"Victor! Victor!"
A soft female voice came from somewhere in the mist. A second later, the young man realized that he was sitting, or rather, lying like a sack with rags in an armchair, and a blurry face with large dark eyes swayed above him.
"Victor, well, you can't do that," the face reproached with the same voice. "You'd think you'd seen the end of the world. It's just a little spell."
The word "spell" sent a chill through van Allen's body, and he jerked as if a spear had been stabbed through his chair. Spell! Under the roof of his house! And she talks about it so calmly, as if it is the same as drinking tea!
"What have you done?" Victor asked accusingly, blinking.
"Nothing special," Miss Sheridan tucked the cheque into her reticule and began to wipe the mirror with a napkin. "I didn't do very well."
At another time, Victor would have focused on the fact that she was agitated, her hands were little trembling nervously and her breathing was intermittent, like after a long run - but now he was not up to it.
"You are a sorceress! And the Commissar? And your family? Why did he bring you here? Who," Victor shouted shrilly, "are you all like that?!"
Margaret gave him a piercing, scornful look. Victor stood up and staggered at her, wondering who she was. Same as Valentina?
"Stop the tantrum," she said through set teeth, crumpled up a napkin and threw it into a corner. "The man, thanks to whom the ifrit did not gobble you all, lies unconscious, no one knows where, at the mercy of a crazy maniac - and you still ask who we are?"
Victor took a deep breath in his chest to vent all his indignation, deflated and muttered miserably:
"Ifrit? Who is Ifrit? My God, are there so many of you?!"
Margaret turned to the window, wrapping her shawl around her. Victor approached the table apprehensively. There were still traces of cream on the mirror, here and there intertwined in a pattern.
"M-Margaret," he stammered, "please explain to me, at least someone! I can not understand anything!"
"You only need to understand one thing," the girl said dryly: "the world is full of other beings besides humans. Once you finally understand this, it will immediately feel better."
"What are the others?" Victor exclaimed pleadingly and grabbed her hand. "Gretchen, God, explain to me at least a little! Is my mother dangerous? Is she evil?"
The girl squeezed the bridge of her nose with her fingers. She grimaced, sighed convulsively, and blinked several times. Her eyelids were red.
"My God, why are you asking all sorts of idiotic questions right now?" She whispered. Victor was seized by a burning shame. Indeed, what does he ask her about when she is about to cry? He put his hand gently on her shoulder, gathering the courage to hug her, although he couldn't lie like to his younger sisters, "everything will be fine." Because he didn't know...
"Oh, well," Margaret sniffed, took a handkerchief and turned away. Victor averted his eyes delicately. She blew her nose softly. "Okay, good. I'm no good now anyway. Your mother is harmless, although quite powerful. My mentor will tell you more about her if he can find time."
"This is the one who yesterday..." Victor hesitated. "And he is... a human?"
"Yes. But if you want to know so much, then besides creatures like your mother, the world is full of undead and evil spirits, and at the same time there are only a few people like mister Longsdale. And so that you understand, only he stands between them and you. Well, maybe a few more of the same hunters."
"And you?" Van Allen asked. "Are you preparing to become one of them?"
"No. I do not know. Probably. I'm just getting started."
Victor lowered his head.
"What's the difference? Well, undead, evil spirits, mother?.."
"There are all sorts of spirits and entities that inhabited our world before us," Margaret wrinkled her nose. "I have not yet reached this section. Evil spirits climb to us from the other side, and undead are former people. Those who became undead after curses and all that."
"Oh," Van Allen said bitterly, "humans don't need curses to become undead."
Suddenly there were rapid steps outside the door, and Marion burst into the room, frightened by something almost to tears.
"Victor! Victor, there's a man down there, and I'm afraid of him!"
"What kind of man? Come show me and I'll kick him out!"
"He speaks all the time, stands in the middle of the cafe and speaks, speaks, repeats the same phrase," the sister grabbed his hand. "Please, Victor, drive him away! He's scary!"
Margaret cried out dully:
"This is for me! He sent for me!"
"Marie, stay here with Miss Sheridan!" Victor ordered and rushed down to the cafe. His heart was pounding, but not with fear.
Valentina was already in the hall. She confidently blocked the way to the stairs of some man dressed as a worker. He stood in the middle of the cafe, swayed and repeated meaninglessly:
"Go to Saint Rose. Go to Saint Rose. One. Don't you dare hide. Go to Saint Rose..."
The visitors were despondently silent, two stalwart policemen cautiously crept up to him left and right. The man did not notice anything - his gaze wandered like a madman.
"Well, well, buddy," one of the policemen said, squeezing his shoulder tightly, "well, well, stop raving. Come with us."
The man gave a weak start and jerked out of the hands of the police with such force that all three of them could not stay on their feet and in one heap fell to the floor, overturning a table and several chairs. The worker twisted like a snake and screamed:
"Go to Saint Rose! Go to Saint Rose! One! Don't you dare hide!"
Valentina approached and sank to the floor in front of him. As soon as her fingers touched the forehead of the worker, he fell silent, twitched several more times and went limp.
"Excuse me, ma'am," the policeman said, handcuffing the rowdy. "Now we will swaddle him in the best possible way and deliver to the address. It's not far away," he chuckled. His friend helped Valentina up.
"Thank you," she said, and smiled. "I hope you come back and finish your lunch?"
Suddenly Valentina turned so pale that Victor, forgetting who she was, rushed to her.
"Mother!"
"And where?.. Where?.." Valentina whispered; her eyes darted around the cafe. Victor caught his mother's arm. From above a desperate exclamation came: Marion jumped out onto the stairs and shouted:
"She ran away! I could not hold her!"
***
"Did he explain his trip to you in any way?" Brennon asked gloomily as he fiddled with the heap of maps scattered across the table and floor in Longsdale's office.
"No!" The witch was carefully moving some retorts and test tubes on the other table, and only her voice showed impatience. "Nothing! Not a single word! I was at vivene's house all the time; I didn't even come here!"
Nathan was grateful to her for not continuing - "because you told me to guard Peg." Damn it, of course the consultant figured out the composition of the ointment much faster than Kennedy! And then he rushed to the place where the smell of a maniac. The commissar once again took out a piece of paper from his pocket, which unexpectedly flopped onto his desk out of thin air. Longsdale had evidently ripped it out of his notebook in a hurry, there was a fragment of a formula on the edge of it. The consultant kept it short, succinctly, mysteriously, in three phrases:
"Ingredient of the ointment for the necromorph. Bone powder. I went in search."
If he would have pointed out exactly where! When Nathan asked him to report on next steps, he meant a clear report, not charades!
"Where can he look for it?"
"Anywhere!" Jen cried with annoyance. "Bone powder is the basis for preservative ointments, it is obtained by grinding dry bones. Well, that is, skeletons. A corpse from a cemetery won't do."
"And if you dig up the skeleton?"
"Still not the same. It will have to be kept in air for a long time."
"So Longsdale could have gone in search of a place where the skeletons are lying around, unburied? And still a lot of time?" Brannon rubbed his beard and glanced at Blackwhit's map on the wall. "We have a problem with that. It is customary to bury the dead, and not to scatter here and there. Nameless vagrants are buried in the municipal cemetery, but they do it conscientiously."
"And if come to think of it?" Jen went to the fireplace and sniffed the soot, rubbed it between her fingers, licked it. "He went to some abandoned temple. Do you have such? Could there be such burials? I saw such in Ilara, in the Aventine catacombs - whole shelves of bones, pyramids of skulls..."
Brannon shook his head, recalling the abandoned churches. None of it had anything like this. Perhaps this ruined quarter... From below there was a noise, as if someone was simultaneously pulling the bell and pounding on the door with his whole body. The witch hissed ferociously.
"I'll open," said the Commissar. "Do not be distracted."
He went down to the hall. When Nathan managed to unlock the ingenious lock on the third try, a girl tried to burst inside, in whom Brannon did not immediately recognize Marion van Allen.
"Miss!" She cried shrilly, clutching at the commissar. "Miss is missing!"
"Who's missing?" Nathan didn't immediately catch.
"Miss! Miss Sheridan! Some man came, we were all distracted, and she was gone! She's nowhere, nowhere at all!"
Brannon closed his eyes for a moment. The mutilated bodies of three girls stood in front of him, and the floor floated under his feet.
"How long?" The commissar squeezed out hoarsely.
"Just now!"
He leaned heavily against the doorframe. Just now! Just now! While he was here... Nathan tore off his coat from the rack and rushed out of the house.
People turned to look at him as he sped down Roxville street. He vaguely made out the silhouettes of passers-by and vaguely heard some voices that shouted something after him, but he didn't care. He saw only one target on his way - the Shell Cafe. Nathan flew up the porch and the door swung open to meet him. Large, burning like a tiger's, dark eyes flashed before the commissar, and the pyromaniac with unexpected force grabbed Brannon a fistful of shirt, dragged him in and slammed into the wall.
"Safe place?!" Redfern growled. "Safe, f*** your?! I've had enough of your safe places - now I'll take her with me!"
He threw Nathan aside with such force that he knocked down a table, several chairs and finally sobered. On the stairs in front of him stood Valentina, pale and frightened; Detective Byrne and three police officers cornered the visitors and interrogated, the police cordoned off the cafe. Nathan swallowed a lump in his throat.
"Where?" he breathed. Valentina gestured around the room.
"Here," the pyromaniac answered angrily. "In front of everyone! Got your damn vivene around his finger like a mindless sheep!"
"It's me," the widow said quietly. "I am guilty. I was distracted, just for a minute, by this man..."
"Which man?"
Byrne, seeing the Commissar, motioned for Sergeant Eyre to continue his interrogation, and quickly approached. He was followed by Victor van Allen, pale, trembling, but not with fear - on his face Nathan saw the same rage that the pyromaniac did not hide.
"A man entered the cafe, sir," Byrne reported. "He began to talk nonsense; everyone was distracted by him. Obviously, at this moment the maniac captured Miss Sheridan."
"He subdued some idiot," Redfern hissed impatiently, "and while this pack of degenerates stared at him, he told Margaret to leave the cafe. Nobody even noticed! Even this one! Although she should have!"
"Mister van Allen called me right away," the detective continued, glaring at the pyromaniac. "I sent the police to scour the block. They will ask everyone they see. Gallagher interrogates... will interrogate this man as soon as he comes to his senses. Sir..."
"Longsdale has been kidnapped, too," Brennon said abruptly. "The same maniac. Why does he need two at once?"
"Why, why," Redfern said through set teeth. "Because he cannot return to the park and make a bloody sacrifice in broad daylight. This means that he will find a more or less suitable place and strengthen it with the necessary victim."
"What place? For what he strengthened it?"
"I do not know. I would have known - I was already there. You have a good concern," the pyromaniac said venomously. "It is no worse than gratitude!"
He turned abruptly and ran up the stairs, pushing Valentina away.
"Who is this guy, sir?" Byrne asked tightly. "Is this another consultant?"
The Commissar, without answering, followed Redfern. There was nothing to say. Neither the pyromaniac, nor Jen, nor Peggy, nor Valentina, nor even more so her son were guilty of this. Only he himself.
The living room, where Mrs. van Allen had once served him red tea, was chaotic, as if Redfern, with a single touch, had transformed the room into a laboratory or a madman's ward, strewn with books, scrolls, and outlandish tools like Nathan had never seen. The pyromaniac sat down at a table on which a round glass stood on thick short legs. Something was moving in him.
"Sly scum," Redfern said. The glass reflected the map of the city, along which a red light crawled.
"What is it?"
"Medallion. I gave it to Margaret, and the maniac took it off and put it on someone else. This man is now heading for the Saint Rose Cemetery."
"How do you know?"
"The medallion has a signal in case it wasn't Margaret or myself who undid the chain. The question is, where exactly is the girl?"
"Valentina..." the Commissar began.
"Forget your immortal vivene," the pyromaniac said sharply. "During the thousands of years that she lived in the world, all the girls in the world have become one face for her. It's amazing how she somehow distinguishes you from the rest."
"Thousands..." Nathan muttered. He didn't care. Now he didn't care at all. Valentina could help! Redfern moved in his chair away from the table; the legs creaked shrilly across the floor.
"Sit down. Get busy while I finish the amulet in artisanal conditions."
"What busy?" Brennon asked dully.
"It's kind of like the spell Margaret used to track down your consultant. I will customize the search, and you follow the result."
The commissar sat down on the vacated chair and stared in disbelief at the round glass with legs. Redfern slipped under it a lacy girlish handkerchief with the initials "M.Sh." in the corner and muttered a spell. Symbols appeared on the frame around the glass, tiny probes crawled out of the legs and dug into the handkerchief.
"Wait," ordered the pyromaniac. "It will find her. If she is conscious and not deep underground."
***
She came to herself in the dark, thinned out by thin streams of light. The darkness was hard and swaying. Cold fresh air oozed into her with the light. Margaret raised a weak, wadded hand and rested in something flat and hard. Lid. She's in the box. With her fingertips, she felt for the circular breathing holes. At this, the strength ended, and her hand fell limply. Margaret closed her eyes. The stormy pounding of her heart was heard in the darkness. She felt scared. If she had the strength, she would have pounded in panic against the walls and the lid, screamed, shaking the box, until... until... but she did not have the strength, and she lay not moving.
"He'll bury me alive," the girl thought. "Or burn me."
It became difficult to breathe, and she twitched like a fish in the sand, fumbled her hand over her chest in search of a fastener. Lord, medallion! Angel put a medallion on her! Numb fingers somehow slipped under the collar. The chain was gone, and Margaret pulled the buttons in panic. The bodice finally came apart, and she realized that the medallion was missing. The corset blouse was torn in the middle. But then the kidnapper buttoned her dress on... why? Dress... shawl!
The fluffy warm shawl was nearby, and Margaret pulled it over herself like a blanket. Now she was shivering. She finally made out a rhythmic creak from the outside, similar to the creak of wheels. They were taking her somewhere.
"Angel," Margaret blinked away her tears and wiped her eyes with her fist, "Angel cannot be fooled. He will find me!"
And her uncle too! They can't knock the Uncle off the trail with any magic! This calmed her a little: enough for her to be quiet in her coffin, realizing that it was better not to show signs of life. The girl was sure that she had been put to sleep by something, and, quite possibly, she would be put to sleep again if she twitched. In addition, she should build up your strength - just in case. Therefore, Margaret lay warm under the shawl, looked at the light from the holes and listened to the rhythmic creak.
It stopped when the light faded. The air still penetrated inside completely freely, and the girl decided that the carriage had stopped under some kind of roof. The sounds were muffled, but, pressing her ear to the wall, Margaret made out someone's steps. Suddenly the box shook; first down, then up, and then it started dangling altogether, as if someone was pulling it off a cart, not really caring about the contents. The contents hissed angrily and rested against the walls with her elbows and knees. Finally, the jiggling stopped, and the box began to simply sway, in time with the steps of the people who carried it.
"But where?" Margaret touched the hole. The air was, the light was not; then they are walking inside a building. The air, moreover, became heavy and somehow musty or something. It became harder to breathe, and then the box was skewed again. Margaret was carried head first, and she had to put her hands on the end wall to avoid hitting the top of her head as the porters stomped down the stairs. But the yellow light of the lantern began to seep into the holes.
"When already?!"
Hands ached, my head began to spin, dust fell on the lid of the box, getting inside. Margaret gave up, slid down and covered her nose with her fingers so as not to sneeze. Finally, the coffin leveled out, and after a couple of minutes the porters thumped it to the floor with loud sighs of relief. The girl was shaken at last. She froze; the light disappeared. She waited with her ear to the wall. But no footsteps or other sounds were heard.
Margaret waited a long time until her body began to numb. Then she rolled over onto her stomach, covered her head with her hands and concentrated on the lid. She has never moved something that she does not see - but at some point you have to start, right?
"Motus," she whispered. It didn't work. The girl pulled the shawl over her head, imagined the holes in the lid and focused not on them, but on the movement. From the inside up! From the inside - up!
"Motus!"
The lid cracked.
"Motus!"
From the inside - up. Come on, take off!
"Motus!"
The crackle suddenly turned into a drawn-out "crrrrak!", the box jerked, and the lid was torn off along with pieces of the sides. The chips fell to Margaret, and the lid landed with a crash somewhere at the foot of the box. The girl froze, breathing in the stale air with pleasure. She waited. But nobody came.
After going through all the spells for lighting in her memory, Margaret chose flamma lucerna. Difficult, but it can be thrown at the enemy and burned. The girl drove the reddish ball higher, sat down and looked around.
"Basement?" She thought doubtfully. The room was too well-shaped, and small and completely empty. Margaret climbed out of the drawer. In the corner, she made out a staircase and headed towards it.
"I wonder if Mister Longsdale is around here too?"
Near the stairs she was suddenly overcome with dizziness, and Margaret sat down on the step, closed her eyes to catch her breath. It seemed that the muck with which she was drugged was still active. The girl trembled with weakness and swallowed several times, fighting the nausea. Was the maniac wrong with the dosage of this potion? Or had the cold winter air revived her prematurely?
Holding on to the wall, the girl began to rise slowly. A thin metal railing lined the staircase, but they didn't look very safe, so Miss Sheridan was leaning against the wall. Why hide her at all in a room where there is not even a guard, even if it is underground? If the maniac was sure that she would not wake up, and even after waking up - would not get out of the box?
"Or not," the girl thought. "He knew that I could come to my senses and get out, that's why he locked me up. But why didn't he put a guard on me?"
Suddenly her heart skipped a beat: what if the maniac can't keep people under control for too long? Maybe this is his weak point?
The door above was locked. Margaret felt her in the light of the ball. Semicircular, dark wood, metal-bound. The hinges were shiny with oil. The girl sank to the floor. Why didn't she learn a single lock-unlocking spell! Don't go back now!
The girl again touched two metal strips wide in her palm - one higher, the other lower, and damped the ball so that it would only illuminate the wooden space between the stripes.
"A tepidus ignis. In sphaera," Margaret whispered. It took some effort for her to create a transparent golden sphere between her and the door. The girl tweaked the volume and focused on the warmth. It should get cold inside, and very, very hot along the circuit.
"Motus," Miss Sheridan whispered, directing the incandescing sphere toward the door. The transparent ball sank into the wood with a slight crackle. It slid through the wood like an iron through a silk shirt, though Margaret had to lean on the flimsy railing when the shivers rolled through again. After dispelling the ball, the girl again used telekinesis, noiselessly removed the still smoking circle from the door and laid it on the floor. Trying not to burn herself, she got out, looked around, took a few steps, and suddenly the floor hit her knees. The palms slapped loudly against the stone, and Margaret cringed at the sound. She was dizzy and sick again, and she could not get up. The girl crawled into the corner opposite the door and curled up into a ball, trying to merge with the wall. It is foolish to faint after spending so much strength on saving!
"Exactly, silly girl," Angel would tell her. "Pick your strength."
Uh-huh. It's easy for him to say...
Her light gray checkered dress stood out against the nearly black wall, like the fur of a white rabbit in the night. She must get out of here before they come for her. Margaret pressed her temple against the cool stone and scratched the grout with her fingernail. Maybe this is the same church in which the maniac caught Mr. Longsdale? But the witch must have already told the uncle where they saw the consultant the last time! This means that help is already close... unless the maniac has dragged the prey to another place. In any case, there is nothing to sit around.
Margaret got up, lit the ball brighter and walked forward, leaning on the wall. There was not a single window anywhere, not a ray of light and, thank God, no guard. The end of the dark, vaulted corridor was lost in darkness. The wall that had been Miss Sheridan's mainstay was suddenly interrupted by a narrow black hole, and the girl halted indecisively. What if there is a way out? She hesitated and directed the ball into the wall void. A light illuminated a short, narrow corridor that ended in a bolted door. Margaret sighed and stepped back to go further, when suddenly the door bounced on its hinges from a powerful kick from the inside. The girl, crushing a panicky squeal with her palm, bounced off the wall void. A board flew out with a crunch over the metal strip, and in the gap bright blue eyes flashed in the dark.