"He dumped the body," Byrne reported breathlessly on his way to the river. "Twinn is already melting, and he threw the corpse off the bridge over here. But he did not calculate the currents, and the body was carried to the coastal ice, where it got caught and stuck. This is it, sir. It just can't be other one!"
Brannon raced past the cordon, ran to the bank where the police had dragged the body, and staggered back, as if hitting a wall, barely seeing the find.
"M-mother of G-god..." the commissar squeezed out, and for the first time in many years he felt sick at the sight of the corpse. Longsdale, squatting in front of the body, raised his head and said:
"It's a necromorph."
"Wh... whut?" Nathan gasped barely. The hound stopped sniffing at the body and pressed its warm side against the Commissar's leg. He involuntarily grabbed the hound's scruff so as not to fall off.
"Necromorphy is a section of necromancy that describes and explores the creation of creatures from dead flesh. Most often from different bodies."
"But... but... God, why?" Brennon whispered.
"I don't know," the consultant frowned. "Necromorph is incomplete and, in general, is already unusable. They need strictly defined storage conditions, which were violated when we forced the maniac to flee. He took the necromorph with him, but could not keep it."
Swallowing six times to shove the lunch back into his stomach, the Commissar approached the body. Those parts of the skull, for which the maniac did not have time to get flesh, were bare. But Nathan did not doubt what he saw: the necromorph was made in the shape of a girl of about seventeen or nineteen, tall, slender, thin, and the sewn scalp with long brown hair also left no room for questions. The skin of the body was unnaturally white, the color of milk. The sutures on her felt like painted in ink.
"There are at least five bodies here," Longsdale said. "Assembled very carefully. It seems that the maniac needs not just a necromorph, but a completely specific appearance."
"Why didn't he burn the corpse?" Brennon asked deafly.
"The body has been treated with several potions. It practically does not burn, only smolders. Potions cannot completely stop the decomposition process, but, as you can see, it is greatly slowed down."
"Then why did the maniac dump it?"
Longsdale ran the scalpel along the suture. A cloudy liquid appeared in the incision.
"Rotting. Potions are not omnipotent. He couldn't take the necromorph out of the vault."
"So he lost his product, no matter how dear it is to him," the Commissar concluded. "Now he has two ways: either to start over, or..." he fell silent. The hound poked his hand with its wet nose. "Or he will finally decide to take Peggy."
"She is guarded by Raiden and Missis van Allen," Longsdale rummaged in his bag and began to study the skull through a magnifying glass. "They just won't let her leave the house. Interesting..."
"What is there?" the commissar asked, and then there was a wheeze under his ear:
"Oh my God! Damn... f*ck!"
Brannon turned around. The police chief was convulsively gripping his cane and gasping for air like a goldfish.
"The maniac dumped the body," the Commissar informed his boss. "Actually, here."
"Jesus," Broyd pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his forehead and stuffed it into his pocket. "But why?!"
"Why did he dump it or why did he assemble it at all?"
"Both!" Broid snapped. Brannon briefly told the chief about everything Longsdale had told him; the consultant at this time hunched over the corpse like the letter "Z" and closely studied the visible parts of the skull, sometimes poking them with a scalpel.
"I see," Broid said. "I didn't approve of your decision to end the chase, Brennon, and I still don't approve of it, but there was something sensible about it."
Actually, Nathan did not order to stop the chase: Jen simply lost the maniac when he finally noticed Margaret's spell and destroyed him. The witch was still tormented by the lost prey.
"At least the maniac is not prone to sadism. All of his victims were already dead when he cut off parts from them."
The chief of police cautiously touched the necromorph's leg with his cane.
"And it won't come to life?"
"No," Longsdale said. "But here's something interesting. The skull has been processed."
"What other processing?" Brennon shuddered.
"Bones are sharpened here and there. Apparently, the maniac tried to give the necromorph certain facial features when could not get exactly what he wanted."
"Can you recreate the face? Maybe the target of the maniac will tell us something? We have a clue from the Edmoor disaster," Nathan turned to Broyd. "Looks like this guy got his powers there."
"I read," the chief said gloomily, "your report, and if you continue to write such reports, then your entire department will move to the nearest madhouse. I mean, such bullshit, nonsense, idiocy, insanity and heresy... are you sure this is the case?"
"I'm sure. There is no other explanation yet."
"Portals," Broyd muttered. "Evil spirits on the other side! Explosions of magic that change people! What have I come to after twenty years of service! What are you planning to do now?"
Brannon was silent for a moment, studying the necromorph. Five girls - and three more to collect the face. Well...
"Once again we will play on live bait," the commissar said. "He is attracted by something to Margaret - not only by her appearance, but also by something that is still unknown to us. Let's place a new snare. He will come for her - or he will start killing again to assemble another necromorph. But since it will take a lot more time and effort, I bet he will come for Peg again."
Broyd looked closely at Brannon.
"This is cruel to the girl. Who will you take?"
"Of the human," Nathan replied, "none."
***
Victor sat on the stairs and thoughtlessly tapped his palm with his fist. The mind was empty, and the heart was so full that it was numb. He could not think and felt almost nothing but a nagging pain. From under his brow he looked down from the stairs, and the house seemed unfamiliar to him.
"It's hard," it was sound softly over his head. He flinched weakly as the dress rustled and Miss Sheridan sank down the steps beside him. Victor leaned to the side to get up and leave, but she put her hand on his shoulder, and he suddenly went limp like a doll.
"The world is not at all what it was half an hour ago," the girl said. "I know how it feels. It's difficult."
"How do you know?" Victor muttered. Because of her, the dull numbness began to pass, and he did not want feelings and thoughts.
"I'm being pursued by the crazy maniac who can subdue other people to his will," Margaret replied. Van Allen looked at her incredulously, but she was calm and serious.
"He tried to capture you too when you met him in the park. But you are beyond his control."
"Because I may not be a human at all," Victor responded bitterly.
"No. She said..."
"She lied for twenty-five years. Why would she tell of the truth now?"
"Tell the truth," Margaret corrected. "To tell the truth," she fell silent, her head thoughtfully bowed.
"My mother is not a human creature at all!" Van Allen said with sudden strength. Fury flared in him. "My own mother! I saw it myself, with these eyes, I... I always thought that fairy tales are nonsense! And they exist... What should I do now?!"
He clenched his fists, but Margaret did not free him. She was not scared, not at all, as if it were the most common thing!
"Who am I?" Victor continued gloomily. "Who are we all?! Juniors and Marion - how could she not think? How could she even?!"
"Silence?" Margaret asked softly. "Or fall in love?"
Victor's breath caught in his throat and he barked:
"Give birth to monsters!"
"You're not a monster," the girl opposed. "I saw monsters, and even real people who were monsters. It's not enough to be born into an unusual family."
Victor linked his fingers and buried his face in them. An orderly and secure world was falling apart in his hands (again!), and the debris swirled around him and his family, but now there was nowhere to escape. Wherever he goes, he will take them with him. A convulsive sob leaked through his clenched teeth; Victor bit his knuckles, but he was immediately startled by a small nervous tremor.
"Oh, don't!" Margaret threw her shawl over his shoulders and hugged him. Van Allen grabbed her hand, squeezed it and remembered.
"You," he said hoarsely, "what did you do there, at the door?"
"I read a spell," the girl replied seriously.
"Are you... one of them?" Victor stammered.
"No," she released her hand from his. "A human can also learn spells, or rather, only a human needs them."
"What for?"
"To survive," she said, "in the world we live in. Think, Victor, maybe she protected you from it? For so many years, she tried so hard to make sure that you had a normal human life."
"She didn't have to lie!"
"And what would happen if she told the truth?"
Victor lowered his head. He did not know. Tears came to his eyes again.
"Our father," he whispered, almost inaudibly, "died so that we might be saved. They tore him to pieces right by the ship, and she could not... could not..."
"Vivene cannot kill."
Victor jumped up and stared at the butler, this bodyguard, how was his... Raiden? He climbed to the middle of the stairs and stared intently into the young man's face with black eyes without sparkle:
"Vivene never kills. We kill for her."
"Who you are?" Victor squeezed out, licking dry lips. The light appeared in the black eyes - first, a ring around the pupil, spreading over the entire iris, an orange-scarlet. The fire lit up Raiden's thin, dark face.
"People like me. Witchers. Witches. We were close until you little human bred like cockroaches. You built cities, roads, bridges, cut down forests and captured meadows, gutted mountains."
Victor rose, covering Margaret with his shoulder. The girl also stood up and asked surprisingly calmly:
"Why do you revere her so much?"
"She is our soul," the butler replied, walked by, pouring heat on Victor, and disappeared into Valentina's room.
"G-g-god," van Allen stammered out and gripped the railing to keep from falling.
"I know someone who can help you," Margaret said. "But you too must help me to call him. Faster, until the sorcerer is watching me."
***
Margaret fidgeted impatiently by the window. The card, on which she managed to fit the whole story, was still hot after the disappearance of the text, and the girl convinced herself that, of course, Angel would not come immediately. He may not appear at all until the next evening, or the day after tomorrow, or...
Miss Sheridan ran around the room, fingering the card. Now she understood why the mentor rushed about like a mad squirrel when a thought came to mind! Margaret was so bursting with knowledge that she almost climbed the wall. After all, so many things immediately fell into place! That's why Jason Moore was afraid to utter a word, let alone complete the ritual! This is who prevented the ifrit from turning in full force! And - then Margaret almost hissed with annoyance - of course, Valentina knew that they were being eavesdropped, prevented the Commissar from telling the most interesting things about Longsdale. What an injustice! The girl almost died right outside the door when it dawned on her what Valentina and uncle were talking about.
"Real!" Margaret froze; her heart sweety skipped a beat. "She is real! It can't be!"
But the real one is who? Why can she scare the ifrit, but she can't swat the maniac? After all, for her it is like killing a fly with a newspaper!
Margaret threw herself into the chair by the window again, grabbed the book, but the lines jumped before her eyes. If Angel does not come immediately, she will simply be torn apart into a thousand little margarets!
The clock ticked, time passed, it was completely dark outside. A lamplighter appeared with a ladder, lit a lantern in front of the "Shell". Victor came out of the cafe, also lit two round lanterns by the porch and glanced at the window. Margaret waved her hand to him. The young man nodded and disappeared inside. The door of the room slammed.
"Restless little female," the witch said sarcastically and put a tray of food on the table. "You want everyone, without exception, eh?"
"What are you talking about?" the girl asked with a chill, against her will moving to the table along with the chair. The soup exuded divine aromas, and her stomach rumbled hungrily.
"You can't just walk past a man and not get him right away."
"Nothing like this!" Margaret was indignant and took a soft small loaf. "They climb themselves!"
Jen studied her for a couple of seconds and chuckled:
"It is not surprising."
"Why do not you eat? Help yourself."
"I don't eat that," Jen said contemptuously. "But your angel tastes very good."
"What?" the girl shuddered and dropped the small loaf into the soup. "You drank his blood?!"
"Not blood," the witch grinned unkindly; her white teeth flashed in a grin, "we drink pain. True, he was silent all the time, but I had a good meal," she licked her lips. "It's even a pity that your uncle intervened before I got to dessert. But I hope to continue."
The blood drained from Margaret's face to her heart. She remembered which sick and pale Angel had come to her once, "after meeting with your uncle" - and she herself did not notice how abruptly she got up.
"Get out," she ordered deafly. Jen stared at her with surprise and interest.
"And not what?"
Anger hit the girl in the temples. Desire, will, and imagination merged into one word faster than she blinked. "Motus!" - and the witch swayed as if from a blow to the chest.
"Wow, we have claws," Jen's eyes lit up recklessly. "Let's! I eat and that!"
"Do not choke!" Margaret hissed. "Motus!"
The knife soared from its place, slashed Jen along the cheek and stabbed into the wall, trembling slightly. The witch dabbed her fingers over the blood-pouring cut and licked them. She smiled. Margaret was gasping for breath with rage. But the table seemed to her heavy enough to...
The door flew open after a short knock. Victor appeared on the threshold.
"I want to talk to you," he said dryly to the witch.
"But I'm not. Get out and don't bother."
"With you and my mother. I want answers."
"Well, want as much as you want. We're busy, can't you see?"
"Mother is waiting for us," Victor stepped back from the door and with a gesture demanded that Jen followed him. The witch pursed her lips in displeasure and pulled out the knife.
"Catch, female, and first learn how to use it, and then threaten."
The knife whistled in front of Margaret's face, but she didn't even look where it went. Victor, flushing angrily, stepped into the room.
"It seems to me that you were called to guard! Don't kill!"
"So no one died,? Jen turned on her heels and left. Van Allen looked worriedly at Margaret and closed the door. The girl exhaled and darted to the window. In front of the cafe stood the familiar carriage drawn by the bay pair, and by the door stood a tall, thin gentleman. Miss Sheridan grabbed her coat, hat, muff and rushed out of the room, out of the house, down the stairs, to the back door and out into the street.
"Angel, oh, Angel!" she rushed to the mentor; the cold whipped her like a wet sheet. Redfern rushed towards her, holding out his hands to meet her.
"Margaret! Has someone offended you?!"
"No, no, get out of here! She will understand now!"
Angel grabbed Margaret in his arms, put her in the carriage, jumped into it, and the bay pair rushed off the bat. The girl, looking out, barely noticed the tall woman figure a in the window.
"Oh my God! And if she orders the horses to return?!"
"These are not horses!" Angel shouted. "Wrap yourself in the coat!"
He whipped the bay pair, the carriage, heeling like a ship in a storm, flew into a dead end. Redfern shouted a spell, the non-horses let out a furious screech that vaguely sounded like a whinny, and the carriage soared into the air. Margaret squealed with amazement and delight. The city blocks flashed below, and at last she felt so cold that she hastily dived into her coat, buttoned up all the buttons, pulled on her hat and thrust her numb hands into the muff. Angel reeled the reins on the blunt wooden hook in front of the seat and turned to the girl, all glowing with delight and excitement. Margaret even shuddered - now he looked no older than van Allen.
"We break away!" the mentor pulled the bearskin over himself and the girl. "Not even the witch can reach us. Madness, huh? But how exciting!"
"Ugh!" Miss Sheridan agreed. A pair of long, twisting, serpentine creatures swiftly carried the carriage away from Blackwhit. The wind whistled; it was warmer under Angel's side, and the bearskin was warming, but it still whipped cold across her face.
"Show me what you've learned," Redfern demanded. "Keep us warm!"
Margaret concentrated.
"A tepidus ignis! In sphaera!"
A warm golden ball blossomed first in her imagination, and then around the carriage.
"Not bad," Angel said. "And beautiful. I can imagine how many fairy tales and nightmares an empty golden ball rushing across the sky will generate. The invisibility spell hides only us, the carriage and the harness."
"I'll fix it!"
"Leave it," Redfern leaned back on the pillows, pulled Margaret to him with one hand, and fumbled in the seat with the other. "More fairy tale, less nightmare... Refresh yourself and tell me in more detail how you found out."
He put the basket on his knees, pulled out a round pie and sniffed:
"This one with duck and pate."
"Thank!" Margaret unrolled the oiled paper, remembered that the lady is supposed to eat slowly and neatly, on a tiny piece - and dug into the pie with the greed of a jackal. Having destroyed the food in the blink of an eye, the girl, without waiting for the second portion, laid out to Angel everything that she had time to find out, what she guessed and what she did. As she told him, he began to frown with displeasure, and Margaret shrank - she guessed that the mentor would not approve of her actions.
"I would be grateful," Angel said dryly, "if you didn't promise my help to the first person you meet without warning me."
"Sorry!" Miss Sheridan pleaded (hoping nevertheless that he would not throw her out of the carriage). "I know, but now he'll tell us all about her. In the end, he only helped me escape for your help. It's her, isn't it? It was she what... who scared Moore? But who is she?"
"Right," Angel pondered. "This creature… they are called vivene. Mortals haven't seen anyone like her in a long time. The wild ancestors of the current inhabitants of the Continent worshiped these powerful spirits as gods."
"Then why doesn't she kill the maniac?"
"She can't. Vivene is the spirit of life itself; she should give it, not take it away, and a murder will inflict the same wound on her as much as cutting off your hand will hurt you. Okay, the youngster can be of use to us. You came up with a good idea, but henceforth..."
"I won't!" the girl promised with an oath. Angel raised an eyebrow at her and asked:
"But I hope you were prudent and limited his reward to a few kisses?"
"No way!" Margaret was indignant. "No kisses!"
"And he's in his twenties?" Angel said with some disappointment. "I'd have to be tied up! Well, the modern youth... no ardor, no heat."
Miss Sheridan involuntarily wondered if need he be tied up now. But reclining in the crook of his arm was so warm, comfortable, and safe that she preferred to make herself comfortable and pull another pie out of the basket.
"Now it's my turn to tell stories," Angel said. "I'll tell you about the great train wreck at Edmoor in the fifty-seventh year."