"What do you mean, no?" The commissar asked frowningly. The chief of police blew a thick cloud of cigar smoke into the ceiling.
"No, it means no, Brennon. City Hall forbids the eviction of residents from houses around the church of Saint Helena, so as not to cause panic among the civilian population."
"And what does it, this City Hall, advise us to do in return?"
"Increase the number of police in cordon."
"Brilliant. Right now I'll get extra ones out of the air," Nathan's opinion about the city's fathers, already low, quickly fell below zero. "Sir, in addition to mine, there are three more bureau in the department. Everyone needs people, everyone works. I can't take them away, just because..."
"Do you think I did not give the mayor all these arguments and many others? I would, damn it, gladly give them an excursion to our morgue, to the bodies of Farrels and their servants, but that is what it is. There'll be no evacuation. I will not reduce the number of policemen in the cordon either, I promise you that. If the church starts..." Broyd chewed the cigar and thought. "Some kind of rubbish will begin, then I'll even increase them. But that's all for now."
"And thanks for that, sir. I posted a schedule of duty at the church. And this..." Nathan coughed. "Maybe what compensation?"
"Buy them candy," Broyd took a deep drag, hiding behind the smoke. "Did Longsdale get better after yesterday?"
"Yes, sir. He's busy working with the code in the book and something about Grace."
"I read," the chef tapped the folder with his finger. "You want to establish whether he is alive or dead. But you, as I see, no longer doubt that the corpse in the temple is Grace?"
"Not really, sir. I am sure that Grace was only a performer, otherwise, he would have long ago found a way to end the ritual and cause the ifrit. It is very likely that it was the second half of the Strangler that finally brought the matter to an end and sacrificed Grace. But there is another option: Grace could well have killed the other half and started on the run. After all, somehow he stopped the second eight years ago."
"You still think that it was Grace who prevented the accomplice, guessing that he was going to sacrifice him."
"Well, who else, sir? There are all kinds of external circumstances - from prison to illness - but..."
"Or Longsdale is right, and someone scared them."
Nathan sighed heavily.
"Well, who? Who, sir? Heavenly angel?"
"That second sorcerer that you write so fervently about in your report."
"This is just an assumption! And then, did he scare them off for eight years and then stop?"
"He might have left for a while."
"Yeah, he came back, found a mess and let's protect the innocent and punish the guilty," Nathan thought. "Although there is something in it. Not for nothing that this guy is always in the right place at the right time."
"You see."
"I don't see a damn yet," the Commissar muttered grimly. "I'll catch this sorcerer, talk to him heart to heart - then I'll see."
"I know you don't like the interference with the investigation, but think - if not for him, what would happen to your family?"
"Exactly, sir. I dislike gratuitous acts of kindness even more. How do I know why he did this? Was it to show me the bill later?"
Broyd frowned.
"Okay, go," he finally decided. "Just look - maybe it's safer to catch this thug in the company with Longsdale."
"Maybe," Brennon did not argue. And if you take the butler, then there will generally be children's fun...
On the stairs Dwyer waylaid the commissar and immediately issued:
"Sir, we have something interesting in Grace's house. Remember, in his office the whole wall was set aside under bookcases? So, there on each shelf there are marks at equal intervals."
"What kind?" Nathan became interested. The detective handed him the piece of paper:
"Here, I copied a couple of pieces."
The commissar dug into the paper like a tick - he recognized the Elladian letters.
"How did you find them?"
"Well, you told me to search everything. I decided that the books should be removed so that the cabinets could be tapped, suddenly where is the cache? So these signs were hidden under the books. He was a strange guy, sir. On the inside of the covers, each book has its own code. But to see it, you need to tear off this cover. Why, sir?"
"Have a sample?"
"On the flip side, sir."
Nathan stared at the few lines that Dwyer had rewritten, and something began to flash in his head.
"The carriage," the commissar said abruptly. "We're going to Grace's house."
"Yes, sir," Dwyer boomed with sad humility, squinted at the window, behind which the inky darkness of the night had already thickened, and sighed. "Still, sir, I interrogated the neighbors and parishioners about the repairs, as you ordered. It was so. A little more than seven years ago - they shifted the floors. In winter or late fall."
"Of course," Nathan said through set teeth. "The last Strangler victim was found on the seventeenth of November fifty-six."
Dwyer squinted at the Commissar, but said nothing. Brennon poked into the office, pulled off his coat, scarf, hat from the hanger and, without letting go of the piece of paper, somehow dressed on the way to the waiting room. It is clear that for the complete picture all ciphers and all signs are needed, but the point, the point!
" This is how one should be afraid of an accomplice in order to be so confused."
Although why not? If Grace was only a performer, it is not surprising that an accomplice who was able to use his magic to hide his face and pull out evil spirit from other side caused him not just fear, but horror.
"But then Grace would definitely not be able to stop him - ain't got the guts, fear is strong... or so strong that Grace killed him? But how?"
The commissar ran off the porch, tore the carriage door and almost hit of it with all his strength, when Raiden emerged from the gloom and deafly asked: "Where?"
"Y-you!.." it burst out from Brennon. The witch again covered herself with her mask. And damn it, you can not distinguish her from a guy!
"Where are you going?" the butler (the girl… the witch…) repeated. Lord, what's the punishment!..
"Work!" the commissar snapped, who did not like to be questioned, not him. "Dwyer, into the carriage!"
"I'm with you!" Reiden immediately declared.
"Like hell!"
"The Strangler," the butler reminded. "Witchcraft. Attempts. Security."
"Ugh," Brennon frowned. "Okay, get on."
While the carriage first rolled, and then jolted through the streets of Blackwhit, Nathan decided to clarify a couple of questions:
"What do you have about Grace?"
"Perish," Raiden announced ominously. "And he real gone - even in the form of a ghoul you can't alive he anymore."
"That is, the chances that the skeleton in the church belongs to he are increasing. Good. What about the code?"
"Mister Longsdale is trying different methods..."
"Can the key to the cipher be in the house?"
"Yes," Raiden answered thoughtfully. "Of course. But haven't you already searched everything there?"
"Not all. They found something today." Brennon handed him (her?) a piece of paper and nodded to Dwyer to explain the situation. True, the Commissar realized that it was dark in the carriage, but the witch did just fine.
"Interesting," she muttered. "It seems that the second piece of the Strangler has never been in his house, since the pater decided to hide the key in his home."
"It is understandable," Dwyer spoke in a bass. "Random witnesses, housekeeper, this and that..."
"The main thing is that he did not spare so much effort and time on his cipher."
"Do you think he repented?" Raiden grunted (no, better still Jen...)
"I think he did not want to become an honorable victim. Although number two had somehow seduced him."
"Why seduce?" the witch objected. "Threats are no worse."
"Blackmail," Dwyer gave a voice.
"It's the good thing to," the commissar agreed, and here was a thoughtful silence in the carriage.
The priest's house was shrouded in deep darkness - nowhere is a spark. This is the first thing that caught in Brennon's eyes, as soon as he leaned out of the carriage.
"Where is everyone?" He asked the detective sharply.
"On duty, sir."
"Which?"
Dwyer peered out the window, sworn and pulled a revolver out of its holster. The witch raised her head interestedly and sniffed.
"It doesn't smell like evil spirits," she reported.
"And the people? Is there an ambush here?" The commissar asked. In general, there was a hell of a place for an ambush, and he also pulled out a weapon.
"No," Jen answered after a second. "There's nobody here."
"Then go out. One by one."
They crept quietly along the carriage and the sorrel pair, hiding behind the horses from anyone who might be watching them from the house. A policeman on a gantry was already holding a shotgun on his lap.
"No one at the porch, sir," Dwyer whispered.
"How much did you leave?"
"Three. Porch, back door, one on guard inside."
"Look!" suddenly Raiden hissed. With his head up, he gazed steadily at the windows on the second floor. "The light flickers behind the shutters."
"I do not see."
"There. Right there! A pale strip on the windowsill! This is not a candle, the light is white."
"Grace's office, sir," Dwyer said quietly.
"So," Nathan checked to see if the folding knife was in place. "You go ahead. Look for witch traps and other crap. I followed. Dwyer closing. Move on."
The witch slid silently at night to the gate; it was covered, but not locked. There were no traces on the cleanly swept path, and a mysterious visitor did not stomp around the snow.
"There's the bell," Jen rustled out of the darkness. "And your policeman. Sack out like a groundhog."
Brennon leaned over: Kelly was fast asleep, curled up in the middle of the porch.
"The bell," the witch pointed to a dim whitish spark under the visor. "Our guest will find out as soon as we enter. This thing is not alone."
"Dwyer, back door. Just look and that's it."
The detective nodded. He moved silently, despite the growth and physique of the bear. Jen watched him approvingly.
"Can you do something?" Nathan poked a muzzle at the bell. The witch thought for a moment.
"We need to find everything," she said finally. "It's like a network with bells. Tear one - everyone will ring."
"And if we just break inside? The effect of surprise?"
"Are you in this door, your bear in another?" Butler's eyes flashed excitedly. "I'm in the window. Nice, but we don't know who is inside."
"Now we'll find out. Well?"
"Asleep," Dwyer reported. "I didn't touch anything."
"Well, you're in the door, I'm in the window?" The witch asked impatiently.
"No," said Brennon. "You are an unpleasant surprise."
***
"Heeey?" The commissar called, opening the door. "Is there someone alive? Missis Evans? Reilly? Anyone?"
If an unknown cracker heard him, then he did not betray himself. Silence would reign in the house, if not for the snoring of policeman Reilly, who had been overcome by an irresistible dream right on the rug by the fireplace in the living room.
"No one," Nathan concluded sadly and went into the living room. Reilly slept so sweetly that he envied him. "Missis Evans? Heeey!"
He leaned toward the policeman and caught a faint, intoxicating smell on his face. Wincing, Brennon was ambushed behind an armchair. In the end, there was only one staircase down, and it is clearly visible through the open doors of the living room. Another way to get out of the house, burgl...
There was a crackle from above, the sound of broken glasses, a short furious scream and a shot. The commissar jumped to his feet and rushed to the stairs. Upstairs, he managed to notice a tall and thin black figure, then something puffed, boomed, and Dwyer with a roar, "Siiirrrrrrr!" knocked Brennon to the floor. Already lying down, the commissar heard the detective crash his whole body into a closet in the hallway and, judging by the crack of a tree, broke it. The smell of a dope spread in the air, and Nathan squeezed his mouth and nose with his sleeve. A black figure darted down the stairs. The commissar jumped up, but this bastard, flying past, sprayed something on his face, and Brennon completely lost his orientation in space for several seconds. Everything around was covered with gray fog, his eyes pinched, and only a stream of icy air from the open door brought the commissar back to life a little. Stumbling, he rushed for lost prey; behind Dwyer with a roar, like a real bear, crawled out from under the wreckage of a cabinet.
Nathan crashed into a door jamb, fell onto the porch, stumbled over Kelly and rolled head over heels into the snow. Through the fog and tears in his eyes, he saw a vague long spot, that took the fence at a run, and howled with rage. But then a second, no less vague spot, swooped down on this spot from above. Both collapsed from the fence into the street; a powerful hand raked the commissar by the scruff of the neck and put he on his feet. Around everything swam and swayed, tears rolled down the physiognomy of the river, his eyes hurt, his throat burned.
"Sir?" Dwyer buzzed carefully. "Take a snowball."
First, he scrubbed the Brennon's face of a scarf, then - with snow.
"Thanks," he croaked. "Wh-h-here?.."
The detective poked a finger. Nathan finally heard the ear-caressing sounds of a fight. Behind the fence it flashed with purple, then with fiery red, a fierce cry rang out (it is not clear whose). Brennon gathered his strength and with the help of Dwyer reached the gate.
In the cafe, the witch took four minutes to knock down the five bandits, the more Nathan was surprised that the only cracker was on his feet and was still fighting off. True, the Commissar forbade Jen to burn him...
The witch launched a ball of fire across the snow. The snow boiled, the cracker bounced off, slipped in the liquid porridge formed under his feet, and Jen rushed at him with one leap, like a lynx. He fell, and the witch grabbed his hand, in which he was holding something like a long knife - Brennon did not see what it was. They drove through the snow slurry, there was a sound of a blow, and Jen's head shook. In the commissar the remnants of a good upbringing was boiling up, but then the witch unscrewed the offender's arm at such an angle that he twitched his whole body, pulled out a knife from it and slammed it with a hilt into the enemy physiognomy. The night visitor was flat in the snow, and Jen, clutching his hands with her knees, clung to his throat.
"Jen!!" Brennon howled hoarse, fearing that this addicted nature would deprive him of a witness, or even a suspect. The girl got up from the body in a couple of seconds, took the booty by the scruff of his neck and dragged he to Nathan.
"F*** a duck," Dwyer said, filling with respect. "Shut the front door! Sturdy guy."
Brennon swallowed several times. In the end, the pinched male vanity surrendered and crawled into the depths of the soul. The witch, with the appearance of a cat who caught a rat for her beloved master, threw the body at the commissar's feet.
"Have you seen?" She handed the knife to him, and Nathan recognized the long trihedral blade.
"Into the house," the commissar hissed. "Quickly!"
***
"He tried to run through the mirror," Jen said.
"Mggs?" the commissar mumbled, who had already lost the ability to be surprised. The witch nodded at the broken shutters and shards of windows and mirrors sparkling on the bedroom floor. Dwyer poured warm water into the cup of the chief - while Jen searched the captive bound by enchantment, the detective took care to kindle the hearth in the kitchen and warm the kettle. Nathan meanwhile dragged himself to the second floor and somehow inspected the crime scene.
"I broke everything," the girl said, and frowned. "This is a rather complicated kind of magic. I mean, a walk between the mirrors. I did not know that a human can so freely roam back and forth, and not crawl from point A to point B along the same path."
Brennon jabbed the burglar of the boot's toe. Dwyer gave a candle to Nathan, and the Commissar leaned lower, looking at who was caught. It was a man (Brennon hoped that this one was real), tall, thin, but sinewy, with a long torso, long legs, and most importantly - long arms.
This one could reach with a smallsword from a cane, the commissar thought. His goods were laid out on the bed: a twelve-inch trihedral with a scabbard which attached to the back of the belt; a black revolver with gray symbols spiraling around a muzzle; a small bandoleer for a dozen bullets; a hip holster for that; a belt in which bottles with some compositions were scattered across the cells; a thin ring made of an alloy of silver, gold and metal still unknown to Nathan; black flat medallion in the form of some sign on a chain, all of blued steel; a silver watch, inside of which gears, clock hands, rings spun, and a red ball ran wildly. And a couple of white handkerchiefs from expensive fabric, but without a single mark, embroidery or initial.
"Is this your co-brother witcher?" Brennon asked.
"No," the witch answered confidently. "He is not one of us. He is a human."
"Well, at least something pleases," Dwyer muttered.
"Did he make the lock on the church?"
"Yes."
Brennon rubbed his beard. The noddle was still hellishly cracking, and they poured sand into his eyes.
"So that's it. Upstairs there is an empty attic. Drag him there and interrogate. Do not overdo it - no serious injuries, okay? Knock him out his name, who he is, the purpose of the visit..."
"Date of birth?" Jen specified with a grin, but already in anticipation licked her lips.
"And this too. See that no torn fingers or anything else. Understand? Stomp."
"He's not bad," the witch slung the captive onto her shoulders like a lamb. "I would say that at least he fought a lot with people, but without a weapon it is weak for me."
The commissar watched her for a long time, wondering where the girl could learn how to fight like that and who taught her all this and why. And he sighed. Life tirelessly presented him with surprises in the last week; if he were weaker, he would have long cop into cuckoo's nest.
"Let's show what you find."
Dwyer opened the door to the office, lit a table lamp from a candle, and cursed. The commissar also noticed a pile of ash on the table and thought sourly that the night visitor had destroyed all traces of his activity. No papers were found with him. However, he did not manage to remove the pending books. Wonder why he took these?
On each of the eighteen shelves, Nathan found two marks - on the left and in the center. These icons were a pair of Elladian letters. The Commissar took the book "Opals of Your Eyes" by Lee Chambers. Under the cover inside, in the upper left corner, there were two Elladian letters and three numbers. Brennon removed his notebook from his breast pocket, into which he had copied Grace's code. All letters in the encryption were grouped in five, and the groups were divided by a long space into two unequal parts.
"Do all books have such designations?"
"Yes, sir. The first two squiggles coincide with those on the shelves. Further, apparently, a serial number. That is, if I'm not mistaken, we can arrange everything, as Grace did."
"Then why did our guest get these and put them off?" Nathan counted the groups: eight before a long space and four after. "Okay, put everything back except them."
Brennon sat down at the table. For some reason, this thug set aside twelve books. But why did he choose these? By comparing the letters on the books and the code, the Commissar made sure that the first two letters in each group coincide with the letters on the books. Well, the first two letters indicate the place on the shelf where the book stood. But it is not there alone! Books with the same letter designation differ in serial number. So why did the cracker take these and not the others? What do the other three letters in the group mean? Book number? But how do letters relate to numbers? Here is the designation of Ω∫014 on the volume of Lee Chambers. In the cipher, the combination Ω∫ was repeated three times - at the second group before the space and twice after the space - at the second and third groups. So why did this cracker take "Opals of Your Eyes" and not "Rustle of Foliage under the Moon", Ω∫021?
The commissar was seized with the ardent hope that the eight and four groups conceal in themselves the name and surname of the Strangler. He reviewed the rest of the books, but they had nothing in common. On three books, the code began with the letters Ω∫, on two - with Δµ, for all the others the letter part was different. Nathan sucked in the stomach from the proximity of a clue. But where is it? How to find it? He jumped up and began to help Dwyer. Maybe it is the absence of books in the row that will indicate it?!
"Sir, you would check on a guy with this thug," Dwyer remarked at the end of the first rack. "It is painfully quiet. Maybe something happened?"
Nathan wiped book dust from his hands, pushed aside the twelve books that the cracker had chosen, ordered them not to be touched, and, taking a candle, went into the attic. In front of the door, the commissar stopped and listened. Some sounds came from inside, but Brennon did not catch a single voice, nor a witch, nor... He pushed the door and entered.
Jen raised her head and flashed sparkling eyes at him. The cracker was flat on his back did not move; his frock coat and vest were scattered in the corner; his shirt was stained with blood. With one hand he covered his head, the other one the girl pressed her knee to the floor. When the commissar appeared, she got up, and Brennon saw that his two fingers were broken. Damn it, he told her!..
"Well, how is he?" The commissar asked dryly.
"Not a sound," the witch shrugged.
"That is?"
"That is, not a sound at all. It doesn't even squeak, although humans usually squeak funny. Here, look," She stepped on her broken fingers with his heel. The stranger twitched convulsively, but did not even breathe a sigh. Jen kicked him under the ribs - with the same result.
"You see," she complained. "And so all the time. Even if cauterized. Silent as dumb."
Brennon turned the indifferent captive onto his back. His shirt was rip up the waist, and his neck, chest, and stomach were covered with burns from the witch's fingers. Nathan noted a broken cheekbone, a palm-sized burn on the left cheek and thickly baked under the nose, on the lips and chin blood. It was still flowing from his nose. From his dissected forehead, blood crawled into his hair over his temple. The man's eyes were covered, and the commissar did not like his appearance as a whole.
"Bring the water," Brennon ordered. "The basin, the cup and the towel. Then help Dwyer with the books."
"This critter is biting," the witch warned. "Spells do not work on me, but on you! Maybe I'm better..."
"Go on."
As soon as Jen came out, the prisoner stirred. He muttered something chokingly, and the spell binding him disappeared, because, leaning on his elbows, he crawled to the wall, leaned back against the boards and stretched out exhaustively on the floor, pressing his hand with broken fingers to his ribs. Brennon did not bother him, listening to the shallow choppy breath. Judging by his twisted pose, the witch, in addition to his fingers, broke a couple of ribs to the captive. Jen came back with the basin of water, the glass and the towel.
"I would have broken some of his arms and legs in your place..." she began, finding that the cracker was still able to move.
"I'll figure it out. Stomp down."
Jen gave the Commissar a mocking look, grunted, and left them alone. Brennon pushed the basin toward the prisoner. The stranger carefully watched the commissar from under half-closed eyelids. He picked up the towel with his surviving hand, dipped it into the water and touched his forehead, nose, lips and chin, but his eyes did not leave Brennon. Damn staring, studying look. This is the same person - Nathan was sure. The one who grappled with the Strangler near the department, the one who fumbled at night in the room with evidence, the one who climbed to the church and put a lock on it... the one who saved Martha, Peggy and their whole family. Brennon had so many questions accumulated that he was silent, sorting them in order of importance; and suddenly this man said quietly:
"Do not start the conversation with such arguments."
He threw a bloody towel in the basin. Nathan flinched. He hadn't expected the man to speak at all, given his silence. The commissar looked from his cheekbone to burns, from burns to fingers and ribs. The stranger should have at least moaned, but the pain he was experiencing now was betrayed only by his frequent intermittent breathing.
"Well, how do you like the arguments? Convincingly?"
"A waste of time," the stranger looked unblinking, like a snake, and so estimating that Brennon for a moment felt like an eighteen-year-old recruit whom the sergeant recruiter examined like cattle at the fair. The commissar brushed off an unpleasant memory.
"Who are you?"
The captive was silent.
"Name, surname, date and place of birth, occupation?"
Silence.
"Address of residence?"
Silence.
"We can return to the previous arguments."
The stranger's lips twitched in a grin.
"We're not in the precinct," he said. "You can finally ask about what interests you."
"I ask," Nathan snapped.
"No."
There was silence.
"What - no?" Brennon asked. "Will you answer the questions?"
"To idiotic - no."
The commissar was also silent. He had already seen such bristling persons - speech with a special gentle reprimand (by the way, what is his strange weak accent?), expensive clothes, manners and hands, clearly unfamiliar with hard work, gave out a gentleman in a night burglar. Over the years, Brennon has learned to distinguish them almost by intuition, like a hound by smell.
"Okay. We will return to you the previous interlocutor."
The stranger's dark eyes flashed mockingly.
"Admit it, Nathan," he said quietly, and the Commissar twitched in surprise. "It gives you pleasure to think that you can do anything with me."
"No," Brennon answered through gritted teeth.
"Yes. Do not restrain yourself like that. But remember, this thought corrupts."
For a moment the commissar was numb, and then everything inside boiled. For the first time in many years, he felt truly offended. A poisonous smile appeared on the face of the prisoner.
"In the end, you need to feed your witch."
"Fine," Brennon hissed abruptly, "glad you're not opposed. But before I make her dinner, and yourself - entertainment, you answer me one question," he took out a piece of code from his pocket and threw it to a stranger. "What do the last three letters in each group mean?"
He slowly spread a sheet of paper on the floor with his good hand.
"You know what they mean. You managed to choose the right books."
The captive was silent, stroking a piece of paper with his fingertips.
"You did not have time to just arrange these books in the right order. Or you have time, huh? You threw them off the table when we entered, right? Yeah?"
He turned an attentive tenacious look at the commissar and said nothing. Brennon hung over the prisoner, who silently looked up at him.
"A witch," the commissar dryly said, "will knock out the answer from you one way or another, and I assure you that nothing in me will tremble. But not because I sleep and see how to torture someone to death for pleasure. I need the Strangler. Savvy?"
The captive did not utter a sound, only smiled so strangely that Brennan wondered if they got caught the madman. Who with broken ribs will smile so triumphantly? The stranger caressed his fingers around the cipher and purred:
"These are numbers. Father Grace used the last three letters to indicate the numbers in the book's code. The place of the letter in the alphabet corresponds to the number. Alpha is one, beta is two, and so on. Your consultant would have noticed long ago if he had given himself the trouble to think about why only ten letters are used at the end of the groups - from alpha to iota, plus the initial letter of the word "nothing", meaning zero."
"And what does it mean?"
"Collect - find out."
Brennon thought for a moment. The prisoner reached for a glass of water, carefully moved it towards him, but did not drink, only measuredly shook it back and forth.
"Did you get into a fight with the Strangler near the department?"
The stranger nodded.
"Why did you hang around there?"
The captive tapped a piece of paper with a cipher and answered with a clear sense of superiority:
"I knew you couldn't handle it."
"Did you lure the ifrit to Longsdale's house?"
Nod.
"But why the hell?"
"To speed up the recognition process."
"Did you protect the Sheridan's house from the ifrit?"
Nod.
"For what purpose?"
"You damn weirdly express your gratitude," said the stranger. Brennon pricked his conscience, and he involuntarily cringed at the expression of those completely dark eyes.
"Have you set up the lock on the church to contain the ifrit?"
Nod.
"Maybe you also saw who killed Grace?"
"Me."
The commissar staggered back, as if a prisoner had poked him with a red-hot poker.
"You?" He breathed muffledly. "You killed... and talk about it to me, but you were silent when the witch asked about your name, though..." His gaze slid over the burns, bruises and broken ribs. "But why?!"
"Because I find this manner of talking extremely offensive."
"Don't you care about your fingers and ribs, damn it?!"
"Perhaps," the captive answered with a chuckle, "but I never speak with amateurs to torture, strangle, and open portals to the other side."
Brennon could barely resist, not to ask how often answers were knocked out of this guy, when he did not want to talk, because, judging by his words and behavior, he had great experience in this regard.
"Well, you are talking to me."
"Oh," the stranger said, "you ask quite politely," and he threw a glass at Brennon's face.
Through the abundant waterfall, tinted with blood, the commissar barely discerned the man rushing to the window. A glass blow on the forehead instantly awakened a hellish headache. Nathan tried to grab the critter, but he pushed him with his shoulder into the chest and knocked him over on the basin of water. The roar of broken china drowned out the crack of the broken shutters and the sound of either a jump or a fall. In the hope that this lousy had broken his legs, Brennon almost on all fours rushed to the window, slipped in the water and, finally reaching the windowsill, hung through over it in an impotent rage. There was not a soul below.