"She had an invisible mark on her palm," Longsdale said. "A kind of spell that allows you to leave a stigma invisible on someone."
"And you let her go anyway," the witch shook her head, watching the Sheridans' carriage. "I understand, family and all that, but she couldn't know herself about such a spell."
The commissar was silent. Behind him, Henry Neil Jr. was indignant; the police searched the store, Dwyer and Regan interrogated the sellers, onlookers crowded around the cordon - and Brennon was silent and thought. More precisely, he wanted to think, but inside everything was in full swing.
"Lied! Lied from the start!"
And who! Peggy, his niece!
He still could not understand how much she lied and for what... why the hell should he lie to himself!.. for the sake of whom, and there was no time to squeeze her properly. Finnell has already rushed off to the department to Broyd, Broyd will achieve the closure of the city, and when the Strangler realizes that he can get out of Blackwhit only on foot...
"Sir," Regan delicately crept, "we found the name and address. Jason Moore, Accountant. Concorde street, house six. He rents an apartment there. I took the liberty of sending four there, but I am afraid, sir, that he will not return home."
"Yeah," Nathan muttered, "but you still need to search his apartment. Report on the results."
"Yes, sir."
Brennon turned on his heels to the store. Jason Moore. Hilkarn Strangler. For eight years he went here six times a week, and no one knew... no one had any idea. Lord, they were lucky that he didn't hell and gone all after the failure of his ritual venture! Or he didn't leave because he was waiting for an opportunity?
"Dwyer!"
"Here, sir," the detective gestured for the sellers to freeze in place, which they both did, not without horror looking at his mighty shoulders.
"Tell the guys who rummaged in Grace's past to catch any connection with Jason Moore. They must have somehow crossed! And order to strengthen the cordon around Grace's house. You never know."
"Yes, sir."
The hound stood next to the commissar and sniffed guiltily, sympathetically.
"Cheer up, Paw," Brennon patted him on the scruff of his neck, "you couldn't do anything in this crowd."
The hound sighed humanly, but Nathan did not blame him. No smell can be trapped in such a crowd of people, which tramples along Rocksville Street and Maple Boulevard.
"Can you identify who gave Peg this mark?"
"No. The mark, that is, the spell itself, remained on the Strangler," Longsdale said. "Miss Sheridan has only a residual trace of enchantment on her hand. The imprint of imprint is too weak."
Jen bit her lip, glancing sideways at the commissar, and he understood: who else could put a mark, if not a pyromaniacal cracker-fugitive! Brennon gritted his teeth - now it was very clear to him why he was defending Sheridans.
"This is lawlessness!" Mr. Neil Jr. squealed. "This is an outrageous violation of rights and freedoms! This is police arbitrariness! You do not have the right to break into the store of an honest citizen, to damage his property and..."
Brennon went up to the owner of the damaging property and silently stared down into his eyes. The piercing falsetto cut off with a faint whistling sigh, and Mr. Neil, paled, backed away.
"How long has Jason Moore worked for you?"
"Twelve years," Mr. Neil stammered out.
"What do you know about him?"
"He is an accountant," the owner of the ladies' rags quickly swallowed several times and shook his cheeks, in a hurry to give up her neighbor to the police: "All his recommendations are stored with me! He never had the slightest complaints about his work! I... I will bring! I have everything! He is single, as far as I know, lives on Concorde Street, not far, he must be forty-one or forty-two, he seems to have relatives in Tomlehlen, he traveled several times..."
Neil exhausted. Brennon nodded to Regan, who was already getting into the van to go to Concorde Street.
"Where do Grace's sister and a couple of his friends live with whom he corresponded? Where is the seminary in which he studied?"
"The seminary here in Blackwhit, sir." Regan buried in his notebook. "Sister is in Ainsmole, I remember, Father Laclow is in a village in the same place, not far from Ainsmole, Barry... Barry... one second... in Tomlehlen, on the outskirts, sir."
"Send the sergeant to Concord Street. You will go to Tomlehlen, get Barry out of the ground and knock out from him everything he knew about Grace and Moore. It turns out that the Strangler has relatives there."
"Yes, sir!" Regan's eyes lit up, his cheeks turned pink, and he rushed off to the van, resembling a cheerful pig.
"All by Moore," Brennon ordered abruptly to Mr. Neil. "Give it to Reilly. Kelly, drag these money-grubber to the department. Dwyer, for the elder. Finish here - and trot to me."
Subordinates fled. Longsdale and the hound hid in the store - once again examined the accountant's office. Jen timidly touched the commissar's shoulder.
"He defended your Margaret," she said softly. "Our yesterday's cracker. She knows everything, I'm sure. If you click on her..."
"Don't poison the soul," Brennon hissed. The witch grinned sadly:
"Well, she is still a virgin, if that will console you."
"How would you know?" the Commissar shuddered.
"I can smell it. Pure virgin blood. A tidbit for the sorcerer."
"Why?!"
"Comfortable," the witch shrugged. "Here you have virgin blood, and tears, and hair, and urine. Everything is at hand. And besides, the young girl doesn't arouse suspicious. She was able to get to Moore so close to mark him. And you would try to poke him. He can see from afar that you..."
"To mark," Brennon said sullenly. "Exactly, Jen. Now this damn pyromaniac can find Moore at any moment!"
***
"I recalled people from checking the relatives of the victims," Brennon said. "It is already clear that they have nothing to do with it. Regan in Tomlehlen finds out how Strangler made Father Grace become an accomplice. Dwyer works in the direction of the former maid and the former owner of the store in which Grace ordered a bath - this is useful to us in court. Moore gave the priest a disguise potion - he has a laboratory in his apartment. All that was left for us was to nabble this critter and push the ifrit into the place from where it got out."
"I managed to close the station and stagecoaches for exactly one day. Not more. You have to catch Moore during this time. As for the ifrit..." the police chief glanced at the consultant, his hound and the butler. "I don't know how to help here."
"I can track the evil spirit to its den," Longsdale said. "I can lure it out of there and bring it to Saint Helena's church. The only question is who will we sacrifice for the sake of closing the portal."
Broyd heavily rested his chin on his clasped hands.
"Jason Moore," the butler said.
"There is justice in this country, young man," the chief of police said coldly. "Even without the ifrit, Moore will have a gallows for fourteen murders..."
"Well, what's the difference?"
"But he will be hanged after the court and by the verdict of the court, and not because we behave like savages. We execute criminals, not kill."
"You're strange at all," Raiden muttered.
"Stop that," the Commissar hushed. It was already deep night; even the visitors of Cafe "Shell" went home, and Victor van Allen put out the lanterns at the porch. Nathan turned away from the window. Maybe Valentina, a seer or clairvoyant, could help them in their search?
"And the souls? Should we take out the vessels with souls and set them free?"
"It doesn't matter anymore," Longsdale said. "The ifrit will stay here anyway." It is possible to destroy the portal only after expelling evil spirits. But honestly, I can't imagine how we will enter the church. Even I can spend there no more than a few minutes."
"Then let's get Moore," Broyd decided. "Catching him is a priority. Is it enough of things from his apartment to find a trace?"
The consultant nodded.
"Then go. The ifrit ... we'll deal with it later."
"Wait for me in my office," Nathan said, and when Longsdale, the hound and the witch came out, turned to the chief: "You put off the decision for later, sir."
"And who are you suggesting, Brennon? Cast lots among those sentenced to death? Are you ready to bear responsibility for this? Not for execution, but for ritual murder? Ready?"
"No," the Commissar replied sullenly, but what else remains for us? To feed Moore to the portal, at least, is not the same as almost a dozen children. But…"
"Exactly - but," Broyd said quietly, "We all fought so long after the revolution to return the law to the streets, and order to the country that I'm not ready and don't want to organize ritual massacres. This is against everything for which I spent twenty years!"
"Me too, sir," Nathan replied. "But I see no choice. At least for now."
"Well, go and see," Broyd frowned. "Thank God, at least the mayor does not need to report on the hole."
"Yes, sir. Goodnight."
"What the f*** is good," the chief muttered and rummaged in a box in search of a flask. Nathan went out, leaving the authorities alone with whiskey.
The hound was waiting for him beyond the threshold. He silently trotted the commissar nearby, trying to keep up. Brennon was silent. He understood Broyd. After the revolution in Riada, anarchy and devastation reigned - the Empire was gone, do what you want, steal, kill, force, there are no more gendarmes! The freshly created police fought desperately to restore law and justice, and this struggle at times seemed meaningless and worthless. But finally they won, and the last thing Nathan wanted was to draw the police into ritual sacrifices. This is not even lynching - it is something so savage that the Commissar could not find suitable words for this.
"Well?" Jen asked, as soon as he entered.
"Does that need blood?"
"From the moment we left, nothing has changed," the witch assured him poisonously. "The blood is ordinary human."
"How many buckets?"
The hound's eyes flashed with interest.
"Buckets?" Longsdale repeated, puzzled. "Well, in a human on average, depending on his weight, from a gallon to one and a half. In buckets it is, hmmm..."
"Wait, do you want to draw blood and just splash out a couple of buckets in the portal star?" Jen asked. The commissar nodded. "Will not work."
"Why?"
"It is not so important blood itself that matters, but the sufferings of the victim who bleeds it and its death," Longsdale explained. "The ifrit is disembodied, therefore all the magic associated with it is built not on the blood or flesh itself, but on the spirit... the soul."
"So someone must still die. Damn", Brennon hissed, "you leave us no choice."
The consultant rose. The witch handed him a coat.
"The bedroom is ready for you," Longsdale said. "I'll take care of Jason Moore, and you should rest. At least a few hours."
The commissar, already reflecting on the dubious charms of the sofa in the reception, was a little invigorated.
"Good. As soon as you take the trail, immediately wake me up. By the way," he wrapped into a scarf, "I doesn't get around to asking. Kennedy believes that your identification of the remains by blood is not possible."
"Why?" Longsdale surprised. "The blood of close relatives is taken, a particle of the remains, and kinship is established along the hereditary chain. From a magical point of view, the procedure is quite simple."
"Do you vouch for the result?"
"More than."
"Um," Nathan answered thoughtfully. It sounded reasonable, though wild. How it all fits together in Longsdale's head and why he's not going crazy is still a mystery to Brennon. After all, if you think about it... no, it's better not.
They went down to the reception. The commissar severely reminded attendant Joyce of his duty and, inspiring due awe, stepped out onto the porch after the consultant. The view of the cafe reminded Nathan of another issue.
"Listen, someone told me... more precisely, asked - why does the ifrit show itself so little?"
"Little?" The witch asked with a grin. "What's not enough for you? Corpses?"
"Well, if he is so strong, then why doesn't he arrange a hunt every night? What prevents him from burning out a district right away?"
Longsdale suddenly tensed and frowned.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "That is, I tried to explain to myself his behavior, but in fact I do not know."
"He's not yet in full force after leaving the portal," Jen suggested.
"That was a long time ago," the consultant objected. "On the night of December twenty-ninth. And now is the night of the ninth of January. It should have come into force a long time ago."
"So he doesn't eat."
"But WHY doesn't he eat? What is stopping him?"
"Indigestion? the Commissar Asked grimly. "Gobbled up someone who stood across his throat?"
The consultant glanced absently at him. Nathan did not have time to make the following assumption - the hound suddenly growled dully and reared his fur on the scruff of his neck.
"A guest in the house!" the witch shouted and rushed forward along the street. The hound darted behind her in huge leaps, overtook, and soon his evil roar was heard. Looking at each other, Longsdale and Brennon rushed after him; the commissar grabbed the revolver, and in the consultant's hand the trihedron flashed green.
The gates were ajar, a real illumination of hundreds of red, crimson and purple lights burned over them. The hound, snorting, buried its nose in the snow and revolved around faint tracks; Jen, panting through her teeth, looked at the house. The air around her was hot, as in a forge. The commissar knelt down next to the prints — these were the graceful narrow traces of ladies' shoes, so shallow, as if the woman who had left them were eating air.
"I do not know who it is!" The witch hissed. "It is hiding!"
The hound bared his teeth. Brennon looked back at the consultant - he gradually slowed down until he finally stopped in front of the gate. The blade in his hand went out.
"Are you afraid?" Nathan asked incredulously. "Is this another beast from the portal?"
"No," the consultant replied. "This does not apply to the portal. Come on."
Traces led to the porch. Red-gold signs pulsed brightly on the slightly ajar door. The consultant came in first. The hall was as dark as pitch, but a warm soft light streamed from the living room. The hound sniffed. Longsdale suddenly froze in place, like a rabbit in front of a boa constrictor. Jen rounded him and crept to the door of the living room on the left. The commissar crept to the right with a revolver at the ready, although for some reason he did not feel any danger. The light flashed in Jen's palm, and she shot Brennon a questioning look. Nathan nodded, and they both burst into the living room.
"You?!" the commissar howled, having hardly braked on a slippery floor; the witch shrank back with a cry. Valentina van Allen smiled and rose to meet them from the chair. The light from the fire in the fireplace blushed her pale face; the blond hair around it was pierced with radiance, like a nimbus.
"I am your roaring lion," the widow said. She suddenly lit up from the inside like a pearl, and before Brennon, for a moment, like a solar flare, a beautiful tall woman appeared, shrouded in a pale golden halo. She blinded him, and he backed away. The guttural half- shout, half-sob burst out from the witch, and she threw herself on her knees in front of her. A lump rolled up Nathan's throat. Jen, trembling, brought the edge of her skirt to her lips.
"Child," the widow said gently, and ran a hand through her hair. "So young and already so warlike."
The warm gaze of the darkest blue eyes turned to Brennon, but he only felt complete emptiness, and even his heart thumped frantically in his chest, almost bursting.
"Why?" Nathan thought powerlessly. "How is that, Valentina? For what?"
How could he not immediately understand that she was not a human! How could she deceive for so long!
"I'm sorry," she said softly; her eyes were deep and clear, like mountain lakes.
"Well, then," Nathan answered bitterly.
The hound noiselessly entered the living room, stretched out its muzzle, sniffing it, and approached her cautiously. Valentina held out her hand to him, and Paw gently sniffed her fingers. Longsdale sounded loudly from the hall. The hound sat at Valentina's feet, looking at her pleadingly, and Nathan finally heard the steps — the consultant was approaching as slowly as if he had been pulled by force. When he crossed the threshold, Valentina looked at him, screamed angrily, and the consultant with a wild cry covered his face with his hands and shied away, into the darkness of the hall.
***
Now she looked as usual, almost the same as always, except that she seemed thinner and tired, but now Nathan did not know whether to believe it. The widow sat in a chair closer to the fire, he stood at a distance, leaning his shoulder on the slope of a long, floor-length window. From window it was drawn a sobering night cold. Brennon needed precisely this — sobering and cold reason. Because he did not even know what to ask her first.
"Who you are?" He finally decided.
"Hard to say. You, people, call us aguane, panthegane, bregostene... You have given us so many names over thousands of years..."
"To you - who exactly?"
"Like me."
"More specifically," the Commissar said through set teeth.
"But I can't answer," Valentina said softly. "You have come up with so many names for us, and I don't already know what these words mean to you and which one I should call myself."
"Just explain who you are. I realize, I am smart."
Mrs. Van Allen got up, went to the window and opened it. Near the mountain ash grew, the tree trembled and reached for Valentina with all the branches, wrapped them around her hand, as if with long flexible fingers. The snow melted at the roots and went into the ground as water. On the branches that the widow touched, tiny buds blossomed and opened with dark green leaves.
"I am them. In land and in water, in grass and foliage, in mountain meadows and in forests - all this is me. Everywhere is my part."
The tree clung to her as if it wanted to hug, and Nathan felt warm instead of frost.
"You are angry with me," the widow whispered fondly. "I know. Forgive me, but I could not tell you. Would you believe?"
"So, then, no Mister Van Allen?" The commissar asked muffledly. "No criminal lawyer? Who are your children then? Are they all yours?"
"They are humans," Valentina answered, "because their father was human. Victor van Allen, lawyer. Why don't you believe that?"
"But... But why?!" Brennon exclaimed in dismay. "I mean, why do you ... if he was just a human, then why you... that is, someone like you... why is someone like you just a human?"
Valentina averted her eyes and released twigs of a tree. The mountain ash straightened with a rustling sigh.
"He knew. He knew and still did not refuse."
"Would I refuse?" Nathan thought bitterly. Would he be able to let go, without locking in the human body, as in a cell, another creature? Another, so different that it is impossible to imagine...
"And for my sake, Valentina?" He almost asked. "For me, would you agree to live in a cage?"
"But I couldn't," Mrs. Van Allen added suddenly, very quietly. "Neither save, nor protect... He died during our escape from Meersand."
Brennon closed the window. He understood well when to shut up and be silent.
The witch returned to the living room with the salver of tea, cookies, and cream; the hound followed her, and the consultant followed the hound, at a respectful distance. He stopped behind a semicircle lit by the fireplace, looking warily at Valentina. She also prick up noticeably, like a cat at the sight of a hound. Although there was something else - the commissar felt the dislike emanating from the widow, as if the very presence of the consultant was for her something like a creak of a nail on glass. Valentina returned to the chair in front of the fireplace, Longsdale stepped back even further into the darkness. Nathan turned his chair around so that he could watch these two. Jen poured tea into cups and sank to the floor at Valentina's feet. The hound stretched across the carpet, face in front of the widow, spreading its tail on the Commissar's boots.
"Why did you come here?" Brennon began.
"Because of the ifrit. I can no longer restrain him."
The witch burst out the enraptured sigh.
"Could you do it before?" the commissar became interested.
"Not really," the widow admitted. "In winter, I am much weaker. But at least he knew that I was here, and was afraid."
"Afraid of you?"
Mrs. Van Allen nodded modestly.
"But what can you do to him? He cannot be killed, as I was informed here."
"Me too," said Valentina so that Nathan flinched. "If spring is now, I would turn it into an insignificant ghostly shadow, and he knows that."
"And to expel? Can you banish it back?"
The widow shook her head.
"I have no power over what is beyond this world."
"The portal lies between that side and this," Longsdale said. "It is part of this world and other side at the same time."
The Commissar considered.
"So you say that the ifrit avoided hunting as often as he needed, because he was afraid of you?"
"Yes," Valentina said with a smile.
"Then why did he eat Farrels?"
A shadow fell on the widow's face.
"I could not intervene," she answered quietly. "In winter, I get tired very quickly."
"From what?"
"I tried to protect the rest."
"The rest?" Brennon caught not immediately. "Who are the rest?"
"The rest of the people. They came to my cafe..."
"You," the Commissar said slowly, "lured people to your cafe to protect them from the ifrit?"
The widow nodded, and Nathan immediately remembered the never-ending crowds of visitors in "Shell". They literally besieged the cafe from morning to night, and the policemen complained that the usual coffee and lunch should be pulled out with a fight.
"Everyone who entered the café, ate my bread and drank my water, carried away my mark."
"Like a stamp on a cattle," Brennon remarked. "So that the wolf knows who should not be touched."
The hound in displeasure slapped him with its tail. Valentina burst into a faint blush.
"You wore the same when you fought with ghouls!"
Brennon caught her reproach, and his conscience pricked him. In the end, she tried to help them all.
"It was you who prevented Jason Moore and Father Grace from completing the ritual."
The consultant's voice came so suddenly over the ear that the Commissar almost dropped a cup of tea on the hound.
"Yes," said Mrs. Van Allen with dignity. "I was hoping I scared them enough. But unfortunately..."
"You scared?" the Commissar asked. "Did you scare these two?"
He rose and hung over the widow.
"So you knew who the Strangler was all this time — and you didn't say anything? You have been silent for so many years..."
"But I did not know who it was," Valentina answered in surprise. "I didn't even make out their faces, much less asked for names. I simply inspired them with fear, I thought, strong enough to discourage them from repeating such..."
"How did you not know that?" Brennon asked in shock. "How could you not know who..."
"But, Nathan," the widow said some tensely, "I don't distinguish humans too well. You are pretty much the same... except for some. Also, I just arrived in Blackwhit then."
The commissar sank into a chair. Finally, he realized the reason why Moore stopped half a step away from the goal - and now only one thing that made Brannon feel impotent anger on himself: how he had not guessed to compare the arrival of the Van Allen family in Blackwhit in November fifty-six and the failed ritual. But he could! He had to, seeing all the oddities of this woman, which she fed him for almost two weeks!
"And Victor van Allen," Nathan muttered, "was he some?"
The hound raised his head and glanced judgingly at him. Valentina lowered her eyes.
"Sorry. I didn't know that Moore would dare..."
"It wasn't him," Longsdale said. "This is another sorcerer of the human tribe."
"Yes?" the widow muttered. "I did not notice the difference..."
Brannon's shame at the words that had escaped him subsided. After a second, the Commissar crushed the pain. Interestingly, if she hardly distinguishes between people, then how does she greet neighbors on the street? How she recognized Nathan himself... to hell!
"Excuse me," Brennon apologized dryly and stared at the fireplace look sullen. "So what do you expect from us?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Van Allen honestly. "But the ifrit will go hunting today, and I'm afraid he already realized that I am now much weaker than I seem."
The Commissar gave her a long, appreciative look. Some idea flashed before him.
"What can you do?"
"Do?" the widow was puzzled. "What do you need?"
"Well, let's say heal a wound?"
She nodded.
"What about the whole church? To clear, for example, it air of The ifrit's filth?"
"I can try. The portal will still poison the air with the breath of other side, but for a while... But why are you asking?" Valentina worried. "Why do you need both?"
"Then, that Longsdale knows where the ifrit's den is," the Commissar said with grim satisfaction, "and I am the only human among you."