I could sense that too, so I didn’t argue.
‘Shall I drive?’ I suggested.
‘I don’t think you’re any wider awake than I am, Anton. Give me a blast, will you?’
I sighed. I don’t like using magic to drive away sleep and tiredness, to sharpen the senses. Not because of the negative consequences: there aren’t any – get a good sleep afterwards and you’re fine. That’s not the problem. The problem is that very soon you stop relying on your usual senses and start using a constant feed of magical energy, walking around hyped up all the time, like a manic-depressive in the manic phase. Everything you do goes well, and you’re a welcome guest in any company, a bright spark, a jester. But sooner or later you get used to it, you want to be even livelier, even wittier, have even more energy. You increase the flow of Power stimulating your nerves. And so it goes on, until you discover that you’re spending all the Power that you are capable of processing on maintaining an artificial level of vivacity. And you are simply afraid to stop.
Addiction to magic is no different from ordinary drug addiction. Except that only Others suffer from it.
‘Give me a blast,’ Alisher asked me again. He stopped the car, put on the handbrake, threw his head back and closed his eyes.
I put one hand on his face and the other on the top of his short-cropped head and concentrated. I imagined the stream of power moving through my body and starting to seep out through my palms, soaking into Alisher’s head, running along his nerves like cold fire, sparking across the synapses, jolting every neuron … No special spells were needed: I was working with pure Power. The most important thing here was a clear understanding of the physiological process.
‘That’s enough,’ Alisher said in a fresher-sounding voice. ‘That feels really good. I’d just like a bite to eat.’
‘Just a moment.’ I leaned back over the seat and reached into the trunk. My instincts had not misled me: there were two boxes of plastic bottles containing cola and several boxes of chocolate bars. ‘Will you have some cola?’
‘What?’ Alisher exclaimed. ‘Cola? Sure! And I’ll have some of those chocolate bars too! God bless America!’
‘Isn’t that a bit too much adulation just for inventing a sickly-sweet lemonade substitute and some highly calorific candy?’
Instead of answering, Alisher pressed a button on the in-vehicle music centre. A second later the speakers started playing a rhythmic sequence of chords.
‘It’s for the rock and roll too,’ he said imperturbably.
We sat there for a while, eating chocolate bars and washing them down with cola. All Others have a sweet tooth. Still snoring, Afandi smacked his lips and reached out his fingers that were decorated with the rings. I put a chocolate bar in his hand. Afandi munched it without waking up and carried on snoring.
‘We’ll be there at three o’clock,’ Alisher told me. ‘Are we going to wait until morning?’
‘The night is our time,’ I replied. ‘We’ll wake old man Rustam up. He doesn’t work very hard anyway.’
‘It’s strange,’ said Alisher. ‘Odd. Does he live there like a hermit, in a cave?’
‘Why do you think that …’ I started to ask. Then I pondered for a moment. ‘Maybe he grazes goats or sheep. Or he keeps bees up in the mountains. Or he has a weather station.’
‘Or an observatory for watching the stars … What was that strange ring you put on Afandi’s hand?’
‘You mean the one with the ruby? Protection against a vacuum.’
‘Very exotic,’ said Alisher, sucking on his plastic bottle. ‘I can’t remember a case of an Other being killed in a vacuum.’
‘I can.’
Alisher said nothing for a few seconds. Then he nodded and said: ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Does it still bother you?’
‘We were friends … almost. As far as a Light One and a Dark One can be.’
‘Not just a Dark One. Kostya was a vampire.’
‘He never killed anyone,’ I said simply. ‘And it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t grow up as a human being. Gennady made him a vampire.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘His father.’
‘What a bastard.’
‘Don’t be so quick to judge. The boy wasn’t even a year old when he ended up in hospital. Double pneumonia and allergies to antibiotics. Basically, the parents were told that their son wouldn’t survive. You know, there are some wonderful doctors who shouldn’t even be allowed to practise as vets, for the poor cows’ sake … “Your little boy’s going to die, prepare yourselves for that. You’re still young, you can have another child …” Of course, they didn’t have another. Kostya was Gennady’s posthumous child. After initiation vampires retain the ability to impregnate and conceive for quite a long time – it’s one of nature’s strange jokes. But they can only have one child. After that the vampire becomes sterile.’
‘Yes, that’s what I heard,’ Alisher said, nodding.
‘So Gennady had a talk with his wife … She was a human being. She knew her husband was a vampire … there are families like that. But he hadn’t killed anyone, he was a very law-abiding vampire, she loved him … Anyway, he bit her. Initiated her. Their plan was for the mother to initiate the son. But she was still metamorphosing, and the baby started dying. Gennady bit him too, and Kostya got well. That is, he died, of course. Died as a human being. But he recovered from his pneumonia. The doctor started running around, crowing that it was all due to her remarkable talent. Gennady once admitted to me that he almost went for her throat when she started hinting that the right thing to do would be to reward her for the miraculous recovery.’
Alisher was silent for a while. Then he said: ‘All the same, they’re vampires. It would have been better if the boy had died.’
‘Well, he did die,’ I said. I suddenly found this conversation disgusting. Kostya had been a very normal child, except that once a week he had to drink preserved blood. He loved playing football, reading fairy tales and science fiction, and then he had decided to study biology so that he could analyse the nature of vampirism and teach vampires how to manage without human blood.
But Alisher wouldn’t understand me. He was a true Watchman. A genuine Light One. But I tried to understand even the Dark Ones. Even vampires. To understand and forgive – or at least to understand. Forgiving was the hardest thing. Sometimes the hardest thing in the whole world.
The phone in my pocket rang and I took it out. Aha. An even grey glow.
‘Hi, Edgar,’ I said.
After a short pause Edgar asked: ‘Has your phone identified my number?’
‘No, I guessed.’
‘You’re powerful,’ Edgar replied in a strange voice. ‘Anton, I’m already in Samarkand. Where are all of you?’
‘All of us?’
‘You, Alisher and Afandi.’ The Inquisitor clearly hadn’t wasted the last hour or so. ‘Well, you’ve created a fine mess here …’
‘We have?’ I protested, outraged.
‘All right, maybe not just you,’ Edgar acknowledged. ‘But you too. Why did you take the car from the director of the market?’
‘We didn’t take it, we bought it. In accordance with the clauses concerning the need to confiscate means of transport in an emergency. Shall I recite the relevant paragraphs?’
‘Anton, cool it,’ Edgar said quickly. ‘No one’s accusing you of anything. But the situation really is pretty bleak. To cover it up, we’ll have to put out a story about the elimination of a large gang of terrorists. And you know how we hate disguising our own … our own failures as human crimes.’
‘Edgar, I understand you,’ I said. ‘But what has this got to do with us? I have personal business with an Other who doesn’t serve in the Watches. I flew here unofficially and I have a perfect right to move around the country.’