,” I said with a nod. “But I never asked to be a Higher Magician, Boris Ignatievich. It was you who sent me after Kostya-”

“I have nothing to reproach you with and there are a lot of things I’m trying to teach you,” said Gesar. And then he added, rather off the point, “Although you did once reject me as your teacher!”

I said nothing.

“I don’t even know what to do…” Gesar drummed his fingers on the file lying in front of him. “Send you out on routine assignments? ‘A schoolgirl has seen a hobo werewolf,’ ‘A vampire has shown up in Butovo,’ ‘A witch is casting real spells,’ ‘There’s a mysterious tapping sound in my basement’? Pointless. With your Power, nonsense like that is no problem to you. You’ll never have to learn anything new. Leave you to rot behind a desk? That’s not what you want anyway. So what, then?”

“You know what to do, Boris Ignatievich,” I answered. “Give me a genuine assignment. Something that will force me to develop and mature.”

Gesar’s eyes glittered with irony.

“Sure, coming right up. I’ll organize a raid on the special vault of the Inquisition. Or I’ll send you to storm the Day Watch office…”

He pushed the file across the desk. “Read that.”

Gesar meanwhile opened an identical file and immersed himself in the study of several pages from a school workbook that was covered in writing.

Why did we have these old cardboard files with tatty lace bindings in our office anyway? Did we buy several tons of them last century, or had we picked them up a little while ago from some charitable organization providing work to home-bound invalids? Or were they produced in some ancient factory that belonged to the Night Watch in the provincial city of Flyshit?

But anyway, it was a fact that in the age of computers, photocopiers, transparent plastic folders, and elegant, robust files with convenient clips and pins, our Watch still used flaky cardboard and string. What a disgrace! We should be ashamed to look our foreign colleagues in the eye!

“It’s easier to apply protective spells that prevent long-distance sensing to files made from organic materials,” Gesar said, in answer to my unasked question. “It’s the same reason why we use only books for studying magic. When a text is typed into a computer, it doesn’t retain any of the magic.”

I looked into Gesar’s eyes, astonished.

“I never even thought about reading your mind,” the boss said. “Until you learn to control your face, I don’t have to.”

Now I could feel the magic that permeated the file: a light, defensive spell that caused no problems for Light Ones. Dark Ones could remove it with no real difficulty, but it would create a real din while they were at it.

When I opened the file-the Great Gesar had tied the laces in a neat bow-I discovered four fresh newspaper clippings that still smelled of printer’s ink, a fax, and three photographs. The clippings were in English, and I began by focusing on them.

The first clipping was a brief article about an incident in a tourist attraction that was called the Dungeons of Scotland. This establishment seemed to be a fairly banal version of the standard “house of horror.” But a Russian tourist had been killed there, according to the article, “as a result of technical faults.” The Dungeons had been closed and the police were investigating to establish whether the perso

The second article was much more detailed. It didn’t mention any “technical faults” at all. The text was rather dry, even pedantic. I grew more and more excited as I read that the man who had died, twenty-year-old Victor Prokhorov, had been studying at Edinburgh University and was the son of “a Russian politician.” He had gone to the dungeons with his girlfriend, Valeria Khomko, who had flown from Russia to see him, and died in her arms from loss of blood. In the darkness of the tourist attraction someone-or something-had cut his throat. The poor guy and his girlfriend had been sitting in a boat that was sailing slowly across the “ River of Blood,” a shallow ditch around the “Castle of the Vampires.” Perhaps some sharp piece of metal protruding from the wall had caught Victor across the throat?

When I got to this point, I sighed and looked at Gesar.

“You’ve always been good with…er…vampires,” the boss said, looking up from his papers for a second.

The third article was from the yellow press, one of Scotland ’s cheap tabloids. And of course, in this case the reporter told a terrible story of modern-day vampires who suck the blood of their victims in the dismal darkness of tourist attractions. The only original detail was the journalist’s claim that vampires did not usually suck their victims dry and kill them. But like a true Russian, the student had been so drunk that the poor Scottish vampire had got tipsy too and then got carried away.

Even though the story was so tragic, I laughed.

“The yellow press is the same everywhere the whole world over,” Gesar said without looking up.

“The worst thing is, that’s exactly the way it appears,” I said. “Apart from him being drunk, of course.”

“A pint of beer with lunch,” Gesar agreed.

The fourth clipping was from one of our Russian newspapers. An obituary. “Condolences to Leonid Prokhorov, Deputy of the State Duma, whose son has been killed tragically…”

I picked up the fax.

As I expected, it was a report from the Night Watch of the city of Edinburgh, Scotland, Great Britain.

The only slightly unusual thing about it was that it was addressed to Gesar in person, not the duty operations officer or head of the international department. And the tone of the letter was just a little more personal than is customary for official documents.

The contents were no surprise to me, though.

“We regret to inform you…the results of a thorough investigation…total loss of blood…no signs of initiation were found…searches have discovered nothing…our best men have been put on the case…if the Moscow department considers it necessary to send…give my best wishes to Olga, I’m very pleased for you, you old co…”

The second page of the fax was missing. Obviously the text on it was personal. And so I didn’t see the signature.

“Foma Lermont,” said Gesar. “Head of the Scottish Watch. An old friend.”

“Aha…” I said thoughtfully. “And so…”

Our glances met again.

“Oh no, you can ask for yourself if he’s related to the Russian poet Lermontov,” said Gesar.

“I was thinking of something else. ‘Foma’ is the Russian version of ‘Thomas,’ so Thomas Lermont?” I asked.

“And you can ask him yourself if he’s Thomas the Rhymer, too!” Gesar laughed, meaning the legendary thirteenth-century Scottish laird and poet.

“What does he mean by ‘co’-as in commander?”

“‘Co’ is…” Gesar hesitated and glanced at the page with obvious a

I looked at the photographs. A young man, the unfortunate victim, Victor. A girl, very young. His girlfriend, no need to guess there. And an older man. Victor’s father?

“The circumstantial evidence suggests a vampire attack. But why does the situation require intervention by us?” I asked. “Russians are often killed abroad. Sometimes by vampires. Don’t you trust Foma and his men?”

“I trust them. But they don’t have much experience. Scotland is a peaceful, calm, cozy country. They might not be up to the job. And you’ve had a lot of dealings with vampires.”

“Of course. But even so…Is the reason because his father’s a politician?”

Gesar frowned.

“Twenty years ago the young man’s father was identified as a potential Light Other. A rather powerful one. He declined initiation and said he wanted to remain a human being. He sent the Dark Ones packing straightaway. But he maintained a certain level of contact with us. Helped us sometimes.”