“I’m not concerned about your invitation,” the policeman agreed, stepping back. His comrade, who had also been affected by the mild spell, backed away to allow me through.

And then I saw a familiar face ahead of me. This policeman hadn’t been affected by the spell, and now he was waving his arms, desperately trying to attract my attention.

Yes indeed. Anyone who has experienced magical compulsion tries not to repeat the experience.

“Hi, Dima,” I said, walking over to Pastukhov. “What are you doing here? It’s not your district, is it?”

“I’ve been shipped in with the reinforcements,” said the senior sergeant. Despite the cold weather, he was streaming with sweat. “Tell me, Anton—what’s happening?”

“A minor emergency,” I said dismissively. “Don’t bother your head about it, it’s our job.”

“And tell me, over there . . . behind you . . . is that . . . ?” He hesitated.

“A vampire,” I replied honestly. “Don’t worry, he’s on duty too. He’s bad, but not dangerous right now. He won’t do anything to anyone.”

“Can I stick with you?” Pastukhov implored me desperately. “I’m like one of the gang, right? I help you, we work together . . . I gave a lecture to your colleagues yesterday . . .”

Probably he simply didn’t want to stay near a vampire, even a “safe” one. But on the other hand . . . why not? There was something intriguing about the idea of working in tandem with a member of the human forces of law and order.

“Let’s go,” I said. “Only stay behind me and don’t interfere, all right?”

Pastukhov nodded and then crossed himself clumsily.

Valentin Loktev was a young man of rather unprepossessing appearance. The only noteworthy feature he possessed were his immense eyebrows, which reminded me of the former leader of the USSR, Leonid Brezhnev. But the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union also had a massive and impressive figure that somehow harmonized with his giant eyebrows—as well as a post that allowed him to determine people’s fate and the destiny of the entire world with a single flourish of them. But the beetle-browed Loktev was a skinny young guy with an otherwise absolutely ordinary appearance.

Maybe, of course, if he were to occupy a post like Brezhnev’s, that would lend him charisma, the way it so often happens.

Loktev was sitting well apart from the other spectators. As Pastukhov and I climbed up to him, I examined the audience curiously. They looked kind of dejected. Some rock band was performing on the stage, laying down frenzied heavy metal, and the spectators periodically seemed to come to life and start moving about . . . and then slump back into indifference again.

The Light Magician Valya Loktev was pumping their energy out of them. Pumping out the Power that was swirling about, mingled with positive emotions. And that is basically what every Schuchart does.