Standing at the gates of the house, the commissar pulled a scarf higher and wandered to the department, bogging down in the snow. The blizzard ended, but it was still cold, although the townspeople again scurried back and forth along Rocksville Street, hurrying on business. Ahead of Brennon were the temptations of cafe lanterns, tenderly glowing at dusk. He slowed down, fumbled in his pocket for a purse, and then he heard over his ear:
"Well, are you convinced?"
"F**k!" Nathan snapped, jumping from the pyromaniac, like a deer from a hound. "Why the hell are you stealing after me?"
Several passers-by turned around at them, and the commissar swore quietly.
"Do not trust?" the sorcerer mockingly specified.
"But I, of course, have to," the Commissar strode to the department. Pyroman went alongside.
"Grace and Moore would get the same thing," he said without looking up from the road. "But not for the crime they committed."
"You burned them alive. One was practically fed to the ifrit. Are you out of your mind?"
"Poor lambs," the pyroman snorted. Brennon gritted his teeth and accelerated as he could in a sticky porridge of snow.
"Oh, don't say you don't think what the two deserved," the sorcerer rustled insinuatingly. "Certainly not a quick death on the gallows."
"Still say that it's painless."
"Yes, compared to what they did - painless and quick," the pyromaniac snapped. A sullen, fierce expression appeared on his face.
"This is not a reason to make ourselves out to be the punishing hand of the law," said the Commissar.
"The law of retaliation, according to which your and my ancestors lived," the pyroman said sharply. "Retribution is proportionate to crime. For which none of your idiotic courts will condemn them."
"Even so," Brennon said after a pause, "they would have been enough for a death sentence without ifrit."
"Without ifrit?" the sorcerer repeated, and his eyes suddenly flashed violently: "Without ifrit?! And how many, in your opinion, of all such graces and moors? Ah?! Two? Three? Hell no!"
The commissar stared at him in amazement, and the pyromancer suddenly grabbed his shoulder and hissed:
"Hundreds! Thousands! And almost everyone is unpunished! Who can catch them? Who will believe what they are capable of? You, collecting evidence for this court of yours, you wrote in your report about souls in the temple floor, about the portal, about ifrit, about how many hungry beasts you saw in just one thin gap?!"
"Calm down," Brennon said quietly and squeezed the thin wrist of the pyromaniac, trying to unhook his hand from himself. But his grip was tenacious, like a wild cat. He looked into the commissar's face with wide, burning eyes, and Nathan felt the anger boiling in this man, which was restrained for so long that he hurt.
"Do not say," the pyromaniac said, a little audibly, "that you did not think about it."
He released Brennon and stepped back, glancing from under his brows, annoyed at his flash. His breathing was lost, a flush appeared on his cheekbones.
Fanatic, the commissar thought. They were already looking back at them, and Nathan went back to the department. Pyroman followed.
"Well, if I think about it," the Commissar muttered, wondering why this one didn't lag behind, "then what? Do you consider yourself a great exterminator?"
"No," the pyromaniac answered with a nervous grin, "I am not enough for this."
"Then why did you bother Moore so much?"
"I was mistaken and wanted to fix the mistake."
"Fix?" Brennon sharply turned to him.
"Ifrit," the pyromaniac admitted reluctantly. "I got it a little wrong. About the lock."
"You put the lock on the door and did not think that people would break them out in the first place in a fire?"
The wizard nodded, clearly unhappy that he was poked with his nose into the slip. Brennon looked at him incredulously. Who can ignore such a simple thought?
"The consultant," Nathan thought immediately. "Or someone like him who for years has been deal not with people, but with all sorts of muck."
Longsdale, of course, said that the pyromaniac could not use the consultancy stuff, but who knows, maybe there are different types of these... consultants.
"Why," Brennon asked, "are you telling me all this?"
"For mutual understanding," the sorcerer said brazenly. "For Margaret's sake. I want to save the apprentice. You want to save the niece. In the end, you, unlike me, inspire confidence. I - and then could not resist."
Brannon had a strong desire to dilute his taunts with a good slap. His hands itched so much that he put them in his pockets and grumbled:
"Can you track the maniac?"
"If I could, then he would have already died."
"If you decide to build a fire from him again..."
"I promised Margaret to tear the skin from him," the pyromanist purred dreamily.
"No way. Just try it."
Pyromancer was definitely amused:
"Try it? Are you threatening me? What, let me ask? Your witch?"
"The last time she did well."
"Last time I did not prepare for the meeting. And you, apparently, are not quite aware that having treated your witch by me..."
"Having treated?"
"They feed their powers on other people's torment and pain. You should have been told. This consultant of yours. The witch bit me pretty well, but the second time the trick would not work."
"Sorry," the Commissar said dejectedly, cursing his own forgetfulness. Well, how could he forget about this?! But forgot in the heat of inquiry...
Old age, damn it...
Pyromaniac stared at him in surprise, even incredulously.
"Sorry?" He repeated in a tone as if the mere fact of apology was shockingly unbelievable to him.
"Yeah. I somehow... missed."
"Okay," said the pyromaniac, still staring at the commissar with big cat eyes. "I forgive you. But, in fact, how are you going to keep the maniac in prison?"
Then he caught Brennon. Nathan thought about this for a long time and came to a disappointing conclusion - without Longsdale, nothing. Even the Strangler would be a problem, let alone this one...
"Now you understand?" the pyromaniac asked.
"Yeah," the Commissar said grimly (because of the need to agree with him). He looked around with a frowning look at the pyromaniac. "What can you do useful?"
"Oh," he answered with a chuckle, "my possibilities are very diverse. But I hope you didn't decide to give me orders?"
The commissar sniffed. All his youth was spent in army drill and discipline, and therefore guys like this, introducing constant strife and confusion, irritated him like lice.
"You huff and puff about your beloved apprentice. Here is a chance to save your darling treasure."
Pyroman inclined his head to one side. Brennon already noted his habit of staring into the face of his interlocutor, as if reading his thoughts in advance. It was extremely annoying.
- What are your tactics and strategy?
"Your name to begin with," the Commissar said, "so that I know how to address you."
Pyroman reflected and sarcastically answered:
"Signor Fiamante[1] will do."
***
Margaret, throwing back the curtain, stood at the window and looked at the street. Rare passers-by hurried home, huddled against the light from the lanterns, and the shadows, wrapped in winter dusk, became increasingly impenetrable. Perhaps one of them hid the one who tried to kill her. The girl squeezed the curtain. At any moment the maniac could turn anyone into his toy. She cringed every time the maid, mother, father, brothers, uncle enter her room - and is so tired of constant fear!
"Angel is right," Margaret bit her lip. Only now she realized what he was telling her about. Then she did not even understand that a maniac sorcerer is not just able to turn her relatives into murderers - then he will get rid of them in the same way as a park ranger or three bandits from an alley. So, she must hide, disappear - so that the family does not even know where to look for her. After all, that which you do not know you cannot be told, a shelter which you do not know you cannot be found...
"To disappear," Margaret thought, and behind the fear the rage stirred in her. ��To run, to escape, to hide, like a rat, in some hole!"
Because she is a useless, weak insignificance! Because she still doesn't know anything, can't do anything and can only hide behind someone else's backs and bleat from there with fear like a sheep! Everything darkened before her: the fury in her soul suddenly flashed so much that Margaret gasped and gritted her teeth. Oh, if she had the strength to meet this dirty creature face to face, give him such a resistance that all his bones burst! Forces! She will give anything, any number of years and strength as she wants, so that finally she has real magic in her hands, so that no one else can come close to her or her family, dare to threaten them, inspire her with such humiliating animal fear!
Never, Margaret thought hatefully, gasping with rage, I will never be weak again! Never again!
"Margaret?"
She turned so abruptly that Angel recoiled.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Promise," Margaret hissed, "promise me that you will teach me, and I will never be weak again!"
"I promise," he answered after a long silence, staring intently at the girl, but not approaching. Margaret burst out a ragged breath through her teeth. A small tremor began to beat her, and she clasped herself in her arms, looked from under sneak at Angel.
"If he needs me," she muttered muffledly, "then let him come for me." Just catch him and kill him at last!
The flames burning inside suddenly weakened, the hot hoop that clutched her head disappeared. Deprived of support, Margaret moaned weakly, her legs gave way, and she sank to the floor. Angel stood nearby, but did not move, and did not even reach out to her. The girl's eyes darkened again. She already fainted, and only then did he finally catch her. Margaret bowed her buzzing head to his shoulder, and he shuddered violently.
"Just catch him," the girl whispered. A cottony gray haze thickened again, and reality slipped away from Margaret like a dream.
... "This rage devastates," Angel's voice was muffled. "Especially when you experience it the first or second time."
Margaret struggled to open her heavy eyelids. She was lying on the bed, and the mentor was standing nearby, at the dressing table, and was mixing something in a glass with water.
"I'll go," the girl whispered. Angel raised an eyebrow. "But if I go with you, if you still agree, it's not to hide behind you forever."
"Why are you coming with me?" - asked Angel. He hung over her with a glass in his hand and looked unusually menacing.
"To learn," Margaret said barely: weakness swept over her in waves. "Learning everything... everything I need. I don't want to... be so defenseless anymore..."
"But you have to work hard for you to learn everything you want."
"Well... and okay... and good... I'm ready..."
"But not right now," Angel muttered, and brought a glass to her lips. The girl drank several sips and dropped her head into the pillows.
"First," having gathered the remainder of her strength, she squeezed out, "let him find me, and you will kill him. You will kill him, you promised me!"
Angel's face was suddenly very close, and he was no longer threatening or angry. His warm palm gently stroked Miss Sheridan's forehead and cheek.
"I will kill," Angel whispered almost tenderly, "Of course I will kill him, Margaret."
***
Nathan climbed the stairs, accompanied by Jen. The witch looked around cautiously and almost sniffed, waiting for the dirty trick at any moment. But the Commissar didn't really care - he spent so much effort and time to convince Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan of the need for a guard for Margaret, that talking with a pyromaniac against this background looked like chatter of two sincere friends.
Mr. Fiamante, Brennon thought viciously. Just in case, he clarified with Longsdale about this name and now was sure that the pyromaniac was very aware of his nickname. And hell knows what else!
"Well, how?" He asked the witch.
"I can," she said in surprise, and grabbed the doorknob. The pyromaniac didn't take the idea very well, but, nevertheless, kept his word and removed the anti- witch spell.
"I don't believe him," the witch said quietly. ���He's lying like he breathes!"
"But Peggy is dear to him, so..."
"Yeah," Jen muttered, "like a sheep to a wolf," and pushed the door open. Nothing happened. Nothing awful, in the sense that thunder and lightning did not fall on the girl's head, she crossed the threshold, and the Commissar entered next.
Pyroman was here. Possessively throwing a frock coat over the back of a chair, he sat in front of Margaret on bed and held his hand palm up. The long-suffering volume of "The Count Vampire" swayed above it, and her niece, judging by her concentrated look, tried to influence the book with the power of thought.
"Good evening," the Commissar rumbled sternly. "Count" plopped onto the bedspread.
"We are only engaged in magic," the pyromaniac assured mockingly of Brennon. "Nothing more."
"Good evening, uncle," Margaret, rather pale (why would it?) looked hostilely at the butler. "Signor Fiamante has already told me. Do you really want this guy to follow me?"
Brennon coughed.
"Peggy, if you're worried about your modesty, then... hmm... you don't have to worry."
"Why so?"
"After all I'll regret it, right?" Jen muttered, stepped forward and took a deep breath. Her guise scattered by a cloud of shining fiery sparks and melted.
"Oh my goodness!" the niece squealed, scrambled out of bed, like a frightened bird from the nest, and jumped from Jen into the far corner.
"Oh no, not again!" She moaned.
"You didn't tell me that!" delicately nurtured girl fiercely fell upon the pyromaniac. "You said that the butler, that the witcher, and not... not... but there it is!"
"What exactly?" Signor Fiamante bowed his head to the side and examined Jen with a somewhat squeamish look. "Well witch. Of course, they are more likely animals than..."
"Is she a woman?!"
"Yes!" Jen bridled with anger. "Not only am I a witch, but also a woman! And you, you..."
She took a step towards the pyromaniac, and he threw up his hand, in which a golden cross flashed, crowned with something like an orchid flower above the crossbar. The witch hissed, recoiled, and covered her face with her elbow.
"You two!" The commissar barked.
"Oh my God," Margaret stared stunned at Jen. "All this time... all these things... did you do all this?! Are you a girl?! Oh my God. Oh Lord," there was such envy on her face that Nathan had never seen before. The niece turned her eyes from Jen's trousers to the holster with the revolver on her thigh, from the holster to the frock coat, from it to the vest and asked: "Do you walk like this all the time?"
"Yes, that's how I walk," the witch said through set teeth. "Let him take that damn thing away!"
"Wheesh," Brennon intervened, and resolutely took the situation into his own hands: "Peggy, sit here. Jen, get up there and watch out the window outside the street. You... stand where you are, without sudden movements. We all have something to discuss, and it is better to do this without relatives running here."
Peggy, an obedient girl, sat in a chair, straightened her skirts and folded her hands in her lap. True, on the way from chair to chair, she walked around the witch several times in a circle, viewing her as a strange beast in a menagerie. Jen frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. The commissar regretted for a moment that he had not return her rashly given promise. Pyroman watched them, openly amusing.
"So," Brennon began, when the witch took up a position by the window, "we consulted, and I decided you needed a bodyguard."
"Yeah," Margaret answered. "There she is. So that when the maniac captures her, he will definitely succeed."
"Bah!" Jen snorted. "You humans are too weak to influence our minds."
"Didn't you tell me that the maniac does not use spells?" Margaret turned to the pyromaniac, and Nathan indignantly thought that the girl had completely get out of control. What else did this critter tell her?! "If he acts with a thousandfold increased will, what difference to him what person to subordinate? If this creature had a mind..." then she stared at the witch. "Does she have one?"
"Yes," Mr. Fiamante responded, playing with his amulet, "But it is likely that even if the maniac tries, his effect will be much weaker. If at all he can break through to her. She is not a human.
Margaret looked around Jen interestedly from head to toe.
"And what is this expressed in?"
A fiery ball flashed in the witch's palm, dissolving her fingers. Peggy screamed enthusiastically, held out her hand, and the pyromaniac immediately caught her by the wrist.
"It is real?!"
"No, I'm pretending!" Jen snapped. She clenched a fist, the ball spat a spark on the carpet and went out.
"And yet," the Commissar continued frowningly, "we noticed that he didn't catch hold more than two people at a time. He tried to subjugate three, but the third was break free and escape."
"A shaky guess," the pyromaniac said. "I would not build defense on such a shaky theory. But if it calms you..."
"That is," Margaret said, after reflection, "you think that he will not be able to control the witch, because she is a witch, and will not set a mob of murderers on me because he will not have enough strength. Although this did not stop him from capturing the three bandits when he attacked me for the first time."
"Longsdale said it was a short-term influence. And when the maniac tried to control three at once for a longer time, he could not hold them all."
"Or just let go of the third as unnecessary," Margaret objected. "But he didn't control the witches because he had never tried it."
The commissar was silently annoyed and finally grunted:
"Well, Peg, it's better than nothing."
"Well then," Margaret said, "since you, uncle, found such a guard for me, why not use me as a bait for a maniac?"
"What?!" Brennon roared; the situation taken in hand fell out of them with a crash. "Completely crazy?! Brainless girl!"
"I told you to be softer," the pyromaniac said melancholy.
"Well, that is a perfectly sound idea," the witch said. "For some reason, after all, he dragged after you a second time."
"It is you!" The commissar growled at the pyromaniac. "You inspired her with this vileness?!"
"Why? She herself guessed. This does not cause me enthusiasm, but, in essence, the idea is not bad. Of course, it would be better not Margaret..."
"And she wouldn't!"
"Uncle!" the girl shouted. "Do you think I'm happy about this?! But how, tell me, can you catch a man who leaves no traces, who does not even approach his victims and who can kill any witness, should he want to?"
"Why did you get it," the commissar continued, incinerating the pyromaniac with an evil look, "that he would bite on her like a bait?"
"Because," Fiamante answered, "that the same person has been standing on the other side of the street for several hours and, without moving, looks at Margaret's windows."
Jen immediately tensed up, pushed the curtain an inch and said:
"There is some guy in a plaid coat and a gray hat. He stands between two houses opposite."
Margaret squeezed the pyromaniac hand and turned anxiously to the window. Fiamante hugged the girl on the shoulders. Nathan looked out into the gap between the curtains. He did not see in the dark as good as a witch, but he saw a man.
"What is he waiting for?" The commissar asked.
"A moment," the pyromaniac answered. "He knows Margaret is under protection, and he is waiting for this protection to weaken. This is the only reason I generally agreed to your venture," Fiamante added dryly and nodded to the witch.
«Но он продолжает собирать детали», - пробормотал Бреннон. «Значит, он просто хочет избавиться от свидетеля ...» он нахмурился. Что-то не так. Даже если маньяк не собирается отрезать что-то от тела Пегги, он все равно будет пристально следить за ней. Зачем? Чтоб жертва не сбежала?
Но почему он такой медленный? Что мешает ему избавиться как от этого свидетеля, так и от остальных? Инстинкт шептал комиссару, что это еще не все, есть еще момент, который он все еще не может понять.
«Он убил другую девушку», внезапно сказала Маргарет. Натан вздрогнул и проснулся от мысли. Племянница пристально смотрела на него и была бледна. «Уже третий. Ты все еще сомневаешься в этом?
[1] Пламя (илар.)