Nadya turned around and pressed her lips together stubbornly. She thought for a moment and then pressed one finger against her forehead. I could hardly hold back a smile. Little children love to copy gestures. And it doesn’t bother them at all that it’s only characters in cartoons who put their fingers to their foreheads when they’re thinking, whereas real live people don’t.

“OK,” said Nadya. “I’m sorry, Mommy and Daddy. I won’t do it again. I’ll fix everything!”

“Don’t fix anything!” Svetlana exclaimed.

But it was too late. The water that had been in our glasses instead of vodka suddenly turned back into vodka. Or maybe even pure alcohol.

Right there in our stomachs.

I felt as if a little bomb had gone off in my belly. I groaned and started picking up the almost cold potatoes on my fork.

“Anton, at least say something,” said Svetlana, exasperated.

“Nadya, if you were a boy, you’d get my belt across your bottom!” I said.

“Lucky for me I’m not a boy,” Nadya replied, not the slightest bit frightened. “What’s wrong, Daddy? You wanted to drink some vodka. And now you have. It’s already inside you. You said vodka doesn’t taste nice, so why drink it with your mouth?”

Svetlana and I looked at each other, at a loss.

“There’s no answer to that,” Svetlana summed up. “I’ll go and pack your suitcase. Shall I call a taxi?”

“No need. Semyon will take me.”

Even that late in the evening the ring road was packed, but Semyon didn’t even seem to notice it. And I didn’t even know if he had checked the probability lines or was simply driving with the instincts of a driver who has a hundred years’ experience.

“You’re getting snobbish, Anton,” he muttered without taking his eyes off the road. “You might at least have told Gesar: I won’t go anywhere on my own, I need a partner, send Semyon with me…”

“How was I supposed to know that you like Scotland so much?”

“How? Didn’t I tell you how we fought the Scottish at the battle of Sebastopol?”

“Not the Germans?” I suggested uncertainly.

“No, the Germans came later,” Semyon said dismissively. “Ah, there were real men in those days…bullets whistling overhead, shells flying through the air, hand-to-hand fighting by the Sixth Bastion…and there we are, flinging magic at each other like fools. Two Light Others, only he’d come with the English army…He got me in the shoulder, with the Spear of Suffering…But I got him with the Freeze-frosted him all the way up from his heels to his neck!”

He grunted happily.

“And who won?” I asked.

“Don’t you know any history?” Semyon asked indignantly. “We did, of course. And I took my friend Kevin prisoner. I went to see him later. It was already the twentieth century then…1907…or was it eight?”

He swung the steering wheel sharply as he overtook a Jaguar sports car and shouted through the open window, “Use your brakes, you stupid ass! And he wants to swear at me!”

“He’s embarrassed in front of his girlfriend,” I explained, glancing at the Jaguar as it disappeared behind us. “Letting some old Volga cut him off like that.”

“A car’s not the right place for showing off to a girl-the bed’s for that. The consequences of a mistake there are more upsetting, but less tragic…Ah. I tell you what, if things get tight, call Gesar and ask him to send me to help. We’ll call in to see Kevin, drink some whisky. From his own distillery, by the way!”

“All right,” I promised. “The moment the pressure comes on, I’ll ask for you to come.”

After the ring road, the traffic was calmer. Semyon stepped on the gas (I’ll never believe that he has the standard ZMZ-406 engine under the hood of his hurtling Volga) and fifteen minutes later we were approaching Domodedovo Airport.

“Ah, what a wonderful dream I had last night!” Semyon exclaimed as he drove into the parking lot. “I’m driving around Moscow in this battered old van, with one of our people sitting beside me…Then suddenly I see Zabulon standing in the middle of the road, dressed like a hobo for some reason. I step on the gas and try to knock him down! But he just waves his hand and puts up a barrier. We go flying up into the air and somersault right over Zabulon. And we drive on.”

“So why didn’t you turn back?” I needled him.

“We were in a hurry to get somewhere.” Semyon sighed.

“You should drink less. Then you wouldn’t be bothered by dreams like that.”

“They don’t bother me at all,” said Semyon, offended. “On the contrary, I enjoyed it. Like a scene out of some parallel reality…Oh, hell!”

He braked sharply.

“More like its lord and master,” I said, looking at the head of the Day Watch. Zabulon was standing in the parking space that Semyon was just about to drive into. He gestured for us to come closer. I said, “Maybe that dream was a hint? Will you have a go?”

But Semyon was not inclined to try any experiments. He drove forward very smoothly. Zabulon stepped aside and waited until we had pulled between a dirty Zhiguli and an old Nissan. Then he opened a door and got into the backseat.

It was no surprise that the automatic door lock didn’t work.

“Evening, watchmen,” said the Grand Dark Magician.

Semyon and I exchanged glances. Then we looked at the backseat again.

“Almost night,” I said. Semyon might have a thousand times more experience than me, but as the one with the greater Power, I would have to do the talking.

“Yes, night,” Zabulon agreed. “Your time. Off to Edinburgh?”

“To London.”

“And then to Edinburgh, to investigate the case of Victor Prokhorov.”

There was no point in lying. Lying never helps anyway.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Do you object, Dark One?”

“I’m all in favor,” Zabulon replied. “I’m almost always in favor, strangely enough.”

He was wearing a suit and a tie, but the tie knot was lowered slightly and the top button of his shirt was unfastened. He looked just like a man who was in business or worked for the state. But the mistakes in that assumption started with the word “man.”

“Then what do you want?” I inquired.

“I want to wish you a pleasant journey,” Zabulon replied coolly. “And success in investigating the murder.”

“Why are you so interested?” I asked after an awkward pause.

“Leonid Prokhorov, the father of the deceased, was identified as an Other twenty years ago. A powerful Dark Other. Unfortunately,” Zabulon said with a sigh, “he did not wish to undergo initiation. He remained a human being. But he maintained good relations with us and sometimes helped us in small matters. It’s just not acceptable when your friend’s son is killed by some petty bloodsucker in a raving fit. Find him, Anton, and roast him on a slow fire.”

Semyon had not been present during my conversation with Gesar. But judging by the puzzled way he was scratching his clean-shaven chin, he knew something about Leonid Prokhorov.

“I intend to do that anyway,” I said cautiously. “You have nothing to worry about there, Great Dark One.”

“But what if you need some help?” Zabulon asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You never know who you might run up against. Take this…”

An amulet appeared in Zabulon’s hand. It was a figure carved in bone, a snarling wolf. The little figure had a distinct aura of Power.

“This is contact, help, advice. All together.” Zabulon leaned over the back of the seat and breathed hotly into my ear. “Take it…watchman. Say thank you to me.”

“I’ll never say that.”

“Take it anyway.”

I shook my head.

Zabulon sighed. “Very well, let us have the foolish theatrical effects: I, Zabulon, do swear by the Darkness, that in presenting my amulet to Light Magician Anton Gorodetsky, I do not entertain any evil intent and do not intend to harm his health, soul, or mind, nor do I demand anything in exchange. If Anton Gorodetsky accepts my help, this does not impose any obligations on him, the power of Light, or the Night Watch. In gratitude for his accepting this help, I grant permission for the Night Watch of Moscow to make three interventions using Light Magic up to the third level of Power inclusive. I do not demand and shall not demand any gratitude in response. May the Darkness be my witness!”