Chapter 9 Chapter 1
It wasn't until the rhythmic sound of the wheels of the train that I calmed down completely.It wasn't - it wasn't quite quiet yet.You try to calm down here and see!But I can think about things in relation after all.
I wasn't scared when the guy who came out of the park broke the bushes and came at me.No fear at all.I do not understand at all now how I found the right words then.But later, when I reached the square full of fixed-line taxis parked here overnight, my staggering steps probably startled many people.When your knees are weak, try walking around steadily!
It's ridiculous.The Night's Watch... what am I trying to say?The fellow immediately scrambled back with a howl, and crawled into the bushes.
I took another sip of the beer, trying to figure out what was going on for the first time.
And just like that, I walked out of the house...
stop.
At a loss, I put the beer bottle on the small table.Maybe, I look silly now, but no one is looking at me—I'm the only one in the car.
stop.
It dawned on me that I had no memory of my home at all.
In short, I don't remember anything from my past life.The memory starts from that wet park in winter, from the seconds before the attack.And everything before that - was covered by darkness.Not even by darkness, to be precise, but by a thick covering of gray, sticky, sticky, almost impenetrable, covered by gray billowing darkness.
I don't understand anything.
I looked at the carriage in bewilderment and horror.The carriages are ordinary carriages.A small table, four beds, brown bed boards, dark red artificial leather, and sparse lights at night flashed outside the window.Next to the bed - is my backpack...
Backpack!
I wondered what was in my bag.Should be everything.And according to the item, you can understand a lot of things, or recall a lot of things.For example, why did I go to Moscow.Somehow I'm convinced that items can help bring back memories of my sudden refusal to cooperate.Probably, I've read or heard something like this from someone before.And then it dawned on me, and I put my hand in my T-shirt because I remembered that in the left breast pocket—there was a passport.Let's start with the name. When the time comes, just watch, you can indeed remember other things.
I glanced at the strangely curled yellow page with mixed feelings.Glancing at the photo, that face may have been thirty years old, but maybe it was the first day of thirty years old—I have become accustomed to being identified with the only, unrepeatable "I".
Every detail of this face is familiar to me.From scars on your cheekbones to premature graying in your hair.Hey God be with it, be with this face.Now I'm more interested than the face.
Name.
Rogoza Vidary Sergeyevich.Date of birth - September 28, 1965.Place of birth - the city of Nikolayev.
Flipping it over, I read something written in Ukrainian, which at the same time proves that I am - male.Passports are issued by an agency denoted by a rare and long acronym, the Nikolayev City Internal Affairs Department of the Ukrainian Ministry of Internal Affairs.The family status column is blank.I sighed—either relieved or disappointed.
Next came—the eternal burden and curse of any Soviet man—the domicile.Mykolaev City, Tchaikovsky Avenue, Building 28, Room 28.
Really, it's twenty-eight again, and there are still two twenty-eights in a row.
And now the connection really started to kick in—I recalled that the house was on the corner of Tchaikovsky and Young Guard avenues, adjacent to which was the XXVIII Elementary School (the number again! ).I recalled everything, clearly, clearly, even the charred poplar tree under my window--the poplar tree that the half-grown boy who lived upstairs had done his chemistry experiments on. victim.He throws all the crap out of the window at the wretched tree!I thought back to how we had been drinking five years ago in that house next door, at the Dozents.At that time, the female neighbor downstairs came upstairs to complain because of our noise. Some of us told her to get out of the way, and the Armenian woman was the wife of a local bureaucrat.Then a black crowd of Armenians came and beat us in the face, and because the window couldn't be opened, I had to slip through the small transom in the back room and crawl down the drainpipe.I was finally able to negotiate with them after seeing a drunken guy disappear from a house under siege, with Armenians blocking his way with fists clenched.I still remember my utter surprise when I called all the local buddies I'd partyed with on more than one occasion to help out and none of them came with me.
I was freed from sudden and vivid memories.
That is to say, I still have a past?Or is this just a memory without any connotation?
We'll figure it out.
I got a now meaningless piece of information from my passport: "Entitlement to free privatized housing with an area of 23.4 square meters."
forget about it.
I tucked my passport thoughtfully into my left breast pocket, then stared intently at my backpack.What can your dark green companion with the foreign language "FUJI" written on the side of the protrusion help me recall?
Maybe you can help me recall even a little bit...
There was a soft click as the zipper opened, and I lifted the contents and looked in.
The plastic bag on top contained a toothbrush, whitening toothpaste for tartar removal, two cheap disposable razors, and a small fragrant bottle that looked like a perfume bottle.
I put my bag on the bed.
A thermal sweater was found in a lower bag, apparently hand-knitted rather than machine-knitted.I also set them aside.
I rummaged through my backpack for a few minutes - clean underwear, football shirt, socks, thick plaid shirt...
Haha finally found something different from clothes.
cell phone.Body in a small leather case with a small antenna sticking out.The memory responded immediately: "I'm going to Moscow, I should buy a card..."
The charger is also there.
Finally, at the very bottom, there is a bag with some bricks in it.
I looked in and was terrified.Inside the unremarkable plastic bag, the pattern completely worn down to the point where it's almost illegible, are several stacks of banknotes.dollar bills.A total of ten stacks.One hundred yuan face value.This is ten thousand dollars.
My hand involuntarily stretched out to the compartment door and closed the latch.
God, where did these come from?How can I get through with so much money?However, you can give each customs officer a one-hundred-dollar ticket--and maybe let me go.
What this discovery awakened in my memory was the expensive prices of Moscow hotels, but it actually reminded me of nothing else.
Momentarily overwhelmed, I put things back in the bag, zipped it up, and put the bag under the bed.There was an unopened bottle of beer next to the open beer bottle, which made me a little happy.
The information obtained will obviously need to be stabilized with sedatives.
I don't understand why sedatives work better for me than sleeping pills.I imagined that I had to lie down for a long time with the sound of the train's wheels, and I had to squint my eyes because of the sudden moment of light, and I had to think painfully.
No such thing.I didn't even finish my second bottle of beer before I fell on the bed—just like that, with all my clothes on, on the quilt, and my mind was completely relaxed.
Did I get too close to something taboo in memory?
have no idea.
I woke up to the cold winter sun reflecting off the car windows.The train stops there.From the corridor came a monotonous, businesslike voice: "Hello, we are Russian Customs. Do you have any weapons, drugs, foreign currency?" The voices that answered were less monotonous and mostly peaceful.
Then someone knocked on my door.I moved over to open the door.
The customs officer was a tall man with a red mouth.Fat had begun to appear on his small eyes.For some reason, when he asked me, he avoided the usual way of asking, and asked me directly, without using any bureaucratic accent:
"What are you carrying? Please take out your bag..."
I scanned the compartment keenly, and standing on the bed ladder, I glanced at the luggage rack under the ceiling.Then he focused his attention on the backpack that was left alone in the middle of the lower bunk.
I put down my luggage and sit down.Still silent.
"Please open the bag." The customs officer asked.
"Did they smell something?" I wondered gloomily, opening the zipper obediently.
Several bags are poured one after the other onto the shelf.When it was his turn to pour out the bag of money, the customs officer visibly became active, and he slammed the door of the carriage with a reflex.
"Oh... oh... that's right..."
I was ready to hear his hypocritical impassioned tirade about licenses and the like, and even read him through pamphlets and whole passages that consisted of clear, clear words that, on the whole, made no difference to statutes.After listening and reading, he must ask: "How much?"
But I didn't do that. In my imagination, I used my hands to approach the customs officer's mind, to touch his thoughts, and I said softly:
"Come on...go on. There's nothing going on here."
The eyes of the customs officer suddenly became dull and empty, as empty as the customs regulations.
"Yes... I wish you a safe journey..."
He turned around stiffly, clicked the door lock of the carriage, and walked into the aisle of the carriage without saying anything.He is like a puppet.A submissive puppet controlled by a skilled puppeteer on a string.
Did I become a skilled puppeteer until then?
Ten minutes later the train moved.For a while now I've been thinking: what happened to me?I don't see what I'm doing, but I'm doing what I'm supposed to do.First it was that guy in Factory Park, and now it's this customs guy who suddenly went dumb...
And, hell, why should I go to Moscow?What will I do after getting off the train?Where am I going?
For some reason I gradually regained some confidence that everything will figure out when needed.When needed - not sooner than this time.
Unfortunately, self-confidence is not enough.
I spend most of the day sleeping.Perhaps it was a bodily reaction—a gift for responding to unexpected events.How did I manage to get rid of the customs people?Getting close to him, feeling his patina-like vaguely wonderful bioelectric field in the form of a string of $ signs... good at understanding his intentions exactly?
I think that man cannot do this, so who am I, if not man?
Oh, right.I am - the other.That's what I said to the shapeshifter as we walked out of the park.Actually, I just realized that it was a shapeshifter who attacked me in the park.I thought of his bioelectric field, a yellowish crimson flame of hunting and hunger.
I seem to be gradually breaking free from the darkness, from the trance.Shapeshifters - the first step.Customs officers - the second step.Interesting, are the steps very long?What will unfold before my eyes at the top?
There are significantly more questions than answers for the time being.
I was fully awake when I passed the Tula station.The compartment was still empty, but I could see now that I wanted it to be that way.I also learned that my wishes in this world generally come true.
The platform of the Kursk railway station passed slowly outside the window.Already fully dressed, I stood in the carriage and waited for the train to stop.The indistinct voice of the female announcer announced that train No. 66 was entering a certain platform.
I'm in Moscow.But don't know what to do yet.
The aisles were already crowded with the most impatient travelers.Then I'll wait, I'm not in a hurry to go anywhere.Anyway, waiting for my growing memory to tell me something, to push me like a driver with a lazy mule.
There was a final jolt from the train and I stood up.There was a metallic clanging sound at the junction of the carriages, and a group of people who became active in an instant moved and walked out of the carriages in twos and threes.As usual there were worried shouts, greetings, and people trying to squeeze back into the compartment to get their luggage that they hadn't gotten out in time.
But the bustle in the carriage quickly subsided.Passengers have already stepped out of the carriages and have been kissed and hugged by people who meet them at the station.Or not, if no one comes to pick you up.Some people craned their necks, looked left and right on the platform, and shrank suddenly in the penetrating Moscow cold wind.Only those who came to pick up the unchanging handover remained in the compartment.
I picked up my backpack and headed for the exit, still not understanding what I was about to do.
Maybe it occurred to me to exchange dollars.Russian money—I have none.Only our Ukrainian "worthless" currency, but they do not circulate here.When I was about to arrive in Moscow, I shook out a stack of dollar bills and stuffed them into my pockets.
I've always hated wallets...
Actually, what's wrong with me?Always...my "always" started last night.
Mechanically I curled up in the winter embrace and walked down the platform towards the tunnel stairs.Impossible, there is no currency exchange point at the train station?
Searching through my vague memory, I was able to determine two things: the first, I can't remember when I was last in Moscow, and the second, I can roughly imagine what the interior of the station was like, Where can I find a currency exchange office and how to get to the metro station.
Tunnel, underground waiting room, a short lift, ticket office.My intermediate station - right here, on the second floor, next to the other elevator.
But in the end, this exchange point has been strictly closed.There is neither light nor the necessary small public sign showing the current price comparison.
Then forget it.I went out and went to the left to the slow ramp leading to the station "Chkalovsky" ... but after all I was not going there, but next to it.
The snow-white shop windows, the small staircase leading to the second floor, the well-lit and empty shop, the corner... The security guard raised his eyes and took a quick look at me, recognizing that I was a passerby, and immediately relaxed again.
"Go in, there's no one inside." He kindly let me in.
I went into the tiny room with my bag, and the whole thing was a box in the corner, and of course a small window with a drawer that always reminded me of a hungry mouth.
"Hey," I reminded myself, "don't forget this 'always' young one of mine..."
Anyway—since I think like someone who's actually lived thirty-five years, that means there's a reason for it, right?
Well, let's talk about it later.
That big mouth swallowed five hundred bills and my passport in one fell swoop.I didn't see anyone hiding behind the solid partition, and I didn't bother to look too hard.Only nails with pearl polish were found.So say a woman.Reluctantly, the outstretched mouth spat out a large pile of hundred-rouble notes, some rubles of smaller denominations, and even a few coins.Without counting, I stuffed the money into the pocket under the sweater on my breast, stuffed only a few smaller denominations and a few coins into my trouser pocket, and stuffed my passport into the other breast pocket.I tossed the pale green rectangular receipt into the box.
Well, now I'm alone.Even in this crazy, pretty much the most expensive city on earth, though... though not.Likely, it has been almost a year since Moscow lost its dubious No. 1 spot.
Once again winter greets me with icy breath.The wind blows thin, transparent hailstones the size of wheat grains.
Subway - on the left.But I'm not going there, I'm going to another exit.I solemnly walked to the front of the railway station building, and went down to the place where I should go - the circular station.
It seems like I'm starting to understand where I'm going.What way, if uncertainty fails to cheer us up, progress will, and I hope something particularly good has brought me to Moscow.For if working for evil - I don't feel the power in me.
Only Moscow locals leave the train station in a taxi.Of course, if economic conditions permit.Any outsider, even if he has no less money than me, will take the subway.There is something hypnotic about this system of tunnels and this labyrinth of underground passages.In the roar of passing trains, in the air currents that stagnate and revive, in perpetual motion, here under the arches of the hall surges the inexhaustible energy of God: absorb it —but I don't want to.
And - there's protection here.It seemed to have something to do with the thick layer of earth overhead...and with the many, many years that were buried in it.Not even many, many years, but many centuries are somehow related.
I took a step toward the open door of the subway car.The voice from the loudspeaker was annoying, and then a well-trained man's voice broadcast: "Close the doors, please note, the next stop is 'Communist Youth League Station'."
I follow the circular line, going counterclockwise.And at the "Communist Youth League Station", I definitely don't have to get off the bus.But after this stop - I might have to get off.This stop will be "Heping Street Station".Yes, it's time to walk along the platform towards the front of the train, which is closer to the interchange.
So, I'm going to the branch line marked in red.And probably north, because otherwise I'd be walking the circle in the opposite direction, towards "October Station".
The car was bumping and moving, and I was bored, looking at the advertisements everywhere.For some reason, a long-haired man, half standing and half sitting on tiptoes, advertised women's pantyhose, and someone's hand holding a plastic blotting pen didn't miss the opportunity to replace this painful long-haired man. The man redraws an oversized penis.The next ad shows a group of people running down the street chasing colorful jeeps, but somehow I couldn't catch the point of the chase, presumably a prize chase.There are also miraculous pills that can eliminate most troubles, all in a small bottle, a real estate trading office, the purest fruit yoghurt, and the authentic "Porjomi" with a ram pattern on the bottle The advertisement for mineral water... "Communist Youth League Station" has arrived.
Tired of the ads, I put my backpack by the exit and approached the subway plan.I don't know why, but my eyes were first fixed on the red branch line, and on the words next to it - "Exhibition Station of National Economic Achievements".
I'm going there.That's right.Go to the tall building that has become a horseshoe. "Universe" Hotel.
Anyway, life is easier when the goal is clear.Relieved, I went back to my backpack and even smiled at the blurry shadow in the glass door.There are also traces of the city's Javanese people being extremely active on the glass - the words "Keep away" have been scratched beyond recognition to read "I'm not an elephant".
Maybe not elephants.Animals, but not elephants, in my opinion - the elephant is a symbol of calm and wisdom.And the author of the judgment sentence I have never met—probably a monkey, a dirty and smug monkey.Too human, and because of that, dirty, stupid...
Fortunately, I am - the other, not a person in this world.
This is the "Heping Avenue" station; the stairs, turn right, get off the escalator, and the train is just coming. "Riga Station", "Alekseev Station", "Exhibition of Achievements of the National Economy".Out of the car—to the right, I always knew that.
The long elevator, I don't know why I can't think of anything on it.Another annoying ad.underground tunnel.The hotel has arrived.A giant horseshoe monster designed by a French designer.In fact, the hotel has changed, and it has changed a lot.Added illuminated signs from the bottom up, dazzling lights; and - the casino, with imported cars on display as prizes.Among the girls smoking, despite the freezing weather, were waiters who could swallow a hundred rubles in one hand.He snatched my bag at once and sent it to the front desk.
It's not very late yet, so there are still quite a few people in the hall.Someone was talking on a mobile phone, loudly, in clear Arabic throughout the hall, and music was coming from several directions at once.
"Deluxe room," I said casually, "single room. Also, please don't let people call you, and don't recommend girls. I'm here for work."
Money - what a great thing.I found a room right away and dinner was brought to my room right away.And also promised that no one would call in, although this was not credible.They immediately advised me to register because my passport is Ukrainian.I checked in and walked as far as I could toward the unremarkable door in the darkest, empty corner of the lobby in order to get quietly to the elevator they so kindly sent me.
There is no sign on this door, nor any sign.
The gatekeeper glanced after me with genuine respect.And the others, I think he simply didn't bother.
Behind the door was a shabby little room—perhaps the only part of the hotel that wasn't furnished in a European style, and looked like an unseen Soviet dude in the seventies entering a luxury establishment.
The table is plain - the surface is not peeling off, but it looks like it has seen age.Very ordinary chairs and an old Polish "Aster" telephone in the center of the table.A tall, thin man in a sergeant's uniform was sitting primly in a chair.He raised a questioning look at me.
This sergeant is the Other.And one of the Lightbringers—I knew that right away.
He's the Lightbringer... huh.Then who am I?It seems that I am not the Lightbringer.Indeed, not Lightbringer.
Then there is no problem.
"Hi," I greeted him, "I'd like to check in in Moscow."
The policeman's voice was mixed with bewilderment and anger, and he slowly squeezed out a sentence through his teeth:
"Registration with the janitor. . . . Only those who are housed can. Those who are not—no."
As he spoke, he flipped through the newspaper that he had been studying carefully with a pencil in his hand before I came in, as if he was marking interesting announcements from a long list.
"I've already done the normal registration," I explained, "and I need another registration. By the way, I haven't introduced myself yet. Vidari Rogoza, the Other."
The policeman immediately pulled himself together and took another look at me.He looks at me now in panic.It seemed that he did not recognize the otherness in me.So I helped him.
"Dark Messenger." After a while, he muttered with some ease, and introduced himself: "Zahar Zelinsky, the other. A hired worker of the Night Watch patrol team. Please come in... "
The formulaic "here we are in Moscow..." is clearly read in his tone, and the Others can't help but bring into their own relationships the patterns and routines of human interaction.Probably the Messenger of Light was dissatisfied with such a person from other provinces, dissatisfied with getting up for him, stopping reading the newspaper for him, and going to the work computer to register...
Another door was found in the middle of the wall, but it was impossible for ordinary people to see it anyway.There was no need to open it at all - we walked through the wall, through the gray twilight that suddenly enveloped us.The movements became soft and slow, and even the lights under the ceiling began to flicker visibly.
The second room was much more respectable in appearance than the first.The sergeant immediately sat down comfortably at the small table, and sat down at the computer, and he made me sit on the soft sofa.
"Will you be staying in Moscow long?"
"I don't know. I don't think it will be less than a month."
"Please show proof of your long-term registration."
He can see with the eyesight of others, but it seems that the regulation requires that it must be verified by the simplest method.
My coat was already open, so I just pulled up my sweater, shirt and football shirt.The pale blue Ukrainian long-term registration mark gleamed on my chest.The sergeant verified it with his hand, then began typing slowly on the keyboard.He checked the information, then tapped again, and opened the thick document, which was locked, and not just locked with a lock. He took out something from it, went through the necessary procedures, and finally threw it to me. A light blue thing.Immediately, my entire upper body was sparkling with flames, and a second later, there were already two eye-catching seals on my chest.The second seal is a provisional registration in Moscow.
"This is a temporary registration, but in principle it is indefinite," the sergeant explained without any expression, "Since we are special law-abiding emissaries of darkness in our base, we can comply with your wishes and allow indefinite registration. I Hopefully, the night watch patrol will not be forced to change its attitude towards you. The stamp will be canceled automatically within one day and night of your departure from Moscow. If you have to leave Moscow for a day and night—don’t take offense, you need to re-register.”
"Got it," I said, "thanks. May I go?"
"Let's go, Messenger of Darkness."
The sergeant was silent for a moment, then closed the file (not just the lock), reset the computer, and gestured invitingly toward the exit.
When he had reached the dirty little room, he asked uncertainly:
"Who are you, please? Not a vampire, not a shapeshifter, not a hatchling, not a sorcerer, I can see that easily. And not a magician, I think. I'm a little confused..."
The Sergeant himself is a Lightbringer magician, presumably fourth-level magician.Should not be higher than, but not lower than this level.
Yeah, really, who am I?
"This is a complicated question," I avoided answering, "probably a magician. Goodbye."
I picked up my backpack and went back to the lounge.
Five minutes later, I was already in the room.
I didn't trust the concierge, and rightly so—the first phone call that advised me to take it easy rang just as I was shaving.Depressed but politely I beg the person not to call here again.The second time I sounded a bit more inoffensive.And for the third time, I simply poured a huge viscous force into the innocent microphone, which made the other party choke half to death, and stopped after speaking half a sentence.No one ever called my room after that.
"I wondered," I thought, "am I a magician after all?"
To be honest, what the Sergeant Lightbringer said didn't surprise me at all.Vampires, shapeshifters, hatchlings...they are.Indeed.But—only for our own people, for others.For ordinary people, they do not exist, but for others, ordinary people are the source, foundation and nourishment of existence.It is the same for the emissaries of light and for the emissaries of darkness. No matter how the emissaries of light spread rumors in every corner, they also have to dig their own energy from human life.And the purpose... Our purpose is the same after all, but whether we or the Lightbringers, we are all trying to drive away our competitors and be the first to reach our goal.
A knock on the door interrupted my mind's bubbling discovery—dinner had arrived.I sent the waiter a hundred rubles, (where did I come from such generosity and intemperate gentility!) I tried to regroup, but it seemed that I was losing my tune.it's a pity.
But I'm still on the second rung.At least I now know that others are different.There are Lightbringers and Darkbringers.I am the messenger of darkness.I don't like Lightbringer, but can't say hate.For they too are Others, though the principles that govern them differ from ours.
I began to see a little of what lay behind the actions of the shapeshifters who threatened me in the park, behind the ambiguous and weighty title of "Night Watch Patrol."This is nothing but watch the Darkbringer at night, for night is the time of the Darkbringer.Naturally, there are also patrol teams of day watchers.This is—your own people, but you should also beware of them, because once you do something wrong, your own people will not forgive you.All these systems are in a precarious balance, as each side is constantly seeking ways and means of destroying the rival in order to ultimately take full and sole control of the human world.
That's the fun.From the second staircase, there is temporarily nothing more to be seen in the surrounding darkness.
Near the end of dinner, I heard shouting.
The voice was neither small nor loud, neither complaining nor condescending, and the person it designated to call heard.Can't resist it.
This call is not for me.But weird, I can hear...
That means it's time to act.
Some unwavering force in me gave the order.finish dressing!Put the backpack in the locker!Doors and windows—close!Lock the lock, lock the catch, and grab the thick stick!
I draw power from everywhere I can get my feet in, but do it so that people don't pay too much attention to my room.And the other has nothing to do here.
The drunken Syrian in the next room suddenly sobered up.The belligerent Czech on the next floor finally sorted out his problem and walked away from the toilet with a sigh of relief, quieting down.In the opposite room - an elderly businessman from the Urals, who for the first time in his life slapped his wife's ears to end a long-standing and continuous quarrel.An hour later, the couple will celebrate their reconciliation in a restaurant on the second floor.If there's a Lightbringer around - they'll set up a table for the two of them...
But I'm not too interested in these.I followed the calling, followed the calling that was not meant for me.Evening hours transition smoothly into midnight hours.The street was buzzing, the wind dragged and howled on the wire tracks.Somehow the voices of nature crowd out the voices of civilization—maybe I'm used to it?
Go right on Main Street.That's right.
Pressing my hat tightly to my forehead, I strode down the sidewalk.
When I had almost reached the long house whose first floor was occupied by shop windows displaying grotesque samples of samovars, the calling stopped abruptly.But I already knew where to go.
A building down there, lo and behold, there, almost at the crossroads, a narrow dark tunnel under the door.This time it was really dark inside.
The wind seemed to be deliberately against it, blowing harder and harder, whipping my face, pushing each other like skilled rugby players, and I had to bend forward and move forward, at least for a while.
This is the small tunnel.It appears that I am late.Against the barely visible background there is an opposite entrance leading under the door.Suddenly, a vague outline froze there.I could just make out a pale, decidedly inhuman face, with two dull glints of what I thought were teeth.
that's it.The person who was here just now disappears, and the person who was here just now ceases to exist.
I took a closer look at the motionless body. It was a young girl, about sixteen years old.The dull eyes are mixed with incomparable happiness and pain.A fluffy woven scarf and equally fluffy hat were thrown beside it.The girl's blouse was open, and her neck was exposed.There are four distinct marks on the neck.
In fact, I didn't even have time to wonder at what I saw in the darkness.
I sat down beside the little girl.They sucked her blood dry along with her life.It should be said that the amount of blood is not enough, no more than 1/4 liter.Drained of energy—all energy, not a drop left.Too cruel.
In an instant, people, to be precise, are not people—but others rush in from both doorways at the same time.
"Stop! We are the Night's Watch Patrol! Emerge from the Twilight Realm!"
I straightened up, not immediately realizing what they wanted me to do.I was suddenly punched—not with a fist, not with a foot, but with something white like a doctor's coat.It doesn't hurt, but it's embarrassing.One of the scouts hurled at me a short club with a ruby at the top, and seemed ready to attack me again.
At this moment I was suddenly pushed to the next rung, not even to the next rung, perhaps over a rung or two.
I rushed out of the twilight world.Now I understand what it means when everything around me slows down, when the ability to see everything in pitch blackness emerges.This is - the other.And I was ordered—not suggested, but ordered—to return to the human world.
So I came back with no complaints.Because it needs to be.
"Report your name!" Someone demanded.I didn't see who it was because they shone a flashlight on my face and I could see it, but it wasn't necessary for now.
"Vidari Rogoza. The Other."
“安德烈·丘尼科夫，他者，守夜人巡查队队员。”那个借助武装棒攻击我的人带着一副明显得意的神情自我介绍道。
现在我感觉到他们没用全力，只是预防性地攻击我。但要是需要的话，他们可以狠劲地打，更用力地打，那根棒子的电荷足够了。
“那么，是黑暗使者啦。我们看见什么了？刚刚死去的人的尸体和在旁边的你。有什么要解释的吗？还是，你能找到许可证？啊？”
“安德柳哈，别急。”有人从黑暗中扯了他一把。
但是安德柳哈没有理睬，只是扫兴地挥了挥手：
"etc!"
接着他又对我说：
“嘿，怎么样？不吭声？黑暗使者？没什么可说的吧？”
我确实没吭声。
安德烈·丘尼科夫是位魔法师。当然，是光明使者，而且刚刚跨过五级的门槛儿。
我昨天也是五级魔法师。
给辟邪物充电的显然不是他——因为可以感觉到那是出自更内行一点的魔法师之手。而且我感觉得到站在他身后的两位小伙子更强一些。
门道的对面一位个子不高，年纪轻轻的孤单的姑娘挡住了出路，但恰恰她是这一群人中最有经验最危险的一个。她是变形魔法斗士，像光明变形人那种类型的。
“喂，怎么样，黑暗使者，”安德柳哈进一步逼近，“还是不吭声儿？知道了。出示一下注册登记看看！让守夜人巡查队的人看看是不是黑暗使者中的盗猎者在我们手上……”
“安德柳哈，你这个笨蛋，”我嘲讽地说，“你高兴了吧！抓到盗猎者了。你看了死者没有，啊？你觉得是谁杀了她？”
安德柳哈哑然失声，眼睛瞟向死去的姑娘。看样子他开始明白了。
“……吸血鬼……”他嘟噜了一句。
“那我是谁？”
“你是魔……魔法师……”安德柳哈惊慌失措得说话都结巴起来。
我朝姑娘转过身去，因为我认为与她交谈才是有必要的。
“当我到达此地时，一切都结束了。吸血鬼我看到了，但是在隧道外，他消失在院子里。女孩已经死了，她被洗劫一空，但血只被喝了一点点。我是路过莫斯科，刚下火车才几个小时，我住在'宇宙'饭店。”
后来又忍不住补充了一句：
“吸血鬼不是第一次在这个门道口偷猎是吗？”
现在，当我一下子连跳几个阶梯之后，我在柏油路和墙壁上看见了此处所发生事件的痕迹。
“只不过上一次你们走运一些，光明使者……可是痕迹虽然清理过，但可恶的是至今还看得见。”
“别以为我们会感激你，”姑娘阴沉而含糊不清地从牙缝里挤出一句，“还有，我还是想要看看你的注册证明。”
“那好吧，请吧，”我顺从地出示印章，“我想，不再需要我了吧？我可不敢干涉你们这些无与伦比的寻找偷猎者的侦探游戏。”
“如果用得着你，明天会有人找到你的。”姑娘冷淡地说。
“我不反对！”我哼了一声，并从路中间推开一名巡查队员，走到大街上。
大约走过百步左右我扔掉了普通黑暗使者的外衣。
Notes:
Notes: