The hotel was in the historical town center, on a hill close to the royal castle. I lowered the window and gazed around unabashedly with the curiosity of someone who has just arrived for the first time in an interesting new country.

Edinburgh was impressive. Of course, you could say that any truly old city is just as impressive presuming it wasn’t flattened sixty years ago by the fiery steamroller of the Second World War, which reduced ancient cathedrals, castles, and houses-large and small-to rubble. But there was something special here. Perhaps it was the royal castle itself, so well sited on a hill and surmounting the city like a crown of stone. Perhaps it was the large number of people on the streets-tourists idly loitering or wandering about with cameras hanging around their necks, looking at the shop windows or the monuments. After all, the king is always made by his retinue. Or perhaps it was the lacework pattern of the streets scattered around the castle, with their old houses and cobbled roadways.

Even if he’s wearing the most beautiful crown, a king also needs worthy robes. The naked king in Andersen’s fairy tale was not saved by the glittering diamonds on his head.

The taxi stopped at a four-story stone house with a narrow frontage that was squeezed between two shops crowded with customers. The shop windows were hung with colorful kilts and scarves, and there were the inevitable bottles of whisky. What else would you take away from here? From Russia it’s vodka and matryoshka dolls, from Greece it’s ouzo and embroidered tablecloths, from Scotland it’s whisky and scarves.

I climbed out of the taxi, took my suitcase from the driver, and paid him. Then I looked at the building. The sign above the entrance to the hotel said HIGHLANDER BLOOD.

Right. An impertinent vampire.

I walked up to the door, blinking against the bright sunshine. It was getting hot. The legend that vampires can’t tolerate sunlight is just that-a legend. They can tolerate it, they just don’t find it pleasant. And on a hot summer day like this I could almost understand them.

The door didn’t swing open in front of me as I expected-obviously they weren’t fond of automatic devices in this hotel. So I pushed it with my hand and walked in.

Well, at least there was an air conditioner here. The coolness I felt could hardly have been left over from the night, despite these thick stone walls.

The small entrance hall was rather dark, and perhaps that was why it felt rather cozy. I saw an elderly, highly respectable-looking gentleman standing behind a counter. A good suit, a tie with a pin, a shirt with silver cufflinks in the form of thistle heads. A plump face with a mustache and red cheeks, a strawberries-and-cream complexion…But his aura left no doubt at all-he was human.

“Good afternoon,” I said, approaching the counter. “Your hotel was recommended to me… I would like to take a single room.”

“A single?” the gentleman asked with an extremely pleasant smile.

“A single,” I repeated.

“We’re very short of rooms, it’s the Festival…” the gentleman said with a sigh. “You didn’t book, then?”

“No.”

He sighed plaintively again and started leafing through some papers or other-as if this little family hotel had so many rooms that he couldn’t remember if any were free. Without looking up, he asked, “Who was it that recommended us?”

“The Dark One at the customs in Heathrow.”

“I think we should be able to help you,” the man replied without any sign of surprise. “Which room would you prefer, Light or Dark? If you have…er…a dog with you, there is a very comfortable room that even the very largest dog can leave…and come back to…on its own…without disturbing anyone.”

“I want a Light room,” I said.

“Give him the suite on the fourth floor, Andrew,” said a voice behind me. “He is a distinguished guest. Very distinguished.”

I took the key that had appeared as if by magic in the receptionist’s hand (no, no magic involved, it was simply his dexterity), and turned around.

“I will show you the way,” said the light-haired youth who was standing in front of a cigarette machine beside the door that led into the small hotel restaurant. Hotels like this one very often do not have a restaurant and they serve breakfast in the rooms, but the guests here had rather exotic tastes.

“Anton,” I said, introducing myself as I examined the owner of the hotel. “Anton Gorodetsky, Moscow, Night Watch.”

“Bruce,” said the youth. “Bruce Ramsey, Edinburgh. Owner of this establishment.”

He looked just perfect to play Dorian Gray in a film version of Oscar Wilde’s novel. Young, graceful, and indecently fresh and handsome, he could easily have worn a badge that said READY FOR DEBAUCHERY!

Except for the fact that his eyes were old. Gray and faded, with the even, pink whites of eyes that belong to a two-hundred-year-old vampire.

The youth picked up my suitcase-I didn’t object-and started walking up the narrow wooden stairs, talking as he went.

“Unfortunately we don’t have a lift,” he said. “It’s an old building and too narrow to fit a shaft in. And besides, I am not used to lifts. It seems to me that a mechanical monster would disfigure this wonderful house. I hate those reconstructed houses, old facades hiding boring standard-plan apartments. And we don’t often have guests who find it hard to climb the stairs…except that werewolves don’t like steep steps, but we try to accommodate them on the first floor-there’s a special room there-or on the second…What wind has blown you into our quiet town, Higher Light One?”

He was not so ordinary himself. A vampire at the first level of Power-not exactly magical Power, not the same as my own, it was vampire Power. But he could definitely be called a first-level Other.

“The incident in the Dungeons,” I said.

“Just as I thought.” The youth walked on in front of me, striding freely up two steps at a time. “A most unpleasant incident. I appreciate the humor of the situation, of course…But it is not good. These are not times when you can simply walk up to someone you like and drink him dry. Not at all!”

“Do you miss the good old days?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“Sometimes,” said the youth. He laughed. “But each age and each time has its own advantages, doesn’t it? People become civilized, they stop hunting witches and believing in vampires. And we become civilized. We can’t regard human beings as cattle who have no rights. People deserve the right to be respected, if only as our own ancestors. You should respect your ancestors, surely?”

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything to argue with in all this.

“It’s a good room, you’ll like it,” the vampire continued as he reached the fourth-floor landing. There were only two doors there and the staircase went on up into the attic. “On the right is the suite for Dark Ones, also very pleasant. I furnished it to my own taste and am quite proud of the design. And this is your suite.”

He did not need a key; he patted the lock gently with his hand and the door opened. A bit of petty showing-off that seemed rather strange for such an old vampire.

“We have a very good self-taught designer, a Light Other. He is only sixth-level, but no magic is needed for this work,” Bruce went on. “I asked him to decorate three rooms to the taste of Light Ones. Most of the rest of the interior is rather more original, you understand…”

I walked into the suite and froze on the spot in astonishment.

I’d never realized that my taste was like this.

Everything around me was white, beige, and pink. The parquet flooring was light, bleached wood, the walls were covered with beige wallpaper with pale pink flowers, the furniture was old-fashioned, but also made of light-colored wood and snow-white satin. The large sofa by the wall was leather. And what color? White, of course. There was a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The windows were draped with transparent tulle and the curtains were bright pink.