The Twilight Watch by Sergei Lukyanenko

angry with the cunning witch to care. She had tried to enchant me, to put a love spell on me . . . the old hag!

I stood by the darkened window, catching the faint droplets of light that penetrated to the second level of the Twilight. And I found, or at least I thought I found, the faintest of shadows on the floor . . .

The hardest thing was spotting it. When I did, the shadow behaved as I wanted, swirling up towards me and opening the way through.

I stepped down to the third level of the Twilight.

Into a strange sort of house, woven together out of the branches and thick trunks of trees.

There were no more books, and no furniture. Just a nest of branches.

And Arina, standing there facing me.

How old she was!

She wasn't hunched and crooked, like Baba-Yaga in the fairy tale. She was still tall and upright. But her skin was wrinkled like the bark of a tree and her eyes had sunk deep into her head. The only garment she was wearing was a dirty, shapeless sackcloth smock, and her shrivelled breasts dangled like empty pouches behind its deep neckline. She was bald, with just a single tress of hair jutting out from the crown of her head like a Red Indian forelock.

'Night Watch!' I repeated, the words emerging slowly and reluctantly from my mouth. 'Leave the Twilight! This is your final warning!'

What could I have done, considering that she could dive to the third level of the Twilight so easily? I don't know. Maybe nothing . . .

She didn't offer any more resistance, but took a step forward – and disappeared.

It cost me a significant effort to move back up to the second level. It was usually easier to leave the Twilight, but the third level had drawn Power out of me as if I was some ignorant novice.

Arina was waiting for me on the second level. She had already assumed her former appearance. She nodded, and moved on – to the normal, calm and cosy human world . . .

I had to try twice, streaming with cold sweat, before managing to raise my shadow.

CHAPTER 3

ARINA WAS SITTING on a chair, with her hands resting modestly on her knees. She wasn't smiling any more, and in general she was as meek as a lamb.

'Can we manage without any more hocus-pocus from now on?' I asked as I emerged into the real world. My back was wet and my legs were trembling slightly.

'Can I stay in this form, watchman?' Arina asked in a low voice.

'What for?' I replied, unable to resist taking petty revenge. 'I've already seen the real you.'

'Who's to say what's real in this world?' Arina said pensively. 'It all depends on your point of view . . . Regard my request as simple female caprice, Light One.'

'And the attempt to enchant me – was that caprice too?'

Arina shot a bright, defiant glance at me and said:

'Yes. I realise that my Twilight appearance . . . but here and now, this is what I am! And I have all the human feelings. Including the desire to please.'

'All right, stay like that,' I growled. 'I can't say I'm exactly dreaming of a repeat performance . . . Remove the illusion from the magical objects.'

'As you wish, Light One.' Arina ran her hand over her hair, adjusting the style.

And the little house changed just a bit.

Now instead of the teapot, there was a small birch-wood tub standing on the table, with steam still rising from it. The TV was still there, but the wire no longer ran to an illusory power socket; instead it was stuck into a large brownish tomato.

'Clever,' I remarked, nodding at the TV. 'How often do you have to change the vegetables?'

'Tomatoes – every day,' the witch said with a shrug. 'A head of cabbage works for two or three days.'

I'd never seen such an ingenious way of producing electricity before. Sure, it's possible in theory, but in practice . . .

But I was more interested in the books in the bookcase. I walked over and took out the first small volume that came to hand, a slim one in a paper cover.

Hawthorn and Its Practical Use in Everyday Witchcraft.

The book had been printed on something like a rotary printer. Published the previous year. It gave the print run – two hundred copies. It even had an ISBN. But the publishing house was unfamiliar, TP Ltd.

'A genuine botanical text . . .

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