Gesar snorted contemptuously and said: “Basically, the answers to both questions are elementary. He didn’t have any aura at all. He could hardly have concealed it from several Higher Others. And he appeared differently to each of us. That means he’s not a material entity, but merely reflected in our consciousness. And he’s ‘ours’ because he’s interested in the boy who is now under our protection.”

“Oh, so there’s no need for any answers, then?” Zabulon asked delightedly.

It sometimes seems to me that they could go on sparring like that forever.

“Answer Anton’s question,” said Gesar. “Why the ‘tiger’ is our problem.”

Zabulon nodded: “By all means. In my view, the real issue is not that he’s hunting the boy. Perhaps he merely wanted to pat him on the head and wish him luck in his fight for the cause of the Light? What is far more interesting is that the ‘tiger’ left after I made my appearance.”

“He didn’t want to fight on two fronts,” said Gesar, growing more somber with every second.

Zabulon burst into laughter.

“Too hopeful by far! I suspect that he didn’t wish to harm me.”

“A kindred spirit?” I asked.

“Oh, don’t be so childish, Anton!” Zabulon rebuked me. “When has that ever been a hindrance to Dark Ones? At the present moment the Day Watch is less powerful than you are. If he had annihilated all of us the Night Watch would simply have been exsanguinated, but the Day Watch would have been left practically dead.”

“Maintaining the balance is the Inquisition’s job,” said Gesar. “Is that what you’re hinting at?”

“No, Gesar. What I’m hinting at is that the balance is also maintained by the Twilight. This is a Twilight Creature. You may not believe in them, but . . .”

For a few seconds Gesar and Zabulon stared daggers at each other. I felt like saying: “Don’t bother—you’re not going to fight anyway!”—but I wasn’t sure that I would be right.

The situation was defused by the door of one of the flats opening. An old granny stuck her head out of the door slowly and solemnly, like a tortoise poking its head out of its shell. Actually, she wasn’t even fifty yet, but she looked like a genuine old woman, the caricature Russian “babushka” of the American and European imaginations—flabby and shapeless, wearing a sloppy housecoat, slippers over thick stockings, a headscarf. Incredible! You usually only see that kind of thing outside a church.

“What are you doing standing there?” the granny asked. “Get off my doormat, you pervert.”