"Sergei Lukyanenko - Night Watch 03 - Twilight Watch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lukjanenko Sergey)

The void laughed again. "No. Werewolves' frenzies aren't linked to the lunar cycle. You'd be able to sense
the onset of the madness ten or twelve hours before the moment of transformation. But no one can draw
up a precise timetable for you."
"That won't do," the man said frostily. "I repeat my... request. I wish to become an Other. Not one of the
lower Others who are overwhelmed by fits of bestial insanity. Not a great magician, involved in great
affairs. A perfectly ordinary, rank-and-file Other . . . how does that classification of yours go?
Seventh-level?"
"It's impossible," the night replied. "You don't have the abilities of an Other. Not even the slightest trace.
You can teach someone with no musical talent to play the violin. You can become a sportsman, even if you
don't have any natural aptitude for it. But you can't become an Other. You're simply a different species. I'm
very sorry."
The man on the embankment laughed. "Nothing is ever impossible. If the lowest form of Others is able to
initiate human beings, then there must be some way a man can be turned into a magician."
The dark night said nothing.
"In any case, I didn't say I wanted to be a Dark Other. I don't have the slightest desire to drink innocent
people's blood and go chasing virgins through the fields, or giggle ghoulishly as I lay a curse on someone,"
the man said testily. "I would much rather do good deeds ... and in general, your internal squabbles mean
absolutely nothing to me!"
TWILIGHT WATCH 7
"That..." the night began wearily.
"It's your problem," the man replied. "I'm giving you one week. And then I want an answer to my request."
"Request?" the night queried.
The man on the embankment smiled. "Yes. So far I'm only asking."
He turned and walked toward his car—a Russian Volga, the model that would be back in fashion again in
about six months.
Chapter 1
Even if you love your job, the last day of vacation always makes you feel depressed. Just one week earlier
I'd been roasting on a nice clean Spanish beach, eating paella (to be quite honest, Uzbek pilaf is better),
drinking cold sangria in a little Chinese restaurant (how come the Chinese make the Spanish national drink
better than the natives do?) and buying all sorts of rubbishy resort souvenirs in the little shops.
But now it was summer in Moscow again—not exactly hot, but stifling and oppressive—and it was that
final day of vacation, when you can't get your head to relax anymore, but it flatly refuses to work.
Maybe that was why I felt glad when I got the call from Gesar.
"Good morning, Anton," the boss began, without introducing himself. "Welcome back. Did you know it was
me?"
I'd been able to sense Gesar's calls for some time already. It was as if the trilling of the phone changed
subtly, becoming more demanding and authoritative.
But I was in no rush to let the boss know that.
"Yes, Boris Ignatievich."
"Are you alone?"
An unnecessary question. I was certain Gesar knew perfectly well where Svetlana was just then.
"Yes. The girls are at the dacha."
TWILIGHT WATCH 9
"Good for them," the boss sighed at the other end of the line, and an entirely human note appeared in his
voice. "Olga flew off on vacation this morning too . . . half the Watch staff are sunning themselves in
southern climes . . . Think you could come around to the office right away?"
Before I had time to answer, Gesar went on cheerily. "Well, that's excellent! See you in forty minutes,
then."
I really felt like calling Gesar a cheap poser—after I hung up, of course. But I kept my mouth shut. In the
first place, the boss could hear what I said without any telephone. And in the second, whatever else he