Jen opened the door and gave him a sharp nod. The hound screwed into the slot first, sniffed at Longsdale's face and hands, and tumbled onto the bedside mat. Nathan hesitated on the threshold, not knowing how to get around the gir... the but... the witch. She mockingly watched his torment, not moving, so that the commissar completely against his will examined her in detail. Her figure was no different from the young man one: lean, fit, sinewy, without signs of a bust and other roundness appropriate for a girl. Jen was very dark, with curly black hair, sharply defined cheekbones, eyebrows, jaw and with a thin sharp nose. In general, even without her mask, she looked more like a young man, especially because of the dark fluff above her upper lip and temples.
"Jen," the consultant said dryly. The witch finally stepped aside, and Brennon got inside.
"But now I know exactly how she looks," he thought sourly.
"Well, how are you?"
"I tracked him down."
"Um. This is good, but I meant you."
"Me?" Longsdale puzzled. Then his face reflected understanding. "Ah! Do not worry, he did not notice anything."
"Then why did he lunged on you?"
"He discovered my presence, not what I was doing."
"Did you find his den?"
"It's too risky. The ifrit will immediately change the den, hardly suspect that it was sought. Therefore, I..." he hesitated, trying to find words to explain something completely alien to human. "I... enchanted him," he said uncertainly. "Now I can follow his movements. That's why it took me so long."
"And strength," the witch added peevishly. "Found something to do - hang up the tracking spell on the ifrit! What if he guesses?"
"He doesn't," Longsdale sat back tiredly on the pillows. "I injected them into him when he tried to devour me."
"So that's what it was," Brennon said thoughtfully. "Why didn't he gobble you up, like Farrels?"
"Do you regret it?" Jen could not resist.
"I'm interested. I'm worried about his health, you know."
"Why? Because humans do that?" It sounded almost mocking, but Nathan caught the alarm for her sarcasm.
"Yes. Humans do that."
"Yeah," Jen grunted beneath her nose, "and they also call the ifrites and strangle dozens of children of their own tribe."
"We will get to this too. So, Longsdale, how are you feeling?"
"Me?" The consultant asked with endless surprise.
"Well, yes, you. The ifrit almost chewed you."
Longsdale thought so deeply that Brennon already thought he was sleeping with his eyes open.
"I'm fine," the consultant finally decided. "Although I need at least ten hours of sleep to fully recover."
"You will receive them. Tomorrow morning, I intend to talk with my niece, so until noon I will not need you," Nathan rubbed the whiskers. "By the way, what did the ifrit do with Farrells? Kennedy in the morgue nearly suffocated by the autopsy results."
"The ifrit consumed their vitality. They used to say "drink a soul", but technically..."
"What's that?"
"The vitality is what holds the soul in a living body. The soul flies away when they dry out."
"What a off-color description of death," Brennon shook his head. "And you?"
"What about me?"
"Well, why didn't he eat you?"
"Because evil spirits cannot kill me," Longsdale answered, without hesitation.
"Physically. Your body is tenacious, I saw it myself. But what prevents him from drinking a soul? Deprive you of these same vitalities, huh?"
The consultant fell silent bewildered. He fingered the fringe on the bedspread, looked at the hound, then at the commissar, then at the witch, bit his lip - and was silent.
"Why are you doing this at all?" Brennon finally asked.
"What?"
"All this. Why are you hunting for them? Even if you cannot be killed, are you really pleased when they try? Let everything heal on you, like on a hound - what do you climb to them?"
"Because it is necessary."
"Necessary for whom?"
"Necessary," Longsdale said. "I need to hunt for them."
"But why do you need it?"
"I must."
"Whom? Who told you that?"
"I have to, because I have to," the consultant repeated stubbornly, like a child. "I always hunted them."
The witch pulled herself up tightly, but as soon as she opened her mouth to intervene, the hound bared his fangs at her.
"Always is sixty years old?" Brennon waited for a bewildered nod and asked: "And before that?"
"What before that?"
"Before the hunt - what did you do? Did you learn this? Have you been recruited? How did you do this?"
"I don't remember," Longsdale answered after a long pause.
"Well, childhood, youth, girls, buddies - huh?"
"No," the consultant said quietly. "I do not remember. I have always hunted. Always."
"Because it is necessary," Brennon stood up. "Okay. Get a load. And the ifrit doesn't scratch anything from your introduced charms?"
"It shouldn't. Its structure..."
"Don't!" Nathan hurried. "Have a rest. You still have a code in your notebook."
"I'll take care tomorrow. Raiden, take the Commissar to his room."
Brennon sadly recalled that today he was not sleeping at home. And it didn't make sense to drag home to his home - after a few hours it was already necessary to return to the department.
"Why are you doing this?" The witch hissed as they left the bedroom. "Do you have nothing more to do?"
"He asked for it."
"He?"
"And didn't you notice," the commissar carefully looked at the girl. "Really in five years you have never seen that second man?"
Jen was silently wary, avoiding his gaze.
"None of your business," she finally grunted defiantly.
"Okay, not mine," Nathan agreed easily. "Let him suffer like this until he gets twisted right during the hunt. No one can't kill him, but burn him to the ground if you hurry..."
"He lived sixty years without you," the witch said through set teeth, "and will continue to live."
"That is, this other one is not talking with you."
"What the hell are you screwing with..."
"I'm not screwing," the Commissar said. "Not yet asked. You heard that."
The witch looked at him from underneath, tapping her hand with her fist.
"I am not doing this to harm," Nathan continued. "I owe him a debt for Martha's family, and any request he makes..."
"I know," Jen interrupted unexpectedly. "I know that sometimes he changes. But the other never tells me when this happens."
"And you do not ask."
"I'm not screwing with something even when they ask me," she answered dryly. "If not my business."
Nathan decided not to squeeze, seeing that a grain of doubt was sown. Now he has to wait until it come into ear. The commissar followed the witch, grimly reflecting on how someone managed to completely erase Longsdale's memory.
"He doesn't even think about it. It doesn't even occur to him to think! But how, then, does the other sometimes get through?"
In addition, Brennon was harassed by Farrels, more precisely, that the ifrit tried unsuccessfully to try the same trick with Longsdale. After all, the consultant could not give an explanation... as a barrier in his head - " I can't be killed," and that's all. Further thought does not pass.
"Please, sir," the witch opened the bedroom door in front of the Commissar and followed him with the gaze of the sentry. "Do you want dinner? Tea? Hot bath?"
"Can somebody erase a person's memory?"
Jen's cut eyebrow rose.
"And do you already need? Memories can be erased."
"Not memories. All. Can someone erase it clean? All... All personality," Nathan finally determined the subject matter. The witch frowned.
"Generally, probably, you can," she answered reluctantly. "But I have no idea how. Although about jokes with the brain and consciousness, I am not a master. I'm more about brawling and interrogating with broken fingers."
Nathan suddenly remembered how he had treated her and about the fight in the restaurant. Although he did not know!..
"How are you?" He coughed, embarrassed.
"I will not refuse to repeat."
The embarrassed coughing turned into a faint hiss and died away. Nathan stealthily once again examined the witch from head to toe, quenched the desire to cross himself and muttered:
"This... that... sorry for the morning. I did not know."
"Oh, really, don't spoil everything!" Jen exclaimed cheerfully and, snorting with laughter, slammed the door behind her. Brennon sat down on the bed and clasped his head in his hands.
7th January
The morning was cold and clear. Margaret walked along the footpath, collecting broken branches of bushes and trees into a basket. Glass sometimes crackled underfoot - the whole garden in front of the living room was cut with shards of windows. The servants avoided this place, and Miss Sheridan could think in peace and quiet.
"He is at most forty years old. When did he manage to find out all this? When did he learn to do all these things, all these weapons, potions and amulets? And how does he supply consultants with them if he so carefully avoids them?"
And, Lord, it's not he himself who stands behind the gunsmith's machine, grinding details! For this, his hands are too beautiful, obviously never knowing hard work.
"Even if he filled his head with knowledge from about ten years old, how much time should it take to learn all this even at least in the basics?!"
Margaret picked up a few pieces of brick. And is he forty? In general, his age baffled the girl - sometimes it seemed to her that it was more dependent on how tired Angel was than on the number of years lived. And how many these years were in reality? Thirty, how did she decide when he came to her bedroom for the first time? Or in his forties, when he drove off the ifrit from her house?
"Maybe he is not human either?"
Miss Sheridan no longer doubted Mr. Longsdale and his butler, but Angel had too human eyes, almost the same as Margaret herself. Slowly, step by step, she went in the memory over everything that she had found about him from their first meeting, when suddenly an impatient long whistle interrupted her thoughts. The girl turned to the sound and shied away like a frightened cat - a Longsdale's butler was found outside the gate and demanded her attention with sharp gestures. He did not approach the gate: Margaret personally painted the anti-witch's sign on the back of one of the forged rosettes. Yesterday, Angel captiously checked everything that she depicted on the windows and doors, and made her fix the mistakes. Thank God!
Margaret was already considering whether to scream louder or just toss a brick at a visitor, as an uninvited guest hissed loudly:
"Come here, stupid girl!"
"Fat chance," the girl said coldly, groping for a piece of brick in the basket.
"I won't do anything to you. Come here, you need to talk!"
"About what, for example?"
"Hey, hey, hey!" the butler was worried, noticing that she was looking for something in the basket. "Calm down! I came to exchange!"
"What?"
Raiden moved cautiously to the gate.
"Your uncle is coming here to interrogate you about this friend of yours."
"What?!" Margaret shouted and immediately closed her mouth with her hand. "How did he find out?" She hissed from under her glove.
"He did not recognize, he guessed. Therefore, I offer an exchange - I will not tell anyone about your tricks with this tough, and you keep stum that I came to you."
"Here is how?" Miss Sheridan answered coldly. "Or vice versa - I won't say that you tried to strangle me, and you will forget about my guest?"
Raiden gave her a mocking look from head to toe.
"We hiss? Scratch? You cannot dictate terms to me."
"Even as I can. Or burn me right here, or let's check who uncle will believe in the first place."
He gazed steadily at Margaret, forced his nose into the air, sniffed, and uttered in surprise:
"Oo-er, you're still a virgin. Damn it. I thought he poked you off right after... Okay, demon is with you. It's a done deal!"
Margaret squeezed a brick. She did not understand the meaning of his remark, but was sure that it was offensive.
"Lets go faster!" the butler looked around nervously. "He will be here soon, but I do not want to be caught here!"
"Swear on your blood," Miss Sheridan demanded through her teeth.
"That's all he told you," Raiden snapped. "Horseradish educator! Instead of fucking... well, I swear by my blood that I will not tell your uncle about this man in your house."
"Fine," the girl nodded. "I'm not keeping you any longer."
"And you?!"
"Rely on my honest word," Margaret answered vengefully, "and my care of my good name."
"Oh you!.."
Miss Sheridan did not understand the words following, but she had no time to stop and clarify their meaning. She picked up her skirts and ran to the house. Throwing a basket at the back door, the girl rushed to her room, tearing off her hat, gloves and unbuttoning her coat on the go. A sudden hunch struck her. In the bedroom, Margaret pulled by the hairpin a blank carte from the gap between the headboard and the bed mattress that Angel left her and quickly wrote:
"Uncle guessed about you. He is coming to me.
I am silent, but be careful! "
At first, nothing happened. Margaret already wanted to put it behind the mirror frame in the dressing room (well, suddenly?!), and then the text began to melt, as if a business card was sucking it in. The girl darted to the window: there was no longer a butler at the gate, but a police carriage drove up. The business card warmed up, an inscription appeared on it:
"I see. I will do it."
"What?!" the girl hurriedly scribbled. "Sit still!"
Uncle got out of the carriage and strode to the house.
"Do not be afraid," the following answer appeared, outraging Margaret to the core, "he will not have time to do anything to you."
" He won't do it to me, but he'll do it to you!"
In the hallway by the bedroom steps were heard. The girl did not have time to read the answer, hurriedly unfastened several buttons on her sleeve and slipped the business card under the cuff. There was a knock on the door.
"Yes?" Margaret shouted, frantically buttoning her buttons.
"Miss, you're being called to Mister Sheridan's office," the maid said.
Dad was sitting at the table; opposite him, Uncle Nathan stretched out in a chair. Father gloomily twisted the unceasing pen and looked at his daughter frowningly. He was so clearly upset that the girl finally felt a prick of conscience.
"Sit down, Peg. Your uncle intends to ask you a few questions," Dad cast a menacing look at the Commissar. Margaret felt gratitude to the butler for the first time - if her uncle had attacked her unexpectedly, she could have betrayed something.
"Yes, dad," the girl sat in an armchair. Uncle coughed.
"Joseph, I would ask..."
"I don't want to leave my daughter alone with the police Commissar."
"I will not compromise her in any way," Nathan replied softly. "And I don't blame her for anything."
"What's the matter? Uncle, what do you want from me?"
"I'll just ask you a few questions, Peg. Joseph, please."
Father reluctantly went out, grunting: "Do it in half an hour, please." Uncle turned his chair to Margaret and said in confidence:
"Peg, I will try not to worry your parents by retelling them our conversation. But you have to honestly answer all my questions, okay, honey?"
"Of course, uncle," Margaret said with a trembling voice. "What happened? Has anyone else... been hurt?"
"Fortunately, not yet. Let's get back to the day you arrived at Saint Helena's Church. Tell me again, from the beginning."
Margaret often thought about this, so it was not difficult to repeat everything again. Yesterday, sitting in the bedroom waiting for the ifrit, they also discussed his strange behavior that day.
"Evil spirits don't do that," Angel said. "She does not obey mortals and does not go out to breathe fresh air. Nevertheless, the ifrit didn't eat anyone that day. So he didn't hunt. Then why did he go out?"
"Maybe he is also looking for the one who called him?" Margaret suggested uncertainly.
"Usually, evil spirits consume the summoning mortal first. But they will not look for him. The ifrit does not need it. He does not depend on who pulled him from other side."
"Well, maybe he was busy there. He was courting some the ifritessa. And then they grab him, distract him..."
Wrinkles gathered from Angel's eyes from a smile.
"Oh no, Margaret, he does not take revenge. However, no evil spirits will refuse a richly served table. Since he did not gobble up anyone, it means that something else brought him out of the temple."
"Good," uncle said when she finished. "Are you sure there was a creature in the Church?"
"Yes."
"And in front of the church? Has anyone behaved strangely?"
"No," Margaret frowned, remembering. "No, I would have noticed. Everyone just stood and stared."
"Nobody tried to come closer?"
"No."
"And the police? Did any of them do anything unusual?"
"No. They just dragged a stretcher from the church and that's it."
"Okay," the uncle paused, looking at her intently. "Peg, what did you do near Mister Longsdale's house at night?"
The girl jumped up.
"Uncle!"
"His butler saw you. Don't deny it."
The gratitude to this creep instantly evaporated, although Margaret noticed that the commissar had spoken word "butler" with a little uncertainly.
"The saddest thing is that the ifrit also saw you there."
"What, also testified?" The girl asked irritably. Because of this, Angel had already turned her bedroom into a bunker under a magic cap, and there was not enough real arrest!
"Peggy!" The Commissar sternly rebuffed her. "This is not a joke! What did you do there? How did you end up there? Do you even understand that you could die like Farrells, if not for Raiden?"
"Yeah, of course," Miss Sheridan thought venomously, bended her brows, and, lowering her eyes, muttered:
"I just escaped from house arrest. You know, I don't like being locked up! But I took Miss Thay with me and just went to the cafe, what's wrong?"
"To the cafe "Shell", and Victor van Allen confirmed your presence with the companion. And then? How did you even end up on the street?"
Margaret paused, choosing between "The cafe was terrifying as stuffy" and the truth.
"Well, I..." she took in air. "I knew that Mister Longsdale's house was nearby, and I wanted to see. Just look, honestly!"
"At night? Peg, what are you thinking?! A girl cannot roam the streets alone at night! God alone knows what could happen to you!"
The girl looked down and sighed woefully.
"Where have you been and what have you seen?"
"I noticed something strange and hid in the alley between the houses."
"What?"
"I do not remember."
"And then?"
Margaret tried to describe the appearance of the ifrit, missing nothing
"Did you see anyone before Raiden appeared?"
"No," the girl answered dauntlessly. "Well, was there anyone else?"
The Commissar looked at her probingly. Miss Sheridan looked down again and whispered:
"Mister Longsdale?" here she managed to successfully pink. "Would he really complain?"
"No," the uncle said dryly, "although your interest in him is obsessive to the edge of decency."
"But then who do you mean?"
"Never mind."
"But you ask!"
"Peggy, do you even understand that there could be someone who had already killed father Grace and..." the commissar sharply fell silent.
"And fourteen children," Margaret said quietly. "You think I could see him. But I didn't notice anyone. Even he was there, how would I see him behind the ifrit with his fire and smoke?"
"You would have seen it if you had stood nearby."
The girl blinked, and uncle noticed it. His gaze became sharper.
"And where do you think I could meet him?" She hissed through gritted teeth. "Or are you implying that I meet a man at night? Maybe you still ask about my honor and good name?"
"Well, Peg..."
"Is that why you didn't want to ask me questions in front of dad?" Margaret asked angrily and stood up. "But I have nothing to be ashamed of! And you - how could you think such a thing about me?!"
Uncle softened. Neither tears nor fainting could convince him better than a flash of indignation - and Margaret knew that the sudden sobs on her part would more likely have aroused his suspicions.
"Alright, alright. Go to your place, Peggy, and don't scare us like that anymore."
"Of course! Now mom ban me in the room right before marriage!" the girl ran out of the office. She noticed her father down in the hall, but did not go down, but immediately rushed to her room. Dad dashed upstairs to the office - apparently, to talk heart to heart with his uncle.
Margaret flew into her room, warmly thanked God for the lack of a companion and jerked open the wardrobe door. Angel turned to her and gave such a long tenacious look that threw the girl into the paint.
"I knew it! Are you completely crazy? What if they catch you here?!"
"He did nothing to you?" Angel said half-interrogatively. Miss Sheridan gasped in indignation:
"He is my uncle!"
"So what? Inquisitors interrogated even own sisters with partiality."
The girl did not even figure out how to answer this. He, too, was silent, still looking her from head to toe, as if he was still looking for denigrating traces of the Commissar.
"Listen," Margaret closed the door. "I keep thinking about this Strangler. Why didn't he cause the ifrit right away, eight years ago? Was he missing something?"
"No. He had one last sacrifice to make."
"Then why didn't he? Maybe someone scared the Strangler, and now the ifrit is looking for this someone? Maybe, he crawled out of the temple that day precisely because he wanted to find this..." here the girl stumbled. This human? Unlikely...
"This creature," Angel said slowly, his eyes suddenly flashing. "But what kind of creature is this? Where is he hiding and why didn't he show himself in all these eight years?"
"Well, maybe he's already gone."
"No, the ifrit is looking for, looking!" Angel excitedly darted through the dressing room, like a squirrel in a cage. "He was exactly looking for then, the first time we... I met him!"
Margaret's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"This is when YOU met him for the first time?"
Redfern blinked several times, realizing that he had let slip somewhere, said:
"I need to check who it can be," and turned to the mirror.
"Hey!"
He quickly mumbled under his breath. Margaret tried to catch his hand, but Angel deftly dodged and ducked into the mirror, like a fish into an ice hole.
"Rat!" She hissed and returned to the bedroom. Out of the window, the girl saw an uncle who was getting into a carriage, and sighed wistfully, feeling that she had remained on the sidelines of life.