Night of February 24th
"Mom will kill us if she finds out," Margaret said.
"Don't worry," the witch snorted. "The crazy maniac will kill you before."
"So, mom will spifflicate with the survivors."
The carriage stopped. The girl looked out cautiously in the window, slightly pushing the curtain. A pair of lanterns on either side of the harness illuminated a short house one and a half floors on the outskirts of Blackwhit. All but one of the windows were clogged with boards. The witch sniffed like a hound.
"Let's go," she ordered abruptly, opened the door and dropped the ladder. Detective Byrne jumped off the high-bench and offered Margaret a hand. The girl smiled nervously at him and carefully crawled down the ladder to the ground.
If he does not come for me, Miss Sheridan thought, I will at least spend the night in the company of a real witch.
How exciting something! Margaret gritted her tapping teeth, Byrne muttered something soothing, holding a revolver ready. Jen examined the only room on the ground floor, and by her nod, Byrne let the girl into the house. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the detective slammed the door. The bolts inside and out clanked into the grooves. Miss Sheridan ran a finger along the bolt: the balk and staples were painted with flickering light green patterns that crawled along the door like living ones, blooming with complex weaves. Margaret gasped enthusiastically.
"This is not scoffs at a chaperones," the witch grinned. "This is real magic."
"I just haven't studied it yet!" the girl was indignant, although for what reason should she justify herself to some butler. "I will also be able to someday!"
"You can't," Jen said scornfully. "Mister Longsdale is not like you humans."
"Which he?"
The witch did not answer. She stopped in front of a small hearth and snapped her fingers. A fire broke out, firewood cozily cracked, and the room lit up with a soft domestic light. Margaret sniffed enviously. Jen kick pushed a chair towards her.
"Sit down and don't stick out. I hope you don't piss yourself from fear."
"Keep dreaming," Miss Sheridan answered coldly, sinking down on the edge of the seat. "I'm not seven years old."
"And how much?"
"Seventeen."
"You're lying!" the witch cried incredulously and gawped at the girl, as a miracle of the world.
"Seventeen," Margaret repeated irritably. "So what?"
"But you are still a baby! How can you look like that at seventeen?!"
"We, human, at seventeen already look normal, unlike..." the girl fell silent, thought for a second and insinuously asked: "How old are you? What about Mister Longsdale? How long have you been serving him?"
"I do not serve him!"
"Really? What do you think you're doing now?"
The witch leaned toward her and hissed:
"Sit in silence, female, or I'll turn you into a frog!"
"Can you?" Margaret started up. "No, really, can you?"
Jen gave her a puzzled look, muttered, "What a lunatic!" and stepped back to the window.
The hearth glowed merrily, and the room was gradually warming. Margaret took off her muff, hat, unbuttoned her coat and dropped it on the back of the chair, quietly sneezing from the dust. It will be most offensive to sit in this ruin until the morning, because no one will come. During a conversation with a witch, she did not hear Detective Byrne leaving. No one had said anything to Margaret since her uncle got down to business - in case the maniac can read minds. The girl nervously twisted her fingers. In fact, the complete unknown frightened her even more than the crazy killer.
"How does it feel to be a witch?" Margaret asked.
"What does it mean - how?" Jen answered sharply, sparkling on her an orange gleam in her eyes. "I was born that way!"
"And... and how is it? Well, to be so..." the girl looked for the word. "So... independent."
"Not bad. I like."
"Yeah," Miss Sheridan thought longingly, "you go wherever you want, you do what you want, and no one gives you a decree."
Life is very unfair!
"Why does Angel say you don't have a soul?"
"Because I haven't," Jen said through gritted teeth.
"But what is the difference? Well, let's say I have it. So what?"
"And nothing. Until you lose, you won't understand."
Margaret looked at the witch with interest. It definitely hurts her. But why? Is she not stronger than a human in every way? She owns magic, lives probably longer, she is not afraid of the sorts of creatures... what's the matter then?
"What, enviously?" Jen asked with a grin.
"Yes," Margaret said quietly. "If I were a witch, I would tear this toad to shreds. By myself, without any help!"
The witch again leaned toward her - so low that the fields of her hat cast a shadow on Margaret's face, looked at her face with completely black eyes for a long time and finally said:
"Well, someday, in twenty years, if you study hard..."
"I wish I were a witch," Margaret whispered.
"Yeah, that's where they all start, all these your Stranglers and maniacs. All they want to get is something that you humans are not supposed to by nature. Ask your angel how he became..."
Suddenly, Jen fell silent and stood motionless. Margaret was numb, instantly covered with cold sweat. The witch turned to the window and laid her hand on a holster with a revolver fastened to her thigh. Her frock coat fluttered open, and underneath it appeared such a flat, muscular figure that in the dark a witch and without illusions could be confused with a guy.
Jen pressed against the wall by the window and opened the shutter a little. Margaret stopped breathing. Outside, the air was cold, the sound of measured steps came. The witch pulled out a revolver and clicked something in it. The steps froze. Miss Sheridan stood up and pressed a locket to her chest. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest like a bell.
"Come out," it suddenly sounded in her head. He no longer forced her. A voice just sounded in her brain, emerging from nowhere. "Come out."
"He's asking me come out," Margaret said.
"Stay where you are," the witch said through set teeth and opened the sash a little with the barrel of her revolver. In the darkness outside, the girl did not see anything.
"There are two," Jen said. "Both are short and rather skinny. These are humans."
"Come out," a voice demanded.
"I won't go out," Margaret whispered, clutching the locket to her chest. The heart was pounding so often that it was difficult to breathe; the edges of the medallion cut into the skin.
"Come out or they will die."
"No one will die. There is no one here but me."
"Look out the window."
"No way!"
"Light them. You will see."
"Light them..." Margaret repeated. "Light those who are outside!"
"Not a bad thought," Jen nodded. The fire ball flashed outside the window and illuminated two: a boy of about twelve and a girl who was fifteen or sixteen.
"Come out," the voice repeated; Margaret thought that he had become more remote. The boy raised his hand: the fire flashed on the blade of a knife. Margaret screamed in fright, and suddenly the boy thrust a knife into the girl's side. She swayed, but remained standing, and he beat her with a knife mechanically, like a clockwork doll.
"No!" Margaret darted to the window. "Stop it!"
Jen grabbed her with one hand and pressed to her; the barrel of a revolver stared at the boy's forehead.
"Come out or..."
"Motus!" Miss Sheridan squealed and pointed a finger at the boy. An invisible fist hit him in the chest and flung him five yards away. The boy hit the remains of the hedge and dropped the knife. It, heavy with blood, drowned in a loose snowdrift.
"Come out," the voice rustled. The girl also raised a hand in which she was clutching a piece of glass. She staggered and trembled, and therefore the first strip along the throat remained a shallow scratch.
"In ignis!" Margaret called out in despair, imagining that the glass become hot and crack into many fragments, but she did not succeed.
"Come out. I need you."
Jen fired. A bullet pierced the girl's elbow. She howled piercingly in pain and fell into the snow, which instantly turned dark.
"Come to me," it whispered in Margaret head. "Or I will find more."
"No, no!"
"Sit still!" Jen growled and eagerly sucked in her nose.
"I need someone like me. Come out and they won't die anymore," Miss Sheridan felt a sigh of someone. "The girls won't die anymore. They are useless. I need you."
"He needs a girl like himself," Margaret whispered quickly, clutching the witch's hand. "Girls are useless. If I go out, he will stop killing them."
"More," Jen's hot breath touched her temple. "Make him talk again!"
"Sequor," Miss Sheridan breathed. The search spell flashed with silver thread and slid into the slot under the shutter. Red-hot needles pierced Margaret's head, and with a cry, she hung to the witch's arm, clutching her temples.
"Stop it! Come to me! Or I'll make... make..."
Jen's hot fingers gripped the girl's shoulder tightly. The witch turned her to herself and stared into her eyes with a fiery gaze. Beyond blackness, an orange fire flashed, Jen's eyes brightened like amber to a bright golden color. The voice in Margaret's head faded, the needles disappeared, and then the girl caught a faint, distant cry.
"Gotcha!" The witch whispered triumphantly. Margaret piled on her with all her weight. The witch put the revolver into a holster, grabbed her in her arms and carried her into a chair. Multi-colored spots were still floating before Miss Sheridan's eyes, her head was cracking with pain, but the search spell had survived and acted. It rushed around two bodies outside, trying to take a trace.
"There!" the girl grabbed Jen's hand. "Those two are there! The spell is looking for!" suddenly she realized: "Oh God! Two children! They are injured! The girl will bleed if..."
"Do you want me to finish off them?" The witch asked bloodthirstily. Margaret gasped with indignation, and suddenly pain pierced her head through. The girl squeezed her head in both hands.
"You!" the voice hissed. "Are you not alone? Who is with you? Who? Whowhowhowho..."
The words merged into an inarticulate hiss through which Margaret could barely make out someone's footsteps and exclamations.
"No!" She wanted to shout. "Go away! Go away now!"
But instead, her body was seized with cottony weakness, her ears rustled, a gray fog thickened before her eyes. The pain in her head became unbearably shooting, and because of it, the girl did not immediately realize that she got up and went to the door.
"God..." Margaret was all compressed inside her body, but it became completely alien. The locket chilled the skin. Through the gray fog, like through muslin, the patterns on the bolt and doors shone through. Margaret grabbed the edge of the bolt and tried to push him out of the grooves, but he rooted them tightly. She pushed and jerked it until her hands ached. Then the maniac turned her to the windows. Jen - a gray silhouette outlined by a fiery contour - blocked her path. Margaret froze and suddenly felt that the grip is weakening - she still could not stir, but the maniac no longer forced her to move. He was doing something else...
"Oh my God," Margaret's heart sank, and then pounded wildly, "the witch! He wants the witch!"
"What is it, what is it, what is it?" it echoed in the girl's head. "Who is it, who is it, who is it? Answer me!"
"What is he telling you?" Jen asked sharply. "Answer!"
"Answer! Answer! Answer!"
Shrink into oneself, she waited for him to break into her mind and turn him inside out. But this did not happen, only the pain in blinding waves diverged in the head after each scream... pain... pain?..
"Pain destroys..."
Margaret felt with horror that her lips moved - the maniac was just squeezing name out of her - uncle, consultant or And... The girl closed her eyes, gathered all her will into fist, as Angel taught, and when her mouth opened, she bit her tongue out all her strength. The mouth was filled with blood; Margaret howled stiffly and fell to her knees. The fog disappeared, the noise disappeared, the body, though trembling finely, acquiesced again.
"What are you?!" The witch caught her, and Margaret spat blood on the floor. "Damn it, what have you done?!"
The bolt flew out of the grooves with fan of chips, and Angel burst into the room.
"Let go!" He growled at Jen, and she was so jerked with surprise that Margaret fell into Redfern's hands, like a doll. Tears came out of the pain in her eyes, and Angel blurred above her, as if behind wet glass.
"Margaret, show me where!"
The girl clung to Angel and opened her mouth. Blood flowed down his chin. In the arms of the mentor it was so warm and safe, and smelled of potions ...
"Do not be afraid," something metallic clanged, then snapped, and the chemical-hospital smell intensified.
"Peg! Peggy?!"
Uncle fell to a knee beside her and nearly butted Angel with his head on his forehead. Redfern hissed angrily.
"Peggy, are you all right?!"
"Not all," Angel said venomously: he already had a swab in his hand moistened with something green. "Margaret, open your mouth wider. Now it will pinch and hurt."
She obediently opened her mouth and closed her eyes. Angel's fingers were in her mouth with a swab, and then Margaret screamed even through cotton wool.
"Peggy!"
"She relieved his hypnosis," Jen said, and Margaret felt a note of approval in her voice. "The pain always knocks it down. So she..."
Angel put a new swab in her mouth. The witch patted Margaret on the shoulder, and she almost choked on a swab. Uncle fished an immense handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his niece's chin and neck.
"Report," he nodded to Jen.
"And do not bite," Angel said sternly Margaret, but wrinkles from a smile had already gathered at his eyes. Ms. Sheridan relieved her head on his shoulder in relief. Now she's finally safe.
***
Detective Byrne took the boy and girl to the city, and Nathan hoped that he would manage to take them to the hospital. As the police carriage rumbled through the night, Brennon wondered if it made sense to leave Peggy with a pyromaniac or he still should have insisted that he go with them instead of the witch. But the pyromaniac rested like a donkey, saying that he would not take a step from Peg until he was convinced that she was completely safe and sound. The commissar frowned. He was more concerned not what a wry face Fiamante rushed inside, barely Margaret shed the blood of, but the way this Margaret clung to him at the first opportunity. While the sorcerer purred over her like a cat over a kitten, the girl did not even try to remember her girlish honor and pressed to him as if...
"To hell," the commissar thought gloomily, although the prospects for her marriage seemed more and more vague to him. "At least the pyromaniac enough lo..." Nathan couldn't overcome it even mentally. "Attached enough to her to protect her with all his might."
Attached! Hell no! When did he have time?!
However, getting even more gloomy, the Commissar snorted, what's there to do? Margaret, minus her temperament, is so pretty that the young van Allen generally got into a minute and a quarter. And by the look of such a sober young man ...
"But you, Peg!" Brennon called out inwardly. "How did you manage to?"
Personally, he did not see a single attractive feature in the pyromaniac, except, probably, large eyes. But all the rest! He is as crooked as a corkscrew!
"Even Longsdale is better," the Commissar sighed and returned to reality. The consultant frozen tensely opposite, predatory sniffing the air, the witch was outside, on the high-bench, and led them to the goal. The hound raced to the right, without any difficulty keeping up with the bay four.
"Jen caught him," Brannon asked Longsdale, half-interrogatively.
"Yes. But even if she misses him, we still have Miss Sheridan's spell. It took a trace from the victims of the maniac and, although it acts more slowly, it will still lead us to the goal."
Brennon twitched weakly. But at least someone should understand how abnormal it is for a young lady!
"This pyromancer taught her!"
"She still does not have enough accuracy and concentration, but she obviously has excess forces," the consultant remarked casually. Nathan thought unhappily that there would be no sympathy here either.
"Why didn't the maniac find this?"
"What? Spells? Miss Sheridan threw him not at the maniac, but at his victims. He will smell the spell, if at all capable of it, only when it gets very close."
"Clever," Brennon admitted with a sigh. "And that's why he did not notice Jen - this is an interesting question. According to Peg, he acted as if he did not understand at all that there was someone else in the house."
Longsdale's brows drew together.
"I think the fact is that she is a witch. Our maniac is able to control victims from afar, he feels them at a very great distance, but for him a witch is a dummy."
"Why? Because she is not a human?"
"Because she has no soul," the consultant said. "She is a lamp without fire, and a maniac is still a human, no matter how the influence changes him, and, I believe, he only smells his own kind. The principle of similarity in magic is generally one of the fundamental."
"If there was any influence at all," Brennon growled. The whole story with exploding portals seemed to him doubtful. "The girls are useless, the maniac said. Why are they useless? Then why is Peggy use? What does it mean - the same as him?"
"I don't know," Longsdale said through set teeth. His eyes lit up brighter in the dark. "But I find out!"
"Useless," the commissar mused, occasionally glancing out the window; the carriage rushed to the eastern suburbs. "Why are they not good for him? Why then kill them? Or did he kill them, cut off a piece, realized that it didn't fit... what didn't fit?"
The consultant looked up and they stared at each other.
"Do you still think that he assembles a certain face?" Longsdale asked.
"What parts of these girls are not fit for - to some face?" the Commissar said at the same time. The consultant coughed in embarrassment. Nathan gave in to the professional, nodding to him to speak first.
"It seems to me, in the light of everything that we have learned," Longsdale said, "your idea about someone specific was true. Therefore, the girls are not fit for him. He tried to assemble the face he needed, but the result did not satisfy him."
"Why bother assembling it from pieces," Brennon whispered, finally dawned on his insight, "if he found the girl which fits completely?! That is why he could not resist when he saw Peggy for the first time!"
"Or the fact is that parts of dead bodies are not suitable because they lose some property necessary for a maniac," Longsdale said slowly. "Which, in general, does not contradict your thought. Necromagic is an extremely complex thing, it completely depends on, ummmm, the quality of the source material, and it's perishable..."
On this, the consultant, fortunately, was lost in thought, and Brennon neatly took a breath. For a moment, he completely shared the views of the pyromaniac on a suitable punishment for maniacs and Stranglers.
The carriage shook and the Commissar looked out of the window. The paved road is over, now they drove along the path winding along the coast of Weer. Ahead, on the very shore, the lights of one of the surviving fishing villages flickered, which the quickly growing Blackwhit consumed one after another. Suddenly, the consultant grabbed Brennon's hand, and the Commissar jumped. His grip was like a trap, and his eyes burned wildly in the dark.
"Margaret!" Longsdale growled hoarsely. Nathan froze, looking in the face of the other - he had never seen him so close. "Margaret!" the pale face contorted with rage. Grip began to weaken, and rage gave way to such tension, as if another was trying to break out of the body. "Margaret..." he whispered with deep, sad tenderness and disappeared. The consultant blinked back in his seat. The commissar remained to sit, like a statue, digesting what he saw.
"She is same as he," Longsdale muttered. "Somewhere here the maniac is mistaken, but what does he mean?"
Jen hit the carriage wall from the outside. They were rapidly approaching the village, taking to the left, and Nathan, squinting, somehow saw in the darkness the outlines of either a barn or a warehouse outside the outskirts. The horses slowed down, the carriage turned closer to the village and stood, covered with a rapidly growing elderberry. Brennon opened the door and scanned the area with a suspicious look.
"Does he know we're here?"
"No one will tell you that," Longsdale answered.
Brennon got out of the carriage. Jen silently jumped off the high-bench. The hound, rearing his hair, angrily squinted at the warehouse. Or a barn.
"Maybe a house," the Commissar thought, examining the object closer. There were no windows on the visible side of the building, but this does not mean anything. For a barn, this building was not very large, for a boat shed it was too far from the coast. A narrow niche with a door blackened on the pale gray wall.
"Around - not a tree, not a bush," Nathan whispered. "We will be in full view."
"I can hide us," Longsdale said. "But are you sure there is no trap?"
"Jen, is he still there?"
The witch leaned forward, peering eagerly into the house.
"Yes," she answered. "He's still inside."
"Does he understand that you spotted him?"
"I don't know," the girl said reluctantly after a pause. "He abandoned Margaret as soon as he realized that she was not alone, but whether he sees me, I do not know."
"Looks like you scared him off. This guy is used to having everything under control – and suddenly there's someone he doesn't even see. That's good. Give your invisibility, Longsdale. We'll pay the man a visit."