only one reason.
That was it, the lead.
'Have you come up with something, Anton?' a voice asked
behind my back.
I turned round and looked into the black lenses of Kostya's glasses.
He was wearing just bathing trunks – appropriate attire for the beach
– and a child's white panama hat perched on the back of his head
like a skullcap (no doubt he'd taken it away from some toddler
without any qualms of conscience) as well as the dark glasses.
'Finding the sun hot?' I asked spitefully.
'It's oppressive. Hanging up there in the sky like a flat-iron . . .
Why, aren't you feeling hot?'
'Sure,' I admitted. 'But it's a different kind of heat.'
'Can we manage without the sarcasm?' Kostya asked. He sat
down on the sand and fastidiously tossed aside a cigarette butt
from near his feet. 'I only go swimming at night now. But this
time I came . . . to have a word with you.'
I felt ashamed. The person sitting in front of me was a moody
young man, it made no difference that he was undead. And I still
remembered the gloomy teenager hovering uncertainly at the door
of my apartment. 'You shouldn't invite me in, I'm a vampire, I
could come in the night and bite you . . .'
And that boy had held out for a pretty long time. He'd drunk
pig's blood and donors' blood. He'd dreamed of becoming alive
again. 'Like Pinocchio' – he must have read Collodi or seen the
movie AI , but anyway he'd found the right comparison.
If only Gesar hadn't detailed me to hunt vampires . . .
No, that was nonsense. Nature would have taken its course. And
Kostya would have been given his licence.
And in any case I had no right to scoff at him. I had one huge
advantage – I was alive.
I could approach old people without feeling ashamed. Yes,
without any shame, because Witiezslav hadn't been honest with
me. It wasn't fear or revulsion that had made him avoid the old
woman.
It was shame.
'Sorry, Kostya,' I said and lay down on the sand beside him.
'Let's talk.'
'It seems to me that the permanent residents at Assol have
nothing to do with it,' Kostya began gloomily. 'The client is only
there occasionally.'
'We'll have to check them all,' I said faking a sigh.
'That's only the start. We have to find the traitor.'
'We are looking.'
'I can see the way you're looking . . . Realised that he's one of
yours, have you?'
'How do you make that out?' I protested indignantly. 'Some
Dark One could quite easily have blundered . . .'
We discussed the situation for a while. We seemed to have
reached the same conclusions simultaneously.
Only now I was just half a step ahead. And I had no intention
of helping Kostya out.
'The letter was posted with the heap of letters that builder
brought to the post office,' said Kostya, not suspecting how cunning I was
being. 'Nothing could be easier. All those Gastarbeiter live in an
old school, they use it as a hostel. They put all their letters on the attendant's
table on the ground floor. In the morning someone goes to the post office
and posts them. It would be no problem for an Other to get into the hostel
and divert the attention of the attendant . . . or simply wait for him to
go to the toilet. Then drop the letter into the general pile. And there you
go! No leads.'
'Simple and effective,' I agreed.
'In the Light Ones' style,' Kostya said with a frown. 'Get someone
else to do the dirty work for you.'
For some reason I didn't take offence. I just smiled mockingly
and turned over on to my back, looking up at the sky and the
glorious yellow sun.
'Okay, we do the same . . .' Kostya muttered.
I didn't say anything.
'Come on, tell me, haven't you ever used people for your operations?'
Kostya asked crossly.
'Sometimes. Used them, but never put them in danger.'
'And in this case the Other has done exactly the same,' Kostya
said, forgetting his comment about the 'dirty work'.
'What I'm wondering is . . . does it make any sense to follow
this trail any further? So far the traitor has covered all his
That was it, the lead.
'Have you come up with something, Anton?' a voice asked
behind my back.
I turned round and looked into the black lenses of Kostya's glasses.
He was wearing just bathing trunks – appropriate attire for the beach
– and a child's white panama hat perched on the back of his head
like a skullcap (no doubt he'd taken it away from some toddler
without any qualms of conscience) as well as the dark glasses.
'Finding the sun hot?' I asked spitefully.
'It's oppressive. Hanging up there in the sky like a flat-iron . . .
Why, aren't you feeling hot?'
'Sure,' I admitted. 'But it's a different kind of heat.'
'Can we manage without the sarcasm?' Kostya asked. He sat
down on the sand and fastidiously tossed aside a cigarette butt
from near his feet. 'I only go swimming at night now. But this
time I came . . . to have a word with you.'
I felt ashamed. The person sitting in front of me was a moody
young man, it made no difference that he was undead. And I still
remembered the gloomy teenager hovering uncertainly at the door
of my apartment. 'You shouldn't invite me in, I'm a vampire, I
could come in the night and bite you . . .'
And that boy had held out for a pretty long time. He'd drunk
pig's blood and donors' blood. He'd dreamed of becoming alive
again. 'Like Pinocchio' – he must have read Collodi or seen the
movie AI , but anyway he'd found the right comparison.
If only Gesar hadn't detailed me to hunt vampires . . .
No, that was nonsense. Nature would have taken its course. And
Kostya would have been given his licence.
And in any case I had no right to scoff at him. I had one huge
advantage – I was alive.
I could approach old people without feeling ashamed. Yes,
without any shame, because Witiezslav hadn't been honest with
me. It wasn't fear or revulsion that had made him avoid the old
woman.
It was shame.
'Sorry, Kostya,' I said and lay down on the sand beside him.
'Let's talk.'
'It seems to me that the permanent residents at Assol have
nothing to do with it,' Kostya began gloomily. 'The client is only
there occasionally.'
'We'll have to check them all,' I said faking a sigh.
'That's only the start. We have to find the traitor.'
'We are looking.'
'I can see the way you're looking . . . Realised that he's one of
yours, have you?'
'How do you make that out?' I protested indignantly. 'Some
Dark One could quite easily have blundered . . .'
We discussed the situation for a while. We seemed to have
reached the same conclusions simultaneously.
Only now I was just half a step ahead. And I had no intention
of helping Kostya out.
'The letter was posted with the heap of letters that builder
brought to the post office,' said Kostya, not suspecting how cunning I was
being. 'Nothing could be easier. All those Gastarbeiter live in an
old school, they use it as a hostel. They put all their letters on the attendant's
table on the ground floor. In the morning someone goes to the post office
and posts them. It would be no problem for an Other to get into the hostel
and divert the attention of the attendant . . . or simply wait for him to
go to the toilet. Then drop the letter into the general pile. And there you
go! No leads.'
'Simple and effective,' I agreed.
'In the Light Ones' style,' Kostya said with a frown. 'Get someone
else to do the dirty work for you.'
For some reason I didn't take offence. I just smiled mockingly
and turned over on to my back, looking up at the sky and the
glorious yellow sun.
'Okay, we do the same . . .' Kostya muttered.
I didn't say anything.
'Come on, tell me, haven't you ever used people for your operations?'
Kostya asked crossly.
'Sometimes. Used them, but never put them in danger.'
'And in this case the Other has done exactly the same,' Kostya
said, forgetting his comment about the 'dirty work'.
'What I'm wondering is . . . does it make any sense to follow
this trail any further? So far the traitor has covered all his
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