the substantial temptation and motives of personal gain . . .'

Oh, those Dark Ones! How they clung to their great power!

I closed the book and started walking round the yard. I looked into the barn again, and decided once more not to risk turning on the car's engine.

Fuaran and her book had existed. The witches had been certain of that. I had to allow for the possibility of a hoax, but in my heart I didn't really believe it.

So the theoretical possibility of transforming a human being into an Other did exist!

That made sense of what had happened at Assol. Gesar and Olga's son had been a human being – as Others' children usually were. That was why the Great Ones hadn't been able to find him. But when they had found him, they'd turned him into an Other, then set up the whole show . . . they hadn't even been afraid to deceive the Inquisition.

I lay down in the hammock and took out my minidisc player. Pressed the random selection switch and closed my eyes. I felt like switching off completely, filling my ears with something meaningless . . .

But I was unlucky. I got Picnic.

Oh no, this makes me want to laugh,

There is no window here, the door's corroded;

The Grand Inquisitor himself

Has come to torture me.

The Inquisitor squats down,

Picks up an instrument:

'Tell me everything you know,

And you'll feel better soon'.

I'm sure he wants to open me up

Like a simple suitcase, he knows one thing:

Even the very emptiest of the emptiest

Has a false bottom, a false bottom.

I don't enjoy coincidences like that. Even the most ordinary people can influence reality, they're just not capable of directing their power. Everybody's familiar with the feeling – when buses turn up just as you need them; when the songs playing on the radio link to your thoughts; when you get phone calls from people you were just thinking about . . . There is a very simple way of checking if you're getting close to the abilities of an Other. If for several days in a row when you happen to glance at the clock you see the figures 11.11, 22.22 or 00.00, it means your connection with the Twilight is becoming more intense. On days like that you shouldn't ignore your premonitions and intuitions.

But that's just small-scale human stuff. In Others the connection is just as unconscious as in people, but it's far more pronounced. I really didn't like the fact that the song about the Grand Inquisitor had turned up at precisely that moment . . .

If I had had more strength

I would have told him: 'Dear fellow,

I do not know who I am, where I am,

What forces rule this world;

And the labyrinths of long streets

Have snared my wandering feet . . .'

The Inquisitor does not trust me,

He gives the screw a turn

I'm sure he wants to open me up

Like a simple suitcase, he knows one thing:

Even the very emptiest of the emptiest

Has a false bottom, a false bottom.

Aha. And I would have liked to know what forces rule this world too . . .

Someone patted me gently on the shoulder.

'I'm not asleep, Sveta,' I said. And opened my eyes.

The Inquisitor Edgar shook his head, smiling reticently. I read his lips:

'Sorry, Anton, but I'm not Sveta.'

Despite the heat, Edgar was wearing a suit, a tie and polished shoes without a single speck of dust on them. And in these city clothes he still didn't look ridiculous. That's Baltic blood for you.

'What the hell!' I barked, tumbling out of the hammock. 'Edgar?'

Edgar waited patiently. I pulled out my earphones, caught my breath and declared:

'I'm on holiday. According to the rules, harassing an employee of the Night Watch while he is off duty . . .'

'Anton, I just dropped in to see you,' he replied. 'You don't mind, do you?'

I didn't dislike Edgar. He'd never be a Light One, but his move to the Inquisition inspired respect. If Edgar wanted to have a word with me, I'd be happy to meet him any time.

But not at the dacha where Sveta and Nadiushka were on holiday.

'Yes, I mind,' I said sternly. 'If you don't have an official warrant, get off my land!'

I pointed with an impossibly absurd gesture to the crooked picket fence. My land . . . what a grand-sounding phrase.

Edgar sighed. And slowly reached for something in his inside pocket.

I knew what it was. But it was too late to start back-pedalling now.

The warrant from the Moscow Office of the