Longsdale leafed through book after book in Mark Stilton's library, and Brennon suspected it would be a long time. There were seven hundred volumes here, even at first glance. Jen shifted from foot to foot behind the Commissar's back. Nathan understood how difficult it was for her to keep inside what he had told her. And it seems she didn't quite believe him. Brennon understood that the grounds for suspicion are very shaky: someone amalgamates human with immortal spirits, so that these people become a living weapon against all mischief. It's hard to convince the witch of this. Besides, they had more important things now.
Old fool, Brannon thought sourly. The girl did not take a frown from the consultant, lights flashed in her eyes every now and then.
"No," Longsdale concluded, "there's no answer in books. A common kit for a practicing necromancer. Unless there is a cache somewhere."
He turned the book over and shook it, but the letter of confession did not fly out of it.
"Kintagel is also empty," Jen said. "We dug everything there, but found nothing but the tracking charm. There are no unburied skeletons there either. Why did my most wise teacher even think that she got hold of them in Kintagel?" Longsdale coughed, embarrassed and resentfully. "Half a dozen ribs are enough to make an ounce of bone powder. Even this skinny rat could have brought them along with her when he moved to Blackwhit."
"Tracking charms?" Brennon asked. "Are those the ones Peggy used?"
"No," the witch shook her head, "the print was different. Another personality. The one who is now taking morphine in the hospital. Why the hell are you poking with her? It's time to strangle her!"
"Wheesh," the Commissar said. "We have justice. It applies to everyone."
"Yeah, especially for the crazy necromancers. I think someone was just lured into a pot of soup like a stupid goose. True, the question is, why does she need soup of a hunter for evil spirits and undead."
"Redfern said she needed a sacrifice."
"And you believe him more. He got his way - the girl is in his pocket."
"Raiden," said Longsdale sharply. She fell silent and pouted. The consultant squatted down and traced the sign on the floor with his finger. "It's understandable why I didn't feel magic. Solid protection - does not release a single emanation outward."
"So I still have to wake her up and interrogate her," Brennon said. "If Gallagher doesn't find in the passenger lists a woman about which we know her name is Mark Stilton. Excellent."
"What do you want from us?"
"I want to be armed with something against this lady. All we know is that she killed girls to assemble a necromorph and kidnapped Peggy because she's good for something."
"But why would you know anything else?" Longsdale asked in puzzlement. "There is evidence that this is her. Isn't that enough for you to hang her?"
"No," the commissar said through set teeth, "I also damn well want to know that she's not hiding some trump card in her pocket!"
Longsdale sighed.
"If not for you, I would have killed her," he admitted. Brannon said nothing. Deep down, a voice that sounded like the pyromaniac whispered to him that it would be the best way out.
"Well," the commissar finally muttered. "Let's split up. Raiden, take care of the apartment. I do not believe that there is not a single hint here at all as to why she needed all this. Well, or at least a cache. It is quite possible that we, limited people, do not see it, but she cannot hide it from you. So get started."
The witch smiled smugly, almost fluffing up like a cat.
"You, Longsdale, are looking for a way to neutralize the lady. Nobody will help us here except you. At the same time, try to find out why she needed you. Except for the fact that she just wanted to neutralize you, as the most dangerous enemy."
The consultant stroked the hound's withers thoughtfully. The animal was dozing all this time on the sofa, which caved in under its weight.
"She clearly did not want to just neutralize. Considering that she took me to the pavilion in the middle of the park, which stands on the site of the plague barracks, that is, on the territory where..."
"Easier to appeal to the dark forces, I remember," Nathan interrupted impatiently.
"The answer is obvious. I cannot be killed, but I feel pain, which means I am the ideal victim for a long and resource-intensive ritual. I will endure what will kill anyone else."
"A reusable sacrifice," the witch muttered. "But it makes sense... if she guessed who you are. Or at least she caught the difference from a human."
"Jesus," Brennon said. That's a crazy creature...
"And this narrows the circle!" the consultant was inspired. "We need a necromantic ritual that feeds on the victim's suffering. This is better than thousands of options before! Perhaps I will start searching immediately."
"Uh-huh," the Commissar said. "And I will interrogate the poor fellows whom you so battered in the pavilion."
"It's not really me," Longsdale replied serenely, and shook the hound by the withers. The animal opened its eyes and slid off the couch with obvious reluctance. "Miss Sheridan is doing her bit."
"What?!"
"Still not fully calculating his strength, but for beginners..."
"Do you think this is normal?!"
"Why not?" the consultant was surprised. "It would be strange if she did not learn anything in such a time."
"Why would she even learn that," Brennon muttered woefully. They would all be much calm if Peggy's acquaintance with magic was limited to silly books like this "The Count Vampire." Although all there, in the same depth of heart, the Commissar admitted that if the pyromaniac had not taught the girl this dirty trick, then most likely she would have been dead after meeting with the bandits in Taynor Creek.
***
However, seeing the sadly familiar, long and thin figure in front of the hospital gates, Brannon was still not happy. Actually, from one sight of this critter all thoughts about interrogations, witnesses and maniacs flew out of the commissar's head for a moment, and he rushed like a vulture at the pyromaniac.
"Where is she?!"
"Whole, unharmed and in a safe place," Redfern replied imperturbably.
"In which?"
The pyromaniac raised an eyebrow.
"If I tell you, it will cease to be safe, will it?"
"You will bring Peggy home immediately after this is over!"
"If she wants."
It would be better if the pyromaniac put a fire to a powder keg. Brannon grabbed him by the throat, hammered him with his back into the cast-iron gate and said quietly:
"If you dare, if you lay a finger on her, if you touch a hair on her head, I will break every bone in your body."
"All two hundred plus pieces?" Redfern hissed sarcastically. "So hurry - you can't keep this woman on morphine forever."
The Commissar reluctantly released him, although the temptation to squeeze his fingers tighter was strong.
"Do not try to wrap her mind. She will return home to her parents, is that clear?"
The pyromaniac ran his hand down his throat with a grin; dark eyes flashed triumphantly.
"And I thought you were really incapable..." he remarked with satisfaction. "Do you want to continue on equal terms or will we still get down to business?"
Brannon tugged at the gate, watching Redfern out of the corner of his eye. The critter looked pleased, like a cat over a bowl of sour cream. Why would that be?
"Amulet with you?" He asked in a businesslike manner, leaked after the Commissar. Nathan wondered in annoyance, what the hell does this guy want from him? He drags after him, like a burdock in a tail, and also watches his every move. Why the hell?
"Yes. But it is alone, and the lady is quite capable of grabbing three at once. And then there are four injured witnesses. Let's start with them."
"What for? You are wasting your time. However," Redfern started up, "if you are talking about those who attacked Margaret, I will gladly talk heart to heart with them."
"No," the commissar snapped shortly. He nodded to the police at the porch and went to the hospital. The orderly, as soon as he saw Brannon, was alarmed and rushed after the chief doctor.
"Just two minutes," the pyromaniac purred insinuatingly, following the Commissar on his heels, "and they will tell you everything, right down to the first childhood memories."
"You won't get it. I don't need four charred corpses here."
"Well, why corpses at once, I'm quite satisfied with a dozen broken arms and legs."
"What are you, sick?"
"No," Redfern's voice dropped to a whisper. "They attacked Margaret, they hurt her and they must pay for it."
Here he hit Brannon. The Commissar understood that most likely they did not even realize what they were doing - but he did not feel pity for them. And what did Peg go through when four crazy men rushed at her!
"Two minutes," the pyromaniac whispered. "Okay, one. Just one! I'll keep them alive; I promise."
"Forget it. Your concern is this lady, since you are so impatient to play at the conscious citizen."
"Oh, okay. Well. Persuaded."
He hung the cane around his wrist and put his hands in his pockets. Brannon gripped the handle of the revolver. But the pyromaniac took out only two strange white half-masks and threw one to the Commissar.
"Put it on."
"What for?"
"We cannot disable her abilities. But we can keep the rest of the people safe."
Quite surprised by such humanism on the part of this guy, the Commissar put on a mask following the example of Redfern. It covered his mouth and nose, and there was a small bubble of air near his neck. The pyromaniac waited for Brennon to sort out the breathing tube, pushed two long flasks out of the slots on his belt and slammed one against the wall, and threw the other into the hallway. The air was instantly filled with thick white smoke. The Commissar did not have time to be indignant (and then he realized that he couldn't have done it from under the mask), as both police officers at the door to the ward collapsed, as if knocked down, and snored together.
Redfern grabbed Brennon by the elbow and dragged him to the prisoner's ward. The commissar tried to express his indignation with gestures, but the pyromaniac snatched the key from his pocket and unlocked the lock. Then he shoved Nathan inside, slammed the door and began to draw some signs on it with crayon. Smoke poured into the crack under the door, and it disappeared under the pulsing pale blue screen. Redfern pulled off his mask and nodded to the Commissar.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he barked, barely getting rid of the gag in his mouth.
"But they'll be completely safe that way," Angel said with almost childlike spontaneity. "She cannot capture them while they sleep."
Brannon didn't have enough words to express his feelings about this idea. The pyromaniac went to the bed and examined the criminal with curiosity. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, sprinkled from some bottle on it and pressed it to the woman's face.
"Hey!"
"I'm just bringing her to her senses." His dark brown eyes shone with innocence. "You need to talk with her, right? Just take out the amulet and put the chain over my hand. You don't want her to make me give Margaret to her, do you?"
Brennon took out the amulet and wrapped the chain around his palm, then the pyromaniac's skinny wrist. How did he even survive with such a character and with such a physique?!
The woman on the bed stirred and sighed faintly, blinked, turned her head dazedly, and twitched her hands, but they were strapped to the bed frame. The woman lifted her head, and Nathan slipped a pillow under the back of her head.
"Commissar Brannon, Homicide Division," he introduced himself. "Can you guess why I'm here?"
The woman looked questioningly from him to the pyromaniac.
"You will answer," Redfern said softly, "or I will peel your skin off. Slowly and in stripes."
Brannon exhaled softly. The woman's lips twitched slightly in a grin.
"Free me," he heard in his head. "Kill all the guards," a little more quietly, apparently, she turned to Redfern, because her gaze shifted from the commissar's face to the pyromaniac and back. "Bring me some clothes."
"How interesting," the pyromaniac whispered. He bent over the woman, looking into her eyes, and suddenly grabbed the throat with his long, thin, like spider paws, fingers.
"Calm down!" Brannon squeezed his elbow, but Redfern escaped impatiently.
"I just palpate," and pressed on the narrow jaw of the killer with his thumb and middle finger on both sides. The mouth opened, and the pyromaniac thrust his hand into it. The woman hissed and twitched.
"Stop it!"
"Help me!" Redfern shouted; a mirror flashed from somewhere in his other hand. Brannon pressed the criminal to the bed, since the woman was so fragile that one hand was enough for him - because the other was tied with an amulet to the one that the pyromaniac put into the mouth of the maniac.
"Let me go! Now!"
"Look," the pyromaniac said, turning the mirror this way and that way. "Complete destruction of the vocal cords. Scars from burns on the mucous membrane due to the magical current. Damage to the teeth and tongue. It looks like the current went through her throat; then there must be an entry point somewhere behind!"
"Hey!" the commissar hushed. "Don't get carried away!"
"Well, okay," the pyromaniac released the woman and wiped his palm with the edge of the sheet. "Since she's not answering, let's get started," he whispered something over his fingers. Seeing the transparent blade flashing in them, the commissar firmly stopped this disgrace:
"Calm down! And you lady, give up your idea about the rest of the patients and the police. They already see the tenth dream, they are not up to your tricks."
The woman crawled as far as the belts would allow. Her gaze darted between the Commissar and the pyromaniac, and Brennon could almost see the thoughts rushing feverishly through the criminal's mind.
"Who are you?" The woman's gaze focused on Redfern. "Answer me! Who are you?"
"You'd better not know," the Commissar assured her. "But you will have a chance to get to know each other better if you don't pay attention to me."
Redfern stared at her with hard, piercing eyes. The woman stared at Brannon with a tense frown.
"Obey my will!"
The commissar's ears buzzed. He gripped the amulet.
"Don't," Nathan said. "You see that it doesn't work. Let's do it again. I'm Commissar Brannon, Homicide Division. And you?"
"Homicide..." She averted her eyes and frowned.
"Talk to me," Brannon touched her shoulder. The woman jerked. "Talk to me, Missis."
She cowered. The commissar took her hand and turned her clenched fist with her knuckles to the light, pressed the mark from the ring with his finger.
"You wore it for a long time. Twenty years, no less. Why did you take it off?"
"I don't want to remember him."
"Why? Who was he?"
"Coward".
"Why?"
The woman turned away. Her hand lay limp in Brennon's hand, like a doll's.
"She was the only one we had... and he did nothing. He saved his own life."
The commissar heard the echo of her feelings - contempt and disappointment, muffled by time.
"On the train, right?" Brennon asked softly. "Did it happen on the train at Edmoor station?"
The woman turned sharply to him. Her eyes widened, pupils filling the iris.
"How do you know?! Stop it!"
"Stop what?"
"You are reading..." She twitched her hand as if she wanted to touch her head. "Don't you dare do that! It's... it's obscene!"
"I don't read your mind," Brennon replied. "I'm the Police Commissar, Missis., and everything I know I'll find out through long work.
"And this one?" She pointed at the pyromaniac. "Who is this?"
Brannon looked at her thoughtfully, choosing an answer.
"This," he finally decided, "is the guardian of the girl you pursued and kidnapped."
The woman squinted at Angel. The pyromaniac sat surprisingly quiet and no longer showed any inclination to atrocities.
"Why did you do it?" asked the commissar and lightly squeezed the woman's hand. "Why do you need this girl and everyone else?"
"I tried," the criminal turned her eyes to Brannon. "I chose those who are not the only one."
"The only one?"
"Only child".
Nathan looked at her for a long time. She did not lower her gaze, insistently looking into his face. So she didn't understand.
"Miss Sheridan is her parents' only daughter."
"I knew, I knew!" the woman replied with an impatient gesture. "But I could not help it! She looks so similar! And those others did not fit entirely, and the parts died too quickly!"
"Your necromorph..."
She leaned back on the pillows.
"It did not fit. It was preserved only under certain conditions, and..." She grimaced. "You cannot collect living things from the dead. It would still be a temporary container."
"That's why you threw it away. How many parts are in it?"
"Nine. But I didn't have time to finish it," the woman grabbed Brennon by his hand. "But he didn't fit, understand?! It was a temporary measure, but the girl! The girl! She... She can do such things, and I decided that she could... she'll survive because... if she has these abilities, she..." the woman lowered her eyes. "Just like me. Experienced the same thing. And because I can..."
"Indwelling," Redfern muttered under his breath. "She thought Margaret would bear the indwelling."
"And she looks like!" The woman stared imploringly at the commissar, clutching his hand. "She looks so similar!"
"On whom?" Brannon asked, though he already understood everything.
"At her," the woman sighed convulsively. "She was alone, the only one of all! The rest died because I could not..." She gestured around her body. "I could not..."
"Carry pregnancy to term?"
She closed her eyes and nodded.
"How old was she?"
"Sixteen..." it rustled in Nathan's head. The pyromaniac's hand clenched into a fist.
"She went with you on the train?"
The woman nodded.
"Where?"
"To the capital. There we were supposed to board a ship and leave for a medical conference in Nansei, this is in Mestria."
"Was your husband a doctor?"
"Yes".
"What was her name?"
"Noel," he heard after a long pause, and a distinct image suddenly flashed before him. The commissar closed his eyes for a second.
"And you?"
She did not answer, turned to the window, as if she wanted to isolate herself from them.
"What is your name?" Brennon repeated. "Or what was your name before the Edmoor train?"
"Pauline Defoe".
"What would you do if you managed to get Miss Sheridan?"
"I would have kept her!" The woman looked up at the Commissar. "I would have left her in some suitable receptacle and found body for her. I would have returned her..."
"Would you return their daughter to her parents in someone else's dead body?"
She bit her lip.
"But I agreed to this. And they would have agreed! And you would too! Anyone will agree to anything to return the only... the only... the only one..." the woman twitched her hand in the belt. "God, she was the only one of all!"
"How many?"
"Of the seven," she whispered. Brannon gave a weak start. "And I would give her back to them, I would find the body..."
"And the rest?"
She stared uncomprehending at the Commissar.
"The other nine?" he asked. "Nine more girls? Would you return them?"
The woman sighed convulsively and looked away.
"No. They had to die so I could take their parts. But I didn't choose the only ones. I would never choose the only one!"
Brannon nodded thoughtfully and stood up.
"Put her to sleep," he told Redfern. He raised his flashing eyes to the commissar, and Nathan quickly added: "Not to death."
The woman twitched in the belts:
"But I would give them the girl back! I would give her back! I swear I would give her back!"
"There's no others," Brannon concluded. "Apparently, you didn't even intend to."
"But I should have! For Noelle's sake! I should..."
Redfern poured the reddish potion from a bottle over a handkerchief and pressed it to the woman's face. The voice in Nathan's head choked with a low hum and died away. The pyromaniac stood over her and moved his hand to her throat. Brannon touched his shoulder.
"Let's go. We finished here."