«That's okay.»

«The Dark Other's going somewhere,» said Svetlana, looking past my shoulder. «To extract other people's energy, to cast evil spells. And we don't interfere.»

I turned my head slightly and saw the Dark One. To the unaided eye he looked about thirty years old at most. Dressed in good taste, charming. A young woman and two children were sitting at the table he'd just left. The boy was about seven, the girl a bit younger.

«He's gone for a leak, Svetlana. To take a pee. And his family, by the way, is perfectly ordinary. No powers. Are you suggesting we eliminate them too?»

«Like father, like son…«

«Try telling that to Garik. His father's a Dark Magician. Still alive.»

«There are always exceptions.»

«Life consists of nothing but exceptions.»

Svetlana didn't answer.

«I know that itch, Sveta. The itch to do Good, to pursue Evil. Right now, to finish it forever. That's the way I feel too. But if you can't understand that's a dead end, you'll end up in the Twilight. One of us will have to put an end to your earthly existence.»

«But at least I'd have done something.»

«You know what your actions would look like to an outsider? A psychopath killing normal, decent people at random. Chilling reports in the newspapers, with spine-chilling descriptions and grand nicknames for you—say, 'the new Lucretia Borgia.' You'd sow more Evil in human hearts than a brigade of Dark Magicians could generate in a year.»

«How come all of you always have an answer for everything?» Svetlana asked bitterly.

«Because we've been through the training. And survived. Most of us have survived.»

I called the waiter and asked for the menu.

«How about a cocktail? And then we can move on. You choose.»

Svetlana nodded as she studied the wine list. The waiter was a tall, swarthy young guy, not Russian. He'd seen just about everything, and he wasn't much bothered by one girl acting like a man with another.

«Alter Ego,» said Svetlana.

I was doubtful—it was one of the strongest cocktails. But I didn't argue.

«Two cocktails and the check.»

We waited in oppressive silence while the bartender was mixing the cocktails and the waiter was adding up the check. Eventually Svetlana asked:

«Okay, I get the picture with poets. They're potential Others. But what about the great villains? Caligula, Hitler, the homicidal maniacs?»

«Just people.»

«All of them.»

«Mostly. We have our own villains. Their names don't mean anything to ordinary people, but you'll be starting the history program soon.»

«Alter Ego» was an accurate description. Two heavy, immiscible layers, black and white, swaying in the glass. Sweet plum liqueur and dark, bitter beer.

I paid in cash—I don't like to leave an electronic trail behind me—and raised my glass.

«Here's to the Watch.»

«To the Watch,» Sveta agreed. «And your escape from this mess.»

I felt like asking her to knock on wood, but I didn't. I downed the cocktail in two gulps—first the gentle sweetness, then the mild bitterness.

«That's great,» said Svetlana. «You know, I like it here. Maybe we could stay a bit longer?»

«There are lots of good places in Moscow. Let's find one without any black magicians out for a night on the town.»

Sveta nodded.

«And by the way, he's not back yet.»

I looked at my watch. Yes, he'd been gone long enough to pee a whole bucketful.

And what really bothered me was that the magician's family were still sitting at their table, and the woman was obviously getting worried.

«Sveta, I'll just be a moment.»

«Don't forget who you are!» she whispered as I left.

Yes, it would look a bit strange all right for me to follow the Dark Magician into the restroom.

I walked across the restaurant and took a look through the Twilight on the way. I ought to have been able to see the magician's aura, but there was nothing but a gray void lit up by ordinary auras glowing different colors: pleased, concerned, lustful, drunk, happy.

He couldn't have just slipped out through the plumbing!

The only weak glimmer of light from an aura belonging to an Other was outside the building, over beside the Belarussian embassy. But it wasn't the Dark Magician; it was much weaker and its color was different.

Where had he gone to?

The narrow corridor ending in two doors was empty. I hesitated for a moment—who could tell, maybe we just hadn't noticed the magician leaving via the Twilight, or maybe he was powerful enough to teleport? Then I opened the door of the men's restroom.

Inside it was very clean and bright and a bit cramped, and the air had a strong smell of floral air freshener.

The Dark Magician was lying just inside the door, and his outstretched arms prevented me from opening the door all the way.

He had a puzzled, confused kind of expression on his face. I spotted the gleam of a slim crystal tube in his hand. He'd reached for his weapon too late.

There was no blood. There were no signs at all, and when I took another look through the Twilight I didn't find any traces of magic.

It looked like the Dark Magician had died of a perfectly ordinary heart attack or stroke—if he'd actually been capable of dying that way.

There was just one small detail that totally ruled that possibility out.

A small cut on the collar of his shirt. As narrow as if it had been made by a cutthroat razor. As if someone had stuck a knife in his neck and just nicked the edge of his collar. Except that there were no signs of the blow on his skin.

«Bastards!» I whispered, not knowing who I was swearing at. «Bastards!»

I could hardly have ended up in a worse situation than this. I'd swapped bodies and gone out to a crowded restaurant with a «witness,» only to wind up entirely alone, standing over the body of a Dark Magician killed by the Maverick.

«Come on, Pavlik,» someone said behind me.

As I looked around the woman who'd been sitting at the table with the Dark Magician came into the corridor, holding her son by the hand.

«I don't want to, Mom!» the kid yelled, acting up.

«You go in and tell your dad we're getting bored already,» the woman said patiently. The next moment she looked up and saw me.

«Call someone!» I shouted, despairing. «Call someone! There's a man hurt here! Take the child away and call someone!»

They obviously heard me in the restaurant—Olga had a strong voice.

The murmur of voices stopped immediately, leaving the slushy folk music to play on in the sudden silence.

Of course, she didn't do as I said. She dashed forward, pushed me out of the way, collapsed on her husband's body, and started keening—actually keening—at the top of her voice, already knowing what had happened while her hands were still busy unbuttoning the slit shirt collar and shaking the lifeless body. Then the woman started slapping the magician on the cheeks, lashing hard, as if she hoped he was only pretending or had just fainted.

«Mom, why are you hitting Dad like that?» Pavlik exclaimed in a shrill voice. Not frightened, just surprised; he'd obviously never seen his parents fight. They must have been a happy family.

I took the boy by the shoulder and started gently leading him away. People were already squeezing into the corridor. I saw Sveta staring at me wide-eyed. She'd already guessed what had happened.

«Take the child away,» I said to our waiter. «I think a man's dead in there.»

«Who found the body?» the waiter asked calmly. Speaking without the slightest accent, quite differently from when he was serving our table.

«I did.»

The waiter nodded as he deftly handed the boy on to one of the female restaurant staff. The boy was crying now, he'd realized something had gone wrong in his cozy little world.

«And what were you doing in the men's restroom?»

«The door was open and I saw him lying there,» I said, lying without even thinking about it.

The waiter nodded, accepting that it could have happened that way. But at the same time he took a firm grip of my elbow.

«You'll have to wait for the militia, lady.»

Svetlana had already pushed her way through to us. She narrowed her eyes when she heard those last words. That was all I needed now—for her to try erasing the memories of everyone there!

«Of course.» I stepped forward, and the waiter was forced to let go of my arm and follow me. «Svetka, it's terrible, there's a body in there!»

«Olya.» Sveta's reaction was the right one. She put her arm around my shoulders, gave the waiter an indignant look and led me back into the restaurant.

Just then the boy passed us, sobbing loudly as he squeezed his way through the greedy, curious crowd back to his mother. They were trying to get her away from the body—she'd taken advantage of the confusion to bend back down over her husband and start shaking him:

«Get up! Gena, get up! Get up!»

I felt Svetlana shudder at the sight and I whispered:

«Well? Do we exterminate the Dark Ones with fire and the sword?»

«Why did you do it? I would have understood without that!» Svetlana whispered furiously.

«What?»

We looked into each other's eyes.

«Then it wasn't you?» Sveta whispered uncertainly. «I'm sorry; I believe you.»

I realized then just what a deep hole I was in.

The investigator didn't take any particular interest in me. I could see from his eyes that he'd already made his mind up—death from natural causes. A weak heart, drug abuse, whatever. He couldn't be expected to feel any sympathy for a man who frequented expensive restaurants.

«Was the body lying in this position?» «Yes, just like that,» I confirmed, wearily. «It was terrible!» The investigator shrugged. He couldn't see anything really terrible about a body, especially one that wasn't drenched in blood. But he was condescending.

«Yes, a terrible sight. Was there anybody else nearby?» «Nobody. But then a woman appeared, the man's wife, with their child.»

I was rewarded with a crooked smile for my deliberately disjointed statement.

«Thank you, Olga. Someone may be in touch with you again. Not planning to leave town at all, are you?»

I shook my head rapidly. The militia was the very last thing I was bothered about right then.

But I was bothered by the sight of the boss sitting unobtrusively at a table in the corner.

The investigator left me in peace and went to talk to «the dead man's wife.» Boris Ignatievich immediately made straight for our table. Nobody paid any attention to him; he was obviously protected by some mild distraction spell.