"That's she?" Broyd asked.
"Uh-huh," Brennon replied; the chief of police ruffled his sideburns.
"Yeah," after a long silence he said, "a little unexpected result."
The Commissar snuffled softly. The pyromaniac's note burned his pocket like coal, and it took a lot of willpower for Nathan to stay where he was with his superiors, and not run off to Longsdale or Valentina.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," Brannon said through set teeth.
"So she tried to... um... capture you?"
"Tried."
Broyd put on his pince-nez and gave the Commissar a long look, as if assessing his sanity.
"What are you going to do with her now?"
- This, - Nathan sighed, feeling the note, - a very difficult question.
A woman drugged with morphine was lying in a hospital bed. The wound on her leg was washed, sewn up and bandaged, but the Commissar did not know what to do with the criminal further. In fact, they can only keep her in captivity as long as she is unconscious. But it cannot be renewed permanently! How to interrogate her, after all?
"How is your niece's health?" Broyd asked. "Did you bring her home?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Reasonable," the chief nodded. "You never know what else awaits us."
"Yeah."
"Maniac" was given a separate ward in the St. Jacob hospital. Four police officers were on duty at the door. But did that make sense?
"Nathan," Broyd asked insinuatingly, "can you tell me what happened?"
"It's long."
"Nothing, I'll hardly get bored listening to you. So?"
Brannon sighed, shifted from foot to foot, braced himself - and told. He tried to be more subtle and without particularly prominent details, but he still read the doubt on the chief's face. Fortunately, it did not belong to the Commissar's common sense.
"That is, you let your niece go with this pyromaniac..."
"I did not let go. He took her."
"However, you promised him that you would let her go."
"But I thought that he would at least do it in my presence and with my knowledge! And now I don't even know where she is, and if he will return her, or..." Brannon trailed off gloomily. Indeed, why would the pyromaniac return prey that has already been caught?
"So you don't think he will act like a man of honor?"
In a woeful snort, the Commissar expressed everything he thought about this man and his "honor."
"This is all strange," Broyd said thoughtfully. "First we got the consultant, then this guy, Raiden assures that they are relatives, but Longsdale does not know Redfern... or does not remember."
"I think he really doesn't remember, but this parasite does remember Longsdale very good and avoids it in every possible way. At the maniac's house, Redfern didn't even come close to me when I stood next to Longsdale."
"Do you think he was somehow involved in what happened to the consultant?"
"Yes, and I also think he fears Longsdale will remember him. Again, all these pyromanic things, skills, knowledge... God knows, maybe Redfern is not human at all."
Broyd sighed heavily.
"What we've come to," he remarked sadly. "It's time to create a separate department to fight these," he hit the maniac's bed with his cane. "But in general, the name Redfern is familiar to me. True, I heard it a long time ago, even before I left for service in Mazandran, that is, before the revolution. I don't remember what it was about. But I will try to make inquiries among my older relatives. These harpies don't forget anything."
"Thanks sir. With your permission, I will go to Longsdale's. We need to finally decide what to do with she."
"Go. I will give instructions to the hospital staff in order to avoid possible excesses. I would not want the lady to wake up."
"Well," Brannon agreed, took his coat and hat and left. Outside, Kelly was waiting for him, with Byrne's first report of the search of Mark Stilton's home. The Commissar took the folder with some trepidation. He never understood how Byrne manages to write reports so quickly and meticulously.
Sitting in the carriage, Nathan spread Redfern's note on the folder. Compared to the past, it was very long - as many as four phrases: "Miss Sheridan is hidden in a safe place. Do not worry about her honor, health and good name. Do not try to find her. Be careful with that woman." Brannon snorted in annoyance. And this is written to him by the man kidnapping innocent girls practically from the street! Where the hell did he hide Peggy if he was so sure the maniac wouldn't find her? In a hollow hill?!
However, the note brought the Commissar back to the words of the pyromaniac that had sunk into his memory. After all, in fact, how can you keep a man like this woman in prison? How to judge her if she only wants to and the judge will do whatever she tells him to? Unless Longsdale will come up with some kind of trick.
Brannon slipped the note into his pocket and opened the folder. He really enjoyed reading the report. Byrne was tedious and methodical as usual, and the report included a description of every inch of the apartment and every bit of dust under the bed. At least something in this crazy world is still normal!
Jen let the Commissar into the house; she looked sullen and puzzled.
"How are they?" Nathan asked.
"Relatively good," the witch replied. "He's waiting for you to talk."
"And I'm still waiting..."
It was hot in the living room - the fireplace burned like the mouth of a volcano. The hound was lying next to it, his paws in the fire; Longsdale stroked the hound's head. Seeing the Commissar, Red waved his tail in greeting.
"How are you?" Brannon asked, sinking into a chair.
"Everything is functioning," the consultant replied, "although she managed to cause some damage, which we will now eliminate."
The hound, with a sweet rumbling, buried its paws deeper into the fireplace. Jen put a tray of coffee pot, creamer, cups and snacks on the table.
"Glad for you," Nathan muttered somewhat embarrassedly, glancing at the blissful animal. "Take a look. This is a search report from an apartment she rented under the name of Mark Stilton."
Longsdale immersed himself in his reading with interest while Brannon paid tribute to the gingerbread and coffee. The consultant was still pale in appearance, but quite cheerful, fresh and clean-shaven. Even the bands on the hands from the handcuffs have already disappeared. Nathan envied him.
"What do you think?"
"Pretty typical kit for a necromancer." Longsdale put the report on his knees and frowned thoughtfully. "The difficulty, as I understand it, is that she can neither be interrogated nor imprisoned."
"Exactly. Do you have any ideas about this?"
The consultant rubbed his forehead with his fingers and admitted with a sigh:
"Nothing yet. She even managed to defeat me, albeit indirectly."
"How is it?" Nathan was surprised.
"She attacked the hound," Longsdale said. ��She tried to grab me, but for some reason immediately jumped on it. She could not subdue it, only deprive it of consciousness, and with it - and me."
"And what do you think it means?"
The consultant was silent, looking down at the hound.
"We're intimately connected," he finally muttered, "and we can't be apart. When this happens, the body begins to die."
"How is it - to die?" The commissar squeezed out. "To decompose, or what?!"
"No, not like that... rather, sink into a coma."
"Where?!"
"Coma is a state between life and death," Jen said, "when there is no consciousness, reaction to external stimuli, reflexes, when breathing, pulse, temperature are disturbed. A living corpse, simply put."
"But you were able to protect Peggy!"
"Well, it doesn't happen instantly. The process of disabling functions is gradual, accelerating as it develops."
"But... that is... if someone succeeds in killing the hound..."
The hound snorted skeptically.
"This is not a hound, do you still not understand?" Jen asked irritably. "This is the same spirit as the kelpie! I thought it was obvious even to you!"
Brannon gripped the armrests. So that's it! Of course, why make a semi-immortal creature and immediately make his life dependent on some fragile creature. Much wiser and more reliable to tie him to an unkillable creature!
"But why?" the commissar thought; this impenetrable wall drove him to madness. "Why would anyone do this? Why and how, for God's sake, did they manage to do this at all?!"
"In any case," Longsdale continued, as if nothing had happened, "it's almost impossible to hurt the hound. For all these years, not a single evil spirit or undead has been able to..."
"Well, yes, of course," Brennon realized with bitterness and was amazed at his own idiocy. "A hunter of evil spirits and undead must be invulnerable to them. And with a hound like that, he's much more invulnerable..."
This is how you have to be a cretin not to see someone lying on the surface!
"But who was he before that? " Brennon thought, looking at Longsdale. "Why did the choice fall on him? Or is it an accident? No, it's unlikely," the Commissar gritted his teeth. "It's unlikely that someone will accidentally select people to turn them into monsters to hunt other monsters. Surely not every person is suitable for this."
Longsdale had told him! He told that such consultants are not one or two! That someone, like in a factory, churns out such hunters - without memory, without friends, without family, but invulnerable, strong, fearless - those who cannot be killed.
"Sir?" the witch bent down to him and touched his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
"Just a word," the commissar muttered, got up and walked swiftly to the door. Longsdale followed him with a surprised look. The hound lowered its muzzle to its paws and closed its eyes.
28th February
Margaret woke up, with an effort raised her head above the pillow, squinted sleepily at the morning (or midday...) light and fell back. She felt tired to the last bone; it was hard even to think, and the girl covered her head with a duvet. Which, incidentally, was unfamiliar to her. After lying under him and accumulating strength, Margaret stuck her nose out of the warm soft folds and looked around the world. It was some kind of bedroom — not her room at home, and not the one where she lived with the Van Allen.
Sheets and pillowcases on soft pillows were white with Meersand lace, a dark green canopy hung over her head, and the bed seemed so immense that Margaret was lost in this vast expanse. Miss Sheridan's hair, cleanly washed and smelling of something herbal, was braided into a soft braid. The girl fidgeted in embarrassment and felt the warm flannel shirt in which someone had changed her (if only not Angel personally, oh Lord!).
But this thought cheered her up so much that she sat up in bed, clutching the duvet to her chest. After all, there must be a maid here, or at least a bell to call this maid! Someone undressed her, washed her, put her in bed and... and... Margaret covered herself with the covers again and collapsed into the pillows. Angel couldn't do this! He must have an idea of decency! At least some!
Curled up in a ball, the girl reluctantly recalled the previous day - so incredibly long and full of events that it was longer than a week. Margaret felt her side in surprise - nothing hurt, anywhere, although Angel had loaded a complete wreck into the carriage. She remembered the splash of water and a silvery reflection on the soft ripples in a deep bath or pool. In addition, Margaret did not remember anything: neither the road, nor the one who took care of her, nor how she ended up in bed.
"Safe haven" - it first occurred to her that she was completely at the mercy of Angel, without any connection with the outside world and even without the ability to send a message to her family. Although, after everything that's happened... this is probably the best way. Angel wouldn't hurt her, would he? Margaret cringed, remembering the box with holes, and the basement in the pavilion, and the maniac's slaves. If not for Mr. Longsdale and his hound... memories of strong hands, sad eyes and a tender kiss were interrupted by an insistent knock on the door.
"Margaret! Are you awake yet? May I come in?"
The girl almost jumped in surprise. For some reason, it seemed to her that Angel had gone about his business (or to his uncle, to interrogate the maniac) - but he certainly did not sit under the door, guarding the awakening of the guest.
"Margaret?" Redfern was alarmed. "Are you feeling all right?"
The door began to open, and Miss Sheridan, realizing that she was lying in bed, dressed in one shirt, pulled the covers up to her eyes. Angel appeared in the crack, cast a worried glance at the guest and noiseless walked to the bed.
"Are you awake?" He said sternly, finding that he was being watched. "Why don't you answer me? I decided that you got worse!"
"Sorry," Margaret muttered. "I just... I..."
Angel put his knee on the bed and reached for the girl to touch her forehead, but she shrank back to the other side of the bed.
"Angel!" it burst out from the victim of circumstances. "This is indecent!"
"Ah?" Redfern was surprised, thought about it and said: "Of course. I forgot. But do not be afraid - your girlish honor and modesty are completely safe," and he laid down on top of the blanket, stretching out to his full height. The girl blushed from the roots of her hair to her neck. Damn innate tendency to blush like a tomato! She tugged at the blanket indignantly, but the mentor was too heavy to get rid of so easily. He followed her attempts with a skeptical grin.
"I see I was worried in vain. You are quite healthy and, judging by your bright pink face, you will now try to scratch me, defending your chastity."
"I hope that at least you didn't put me to bed after the bath," Margaret muttered, wrapped in her half of the blanket.
"No," Angel replied serenely. "I have a servant for this. But, despite your cheerfulness, I advise you to spend this day in bed."
"If you don't want me to wander around your house and poke my nose everywhere, then say so."
"Why did you decide that this is my house?"
"It's too luxurious for a hotel."
"Do you think it's luxurious?" the mentor raised an eyebrow.
"I really don't know," Margaret admitted. "So, it seems to me that this is your house, but... that would be stupid of you, right?"
Angel looked at her thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said finally, "but you're right. This is my house."
The girl's heart skipped a beat. His house!
"But I'm asking you to stay in bed not because I don't want you walking around my secret lair. You have undergone a treatment procedure, and it usually weakens." Angel put his hand to her forehead, pressed his fingers to her neck and counted the pulse.
"Is it because you need to spend energy on magical treatment?"
"Exactly. Either your own or someone else's. So if you don't have a blonde virgin - or at least a black cat - be careful. Trying to heal with magic, you can inadvertently die of exhaustion.
Margaret chuckled. In any case, she had more confidence in magic than in medicine.
"You look healthy," Angel leaned back on the pillows, paused, thinking tensely about something, and finally asked: "What should you feed?"
"In terms of?" Miss Sheridan was surprised.
"What do you eat when you are hungry? For breakfast, for example? Are you want to eat or will you ever want?"
"Porridge," the girl answered stunned, "pudding, scrambled eggs, toast with jam..."
"Fu," the mentor said with deep disgust. "I forgot how disgusting the cuisine of my homeland is. Porridge! Pudding! Scrambled eggs! Ugh!" he snapped his fingers, and a second later a low table-tray with steaming plates and a mug appeared on the girl's bed.
"What is it?!" Margaret exclaimed.
"Risotto, chicken breast with cheese and nuts, pie with plums," Angel sniffed at the plate. "Cocoa and grapes. You need nutrients."
"Grapes in winter?" Margaret was surprised. She sat on the pillows, leaning against the headboard, and the table crept closer. The girl nipped off a translucent pink berry. "Sweet!"
"It's dessert. Eat and tell. Let's not waste time."
Margaret dipped the spoon into something thick, white, fragrant and seemingly rice, tasted it carefully, and eagerly pounced on the delicious thing. To prolong the pleasure, she began to tell the story beginning with the fact that she saw Mr. Longsdale leaving. Redfern listened without interrupting, only at the end he asked a few questions and, to Margaret's relief and some shame, did not scold her.
"From now on, be careful with autonomous spells. You are not yet experienced enough to control the expenditure of energy. Interesting," he tore a twig from a bunch of grapes. "Really the maniac was mistaken with the dosage of the dope potion? Or are you, for some reason, more resistant to his action than she thought? It is quite possible," Angel tilted his head to one side and measured the girl with a tenacious, studying look, "that this is hereditary, but not from your uncle."
Margaret hastily chewed a piece of chicken.
"She! Angel, are you sure it's her? That is, a woman? I mean, this is... this is weird and..."
"And unexpectedly, hmm," Redfern concluded. "But, in general, why not? A woman can survive the impact just as well as a man. Although this one seems to have gone mad."
"Is not a fact. We don't know what she wants. Look, the Strangler was quite sober-minded. Maybe she, too, wanted to perform some kind of ritual in order to make the hole to the other side and get some more magic."
"In some ways you are right. Most often, they shit at the call of their hearts and being in their right mind. But I am confused by too small a number of victims. If you and the consultant are counted, there are only five. This is not enough for a portal."
"And for something else? Like cursing the whole city? To bring the pestilence?"
"For something else... but for what?"
"Can't you ask her?"
"It's possible," Angel growled, "and I'm afraid that is what your uncle will try to do without my supervision."
"Well, he has the consultant," Margaret, pushed the empty plates aside and took up the cocoa. The mentor frowned, but said nothing. The girl, surprised by his scowl, said: "After all, they, the consultants, should understand all this. That's what they're for, isn't it?"
"Why are you asking me?" Angel asked sharply.
"But you told me that you supply them with all sorts of equipment, weapons, etcetera, create amulets for them, and that's all. This means that there are definitely more than one of them."
"What a memory," Redfern said through set teeth. He sat up and moved away from Margaret, but looked at her from under his brows, angry and displeased. Why would that be?
"Don't you like Mister Longsdale?"
"Why do you think so?"
"Then why are you so ruffled, as if you are being stroked against the grain? You work for them..."
"I don't work for them," Angel replied sharply. "They depend on me."
"So you are in charge?" Margaret realized. "Okay."
"Okay?" the mentor seethed. "Okay?! Don't you dare talk about them as if they were ordering me! And leave that tone of condescending favor!"
The girl lowered her cup and looked closely at Redfern. His nostrils flared angrily, his eyebrows came together over his prominent nose, and vein throbbed in his temple.
"Sorry," said Margaret. "I did not know. I thought that if you and they are fighting against evil spirits and undead, then..."
"Then I feed them tender brotherly love?��
"You are at least like-minded people. Angel, what's wrong with you?" She asked affectionately. "Why are you angry?"
He fidgeted, looked at her incredulously, and finally muttered:
"I don't like the way you associate with Longsdale so closely. I don't like your sympathy for him."
"Why?!" Margaret was amazed. She was waiting for any answer (better, of course, a story about consultants with all the details) - but not that!
"Because people like him are not really human."
"Yes," the girl replied after a pause, "I noticed. So this with a hound is normal for them? What was that anyway? What does the hound have to do with it?"
Angel got up and walked over to the window. Margaret sipped her cocoa, looking expectantly at her mentor's narrow back. How did he even survive, all so thin, long and fragile, constantly communicating with evil spirits? Even Longsdale can't always handle it...
"It's a familiar," the mentor finally answered.
"What?" Miss Sheridan perked up.
"Think for yourself, girl, in the struggle with whom consultants spend their lives. A human is fragile and vulnerable compared to the undead, and there is nothing to say about evil spirits. If they were ordinary human, they would die in the hundreds, not having time to finish off even three or four such creatures. Therefore… candidates for consultants go through… a certain procedure," he spoke slowly, as if on the go he was trying to assemble an answer from the truth, lies and reservations. "As a result of which they change... and acquire a Guardian Familiar."
"And what does it do?" Margaret asked eagerly. Angel came closer to her. He looked down at her, and the girl knew from his face that the answer wofuld be unpleasant.
"The consultant cannot die," Angel said coldly. "After the end... of the process, he acquires many properties necessary for a hunter, and is deprived of the opportunity to die. He loses memories of who he was before the process, forgets himself and his former life, but gains..."
"But why?!" Margaret gasped in shock. "Why do that to them?!"
"Because," Angel replied, "that undead and evil are creatures that feed on the lives of mortals. And to defeat one monster, you need another monster."