The Commissar returned to the Department at four o'clock - after a bath, dinner, and a change of all clothing, from underwear to hat. Even the hound, when they arrived at house 86, raised its face, sniffed loudly, expressively and snorted mockingly. Longsdale did not notice anything, buried in the maps head over heels.
"It could have been worse," Brennon expected to find smoking ruins in the place of the tavern, but the witch showed herself very modestly - limited to physical injuries.
"Your doing?" Nathan asked her sternly, watching the victims of the carnage.
"For the most part," Jen answered evasively, and he wasn't sure if she had exaggerated that much. On the way to Longsdale's house, they exchanged some thoughts, but nothing new had occurred to Brannon yet. The witch said that Andrew Half Fist's mind is ruined by rude influence. The images extracted from his memory were too vague: the mysterious owner of the "voice" looked like a thin, slim figure with a dark spot instead of a face and small hands wrapped in pale gray gloves. But identifying him by such a sign was pointless - even at the Commissar had a pair of cheap gray gloves in his closet.
Gallagher lied in wait the authorities at the office. Brennon nodded after him to enter. The detective on the move shook out a hefty pile of paper from the folder - the minutes of the interrogation of hospital staff.
"Well, what is there?"
"It's rotten, sir. Nobody saw anything, but at the same time, they did not close their eyes, all night."
"Push them. They cannot be all blind."
Gallagher smugly smoothed his mustache.
"That's why, sir, I decided to interrogate the patients. Among them, I came across a very peppy old woman, Missis Roslyn. She has insomnia and a broken ankle. So, as you know, it's difficult for her to fall asleep. So she saw a couple of very late visitors that very night."
"Really?" Brennon asked incredulously. "What about her mind? Maybe she regularly sees elves and fairies?"
"And what did I see..." he immediately thought.
"A sane granny, albeit some deaf," Gallagher shrugged. "I checked with relatives - she does not complain about senile dementia. So, from her bunk the door to the ward is visible, where severe patients are kept. The old woman swears by her mother that as many as two came in at night — the second was a tall, thin gentleman, dark-haired, with a cane, seemingly quite human-like, but the first she described... ahem... I quote," the detective unfolded the sheet with the testimony Mrs. Roslyn: "Such a figure, short, thin, foggy, as it were. Such a shadow, as if enveloping the head."
"Foggy as it were," said the commissar heavily, glaring at the subordinate.
"The granny is shortsighted," Gallagher grunted, "and his eyes become inflamed from insomnia. So it is not surprising that she couldn't see their faces."
"Gloves too..."
"Sir?"
"What time was it?"
"She does not know. Mrs. Roslyn does not have a watch, and she does not follow the time at all. But the staff had already completed all the procedures, and the patients were asleep. What do you think, sir, this first one, short and skinny, could have poisoned the bandits?"
"Well, judging by the words of Missis Roslyn, no one bothered him."
"It is strange that in one night, as many as two passed by the orderlies on duty, and no one even choked."
"What is so strange here? Remember who we are dealing with. You did a good job. Go back to the hospital and squeeze the staff with an old lady testimony. Someone had to see at least one face, damn it!"
"Yes, sir. Byrne is still with the Shihans. And Missis Van Allen," Gallagher coughed, "still asks you to come by."
"Yeah," the Commissar muttered. The detective evaporated knowingly. Nathan pulled the folder toward him and thought about the testimony of old Roslyn. It just doesn't add up. If this creature with gloves is able to scroll the human mind, like minced meat in a meat grinder, then why didn't it take control of everyone who burst into Peg's room? How could Half Fist break free? Why, if the creature knows the spell of deathly sleep - why doesn't it use others? Is it really harder to open the chains on the gate than to kill three people? Why, in the end, does she strip off a piece of skin from the victim, although it would seem easier and more logical to use to the maximum one corpse?
What kind of muck is this if it's not a witcher or a human?!
Brennon shook his head. He couldn't figure it out now, and decided to visit at Mrs. Van Allen to distract. And - what the hell! - to eat a piece or two of some pie. The duty men in the morning overeating walnut pie, and Nathan almost choked on saliva from one flavor.
Marion, the eldest daughter of the widow, hosted behind the counter. She smiled warmly at the Commissar, but they did not even have time to say hello: Victor van Allen jumped out of the pantry towards Brennon - without the frock coat, disheveled and soaked in the smell of tea.
"Oh my God!" the young man cried. "Is she safe?! We heard this morning, mom found out by accident... Miss Sheridan..." he stammered. "She didn't hurt?"
"No," Brennon gave the young van Allen a tenacious look. What a vim! "Miss Sheridan escaped with fright and tears."
"Thank God," Victor breathed. "I can't forget... I still remember..." He looked back at his sister and lowered his voice. "After all, that, the other girl was so similar..."
"I would appreciate it if you mentioned it less," the Commissar said dryly. "Did your mother want to see me?"
"Yes, she is in the office. I'll show you out, sir."
When they had already risen high enough to prevent Marion from hearing them, Nathan squeezed Victor's shoulder and said through set teeth:
"Keep quiet until I ask you, because the carrion that attacked you has the habit of killing witnesses."
Van Allen flinched and stopped.
"So Mom, sisters, and younger ones..." His eyes widened. "If he comes here for me..."
���Exactly. So be quiet and don't even think about it."
"And M-Margaret?" The young man stammered. "I mean miss Sheridan? Are you protecting her?"
"Yeah," Brennon muttered. But most of all the pyromaniac protected his treasure, and does not care that it is stolen.
Valentina sat in the office, surrounded by ledgers and papers, but as soon as Nathan crossed the threshold, she jumped up and rushed to meet him.
"Is she in safe?" The widow breathed.
"Yes," Nathan answered shortly; his chest was warming, as always, and when Mrs. Van Allen asked her son to leave with a gesture, the commissar continued much softer, albeit with vexation: "But it's not me or Longsdale you have to thank for that. This pyromaniac hung an amulet around her neck, like this," Brannon took a charred flat round from his pocket. Valentina carefully touched him.
"This thing..."
"Burned, but withstood."
The widow breathed a sigh of relief and invited the Commissar to sit down. In her small office, a place in front of the fireplace was found only for a couple of chairs and a tiny table, on which a tray with pies and a decanter with a fruit-smelling drink somehow appeared. Nathan swallowed.
"I can protect your niece and her family, and you," Valentina sat down and pushed the tray toward him. "But I don't know what it is and what to fear, and the whole city..." she shook her head. "I was in the park, where these unfortunates were killed..."
"Oh God," it burst out from Brennon. "You shouldn't have!"
"He will not be able to harm me," Valentina replied with a mirthless smile. "Now my children and I are in the greatest safety."
"Do not tell. He may well set killers with knives and pistols on you. He does not need to personally harm you."
The widow frowned and lowered her head.
"But I don't feel in the park anything like a portal to the other side or the presence of undead like a utburd. Nothing... there was something a very long time ago, but... not that."
"And what is it? What can attract a maniac sorcerer there?"
"I do not know. Death? But in the city there is, for example, a very old Saint Rose cemetery and other places that bear the imprint of many deaths since the revolution."
Nathan hung his head thoughtfully, chewing on the pie. He did not notice how the goodness was in his hands, and there - in his mouth. But the taste was breathtaking.
"They haven't buried in Saint-Rose for a long time, although the local nobility is watching over their family crypts, and there are a lot of secluded places. And the bodies thrown in the old cemetery would not have been found for months. But still this toad is drawn to the park."
"Here I can not help. Ask your consultant better."
"Why do you not like him so much?" Brennon asked. "He's weird, but a decent person."
"I don't think he is a human."
The commissar lowered the pie.
"Then who?"
Mrs. Van Allen averted her eyes.
"Who is he, Valentina?"
"Nathan, I don't know everything," she said softly. "And I can not give answers to all questions. You and Margaret which he takes care of have the right to consider him a friend. Especially if you are sure that he is not doing anything wrong."
"But why then do you look at him like he is a leper? Why does he shy away from you?"
Mrs. Van Allen squeezed her hands. She stubbornly avoided Brennon's gaze, and he gently touched her palm:
"Tell me. Telling the truth is not a crime."
"He avoids me for the same reason my mark on your arm scared the rebellious dead away," Valentina said. "Let you not feel that this twofold essence..."
"Who?!" Nathan cried hoarsely.
"A twofold essence," the widow repeated. "I rarely met such, but..."
"I knew," the commissar muttered. "There is a second, there is!"
"What is the second?" Mrs. Van Allen frowned. "Who are you talking about? Nathan, you don't think that the hound..."
"Hound? What does the hound have to do with it?" Brannon lost his thought.
"Oh, you did not understand... You still do not understand that this is one essence?"
"What is the meaning of this?!"
"This is one creature, Nathan," the widow squeezed his hand in hers; the commissar was frozen. "One entity embodied in two is a twofold essence. I thought you knew... I'm sorry," she finished quietly.
"Oh my God," Brennon said muffledly. "Oh my God... holy shit!"
The night of February 22
"Motus," Margaret whispered, looking intently at the book. It did not think to move. "Motus!" the girl repeated demandingly and waved a hand at the book. "The Count Vampire" moved lazily half an inch. "Well, motus!"
The cover of the book jerked and tore off along the spine. Margaret wiped perspiration from her forehead and wearily fell into a chair. Angel taught her a protective spell, as he promised, however, only one thing, and thank God. The girl did not even suspect that it was so difficult to concentrate her will, desire and imagination on such a simple spell! She tormented all day, but she did not advance beyond the torn cover. As soon as she imagined how the volume flies into the wall, she immediately lost her concentration of will, and she barely strained her will, could no longer concentrate on her imagination.
"What will happen next?" Margaret thought gloomily. In her textbook after section one was followed by eight more, and now it seemed to her that she would turn gray earlier than master the damned telekinesis from the third section. But Angel said that he had found the simplest!
"Motus," Miss Sheridan muttered angrily and jabbed a finger into her handkerchief. It shook weakly. There was a chuckle behind the chair. Margaret started up, leaned over the arm of the chair, and said indignantly:
"That's funny for you! And you probably did not look better the first hundred and forty times!"
Angel crouched on the edge of the table and nodded to the cushion.
"Motus."
The pillow bounced, hit the ceiling and plopped back in a dust cloud. Margaret blushed with annoyance.
"You are concentrating not on that," the mentor put a box on the table. "You think about the subject, but you need to imagine the movement."
"How can I imagine the movement?"
"Like a move," Angel answered with a grin; he is mocking her! "But we'll talk about telekinesis later. Now..."
"Much later," the girl sighed. Redfern put his hand on the box.
"Now," he repeated, "I still want to arm you with something serious. It takes a lot of time to master any complex spell, and sometimes a bullet in the forehead is the most effective means against a sorcerer."
He snapped the lock on the box and lifted the lid. Margaret stood up, craned her neck curiously - and bounced in her chair like a ball, with difficulty crushing an amazed exclamation. In the box was a pair of revolvers with a complete set of everything you need, including a box of ammo.
"But... but I can't!" She finally stammered out. "This is a very expensive gift!"
"Gift? This is a weapon to protect."
"But I can not..."
"I will teach you. Margaret," he took her hand, "shooting is noisy. Are you ready to come with me?"
"Where?"
"Where I hide you."
Margaret squeezed his palm and lowered her head, not taking her eyes off the revolvers. So it's come to this...
"I can't," she answered quietly.
"Why? A maniac sorcerer wanders around here, who has already killed four witnesses, two victims and wanted to reach you," Angel picked up her chin with his fingers. "You are not safe even at home."
"I can't leave," Margaret repeated patiently. "My family is here, and they are afraid for me. Do you really not understand? I can't disappear and I can't explain to them..." she hesitated. "About you. If the maniac returns, then only I have a little command of magic here. Although this is a pathetic defense, but... but... I can't."
Redfern drew back and frowned, turning away from her.
"I'm sorry," Margaret said timidly. "Have I offended you?"
He rubbed his face with his hands, and the girl finally noticed bluish shadows under his eyes, outlined eye-sacks, reddened eyelids and wrinkles at the mouth, eyes and between the eyebrows.
"Do you sleep at least sometimes?"
Redfern sighed and stood up.
"It only makes it worse for them that you're here. They are in danger near you."
"I understand," Margaret stepped closer and looked into his eyes. "It's not customary for us to lisp over one another, but we always stick together. And now too."
Angel grinned, looked away.
"Oh, well."
"Don't everyone do that?"
"Everyone?" He repeated with a mocking laugh. "Oh, come on!"
"Sorry," the girl said, a little audibly, closed the box and pushed it toward him. Redfern pressed her hand to the present.
"And if I ask your precious uncle?"
"Uncle? Oh Lord, don't think! If uncle finds out, he will tell mom, and mom will immediately send me to the aunt in the village, and then I will not see you at all!"
"Ah," said Angel, staring intently at Miss Sheridan. "It means that the matter is still not in me."
His strange tone so confused the girl that she didn't even immediately figure out how to answer him.
"But what have you got to do with it? I'm telling you..."
"And then there's Mister Consultant," Redfern's thin finger pressed the locket under the clothes to Margaret's chest. "You decided not to wait for me."
"He put it on me in front of my mom and dad. I could not refuse. It would at least look silly. What is the matter with you?" Margaret asked irritably. "Tell me, after all, straight out!"
"You don't want to come with me because of your family? True? Not because I am offering you shelter? Not because of me?"
"No," the girl answered in bewilderment. "What do you have to do with it?"
"It's just so weird," Angel said after a moment.
"Weird?!" Margaret asked in shock. "What do you see weird in that..." and then stopped short. For the first time, she realized that Angel never mentioned either his family or his house - she didn't even know where he lives! - maybe because he is an orphan?
"Okay, let's leave it," the mentor shook himself. "And let's get down to business. You will have to go through some unpleasant moments. Lie down."
"Where?"
"On the bed. You should not be distracted You should not be distracted during the diving."
"What else the diving?"
Angel winced in annoyance.
"I could not find a single ritual that uses cut off cheeks. The plague barracks, in the place of which this park of yours blooms and smells, also do not tell me anything. Therefore, I need to see your memories of the two attacks, and for this I will immerse you there again. You will be unpleasant to be there again."
Margaret lay down on the bed and asked cautiously:
"Does it hurt?"
"No," Angel sat next to her, laid her lower, and bent over her. ��But pretty, um, realistic. Relax, look into my eyes and remember."
The girl obediently stared into his eyes. Angel mumbled a spell in Elladian (Margaret was even a little proud that already distinguishes it by ear from Latin) and bent so low that his hooked nose touched Miss Sheridan's nose. Redfern smelled faintly of chemistry and cologne; the girl began to rocking, as if in a cradle. She plunged into a half awake in reality, staring absently into Angel's eyes, when suddenly his pupils dilated so that blackness flooded the entire iris, and the girl jerked down. She fell through the bed and nearly fell to her knees, slipping in the snow. Opposite her, the red-haired maypole staggered.
"And here is the lady," he said, stupidly grinning. Margaret tried to run away screaming, but realized that she couldn't. Instead, she backed toward the pharmacy.
"These are memories," she realized, trembling when the bandit again grabbed her and dragged her into the alley. Everything was a little blurry and foggy. "These are just memories."
She couldn't even close her eyes; and the pain of hitting the wall was so real...
It seemed to the girl that hours passed before she again felt a soft bed under her. Memories let her go reluctantly, blurring into the grayish haze from which her room and Angel's hunched figure protruded. He sat next to his head in his hands. Margaret blinked, breaking the fog in her eyes. She was nauseous, and her head was spinning, and her body was cottony. But all the sounds were amplified and echoed in her head: the crackling of fire in the fireplace, the sound of wheels and clatter of hoofs on the street, the creaking of shutters and an incomprehensible quiet sound like curmurring. Margaret focused on it, listened and smiled faintly. The sound source was Angel.
"Does that bother you?" The girl whispered hoarsely, her tongue barely tossing and turning. Redfern looked at her.
"What exactly?"
"Well, all that. The hunt for evil spirits and all that. You somehow earn your bread for the rest of the time."
"Earn," Angel said with a smile.
"Not too successful," Margaret faked. He shook himself indignantly, and a quiet grumbling in his stomach turned into a piercing trill.
"Hell," Angel hissed, cringing. "I forgot to eat."
Miss Sheridan raised on her elbow and pushed him a large dish under a napkin, which occupied her entire bedside table.
"Help yourself. I stole pies from the kitchen."
"What is it with?" Angel asked suspiciously.
"Arsenic," Margaret answered. "And also plum jam for taste."
He took the pie, sniffed it carefully and bit it. It smelled of cinnamon and plums. Miss Sheridan also helped herself. For a while, they silently fought with viscous dough and a thick, like paste, filling.
"Baking is not the greatest strength of our temporary cook," Margaret finally admitted. "And the cook is away. So how?"
"Mnffff," the mentor answered, biting his teeth in the dough. "Nthng gd."
"Chew thoroughly. I almost choked. What did you want to see there?"
"Hint. In the end, his spell was supposed to leave an imprint," Redfern bit into the ruddy side of the pie like a vampire into a girl's throat. "Sorcerers always leave the imprints of their person in their spells. And this guy - no, damn it!"
"So he is a witcher?" Margaret shuddered. "Like Mr. Buttsdale's butler?"
"No," Angel muttered, "you cannot confuse the stench of a witcher with anything."
"Well... maybe he's half human, half..."
"Don't talk nonsense. There are no such half-breeds. Witches and witchers sometimes phunk with mortals, but their affairs are infertile. These beasts just look like humans." Angel stared gloomily at the pie. It crookedly smiled at him with a slit full of plum jam. Redfern carefully licked all the sweets and wiped his lips with dough.
"But then who is it? Undead? Evil spirits?"
"No, it's a human."
Margaret frowned in bewilderment.
"But you just said that he leaves no imprints, like a human! Doesn't this mean..." she paused in confusion.
"Does not mean. Today he did not come. He knows that you are being protected, and fears. And undead, evil spirits and witchers are not afraid. They have nothing to fear in the human world."
"But this is a rather shaky rationale, do not you think?"
"I don't think so," he pressed a finger to Margaret's forehead. "Therefore, I needed to be here to find out from the inside, to feel what it was like to be in his power."
"And you feel?" The girl asked dryly. She did not like the role of the experimental rabbit.
"Now I know for sure," Angel leaned toward her and suddenly gently took her face in his palm. "Think, Margaret, you really don't want to leave with me?"
The girl squeezed his wrists - a pulse was racing under his skin.
"Why are you scaring me?" Miss Sheridan asked in a trembling voice. "What did you see there?"
"A thousandfold reinforced will. He does not need spells to subdue someone's mind, and therefore this human leaves no traces. These medallions," his hand slid across Margaret's cheek and neck to her chest and covered the amulet, "are almost useless. They are designed to protect against spells and magic witchers. If the sorcerer hadn't decided to kill you by the hands of your chaperon, he would have subdued you as soon as the locket burned out."
"So," the girl whispered, "this maniac can do whatever he wants, because it's enough for him to wish and imagine?"
"Well, I think not whatever. This is somewhat encouraging. It seems that material objects are not subject to him, only living things. In addition, he nevertheless killed the bandits intoxicated by morphine with a spell, since they were unconscious. So, he can only influence a clear mind."
"So, do we all need to constantly slurp some dope so that the maniac doesn't get to us?"
"This is not a panacea," Angel sighed. "Neither your consultant nor your uncle knows who they are facing, and therefore they cannot find a way to neutralize him."
"Then tell them! Do you know how to protect from this?"
Redfern shook his head. Miss Sheridan wilted. Of course, a burning medallion will warn of danger, give a minute or two, but then? Anyone in her house, anyone in the city is defenseless against this maniac!
"Where did he come from," the girl whispered bitterly. Angel winced weakly, as if a question had stabbed him in a sore spot.
"This is a person who has been impacted."
"What impact?" Margaret asked, surprised at his woeful tone. "What is it doing?"
"Impact?" Angel pulled back. He looked at his hands and was silent, clenching and unclenching his fists, as if checking the mobility of muscles and joints. When Margaret was already impatiently fidgeting, he answered: "It is impossible to predict. It changes everyone in different ways... it turns out."
"It turns out?"
"I did not know that there are still... such."
"Which ones?" the girl asked. The mentor looked at the same time detached and unhappy, as if he was tormented by some kind of memory. Margaret moved closer to him and timidly laid her hand on his shoulder.
"What, Angel?"
"Sometimes," he said quietly, "it seems to me that all this is a long terminal delirium. And I have no way of knowing if you really exist."
Margaret was numb.
"I do not know if I really have skin, hands and eyes, or are these illusions that the mind gives rise to during the agony of the body."
"But I - I am real," the girl felt a chill, she grabbed his hand and pressed it to her chest. "Here, I am alive, and my heart beats!"
"I don't know, Margaret... I already had no eyes or fingers when... maybe that's why," he muttered. "Maybe because it happened at the moment of dying... I don't know."
Lord, what happened to him?! She could neither understand nor imagine what he was talking about, except that once... once... something terrible had happened to him, and therefore... She wrapped her hands in his head and kissed his eyes. The eyelids under her lips were thin and delicate.
"Here," she whispered, "everything is in place."
"Child," Angel stroked Margaret's hair. "Good, I will warn your uncle."
"About what?" the bewildered Miss Sheridan muttered.
"That it's better to hide you in a safe shelter."
"He will not let me go with you," Margaret protested weakly. A thought flashed about the fact that the girls were not let go together with single men, it was not known where.
"Nothing," Angel stood up. "I can be very convincing when I want."
He grabbed the pie and, biting off on the go, disappeared into the dressing room, leaving the girl in complete dismay.