8th September
Margaret quietly sneezed into her handkerchief and sniffed. The Pontifical Library held the wisdom of the ages, embodied in the word - and abundant deposits of dust. A librarian in a gray cassock almost completely merged with the situation. Margaret thought longingly of the bath and turned the page. Fortunately, Angel's ingenuity touched not only the fight against the undead, but also the water supply systems in all his houses.
The girl looked thoughtfully at the coat of arms. In general, her sacrifices were not in vain. The main thing is to know exactly what you are looking for, so as not to disappear forever in the sections of the Pontifical Library dedicated to the history of the Catholic aristocracy. Among hundreds of volumes, extracts from volumes, documents, copies of documents, scrolls, letters, genealogies and tangled ancestral trees, Margaret dug up a book by a certain Adrian of Rivia, with a title length of the cubit.
Published in 1484, this monumental work (it was only possible to drag it to the table by telekinesis) contained colored engravings with coats of arms and lengthy descriptions of the entire Riad aristocracy. Including families, whose claims to nobility the author found extremely dubious. It was such a sour comment that he placed under the red-white-silver coat of arms with a pair of rearing tigers.
"Their ancestor," Margaret could hardly make out the Latin of the fifteenth century, "was distinguished by extreme ferocity and only by force and malice got... uh... feats... in the sense, bloody atrocities... seized the castle of Farna, exterminated all its inhabitants and... and... turned it into a real robber... nest? "
"Hm," the girl looked at the coat of arms. On a white shield, resembling the back of a chair, stood two scarlet tigers, and between them, point up, was a silver sword. A white ribbon with a red inscription "Fortitudo mea est in ira mea" curled on it.
My strength is in my rage, Miss Sheridan thought. No wonder, with such an ancestor. What else is there? Unjustly acquired wealth, debauchery, indomitable violent temper... well.
Adrian of Rivia did not approve of the Redferns, and if you believe the gossip that he carefully perpetuated, the whole neighborhood groaned from them. Which, however, did not stop them from getting rich and prosperous from year to year. But where did they all go? Are they really extinct? A simple count indicated that Angel was born in 1588 - maybe he was the only and last son in the family? But did he not marry and leave descendants?
Margaret used a spell to copy everything she found in the book about the Redferns, closed it and went to the shelves with genealogies. Of course, one could ask Angel himself - but... she could ask him about anything - and get an answer, but at the very thought of asking him a question about the family, the girl's tongue was taken away. Angel had never mentioned them, and it was clear to Margaret that he did not want to talk about it. Miss Sheridan felt a pang of shame at what she was doing as she pulled a scroll with the Redfern emblem from the shelf. So secretly, behind his back... He certainly has reasons not to tell!
Margaret returned to the table, unrolled the scroll and gave a long whistle. She was clearly overreacting about extinction. The lush bush was somewhat shrinking by the beginning of the eighteenth century, but otherwise... Margaret found the "fierce and violent" progenitor and grunted. In the sense of the antiquity of the clan, Angel could contemptuously look at a whole herd of Deir and Ilarian nobility - his ancestor perpetrated atrocities already in the eleventh century! A shadow slid across the family tree, and the girl moved it to the side irritably. Moving to the sixteenth century, Margaret looked for the right name for a long time and finally discovered with trepidation: "Angel, born 1588, d. 1630/31?"
So it had happened to him then, Miss Sheridan thought: portal, magic and... and... what came before. She cringed as she remembered what she had accidentally seen in Angel's mind. But who and why tormented him so?
Her gaze rose higher, with amazement bypassing the whole host of sisters and brothers, to the name of his father: "Joel Redfern, born 1546, d. 1618". Wow! Married six times, lots of kids... but where is Angel's mom? Margaret found and shuddered: judging by the date, she gave birth to him at sixteen, and died just four years later. Her name was Teresa Henderson.
"Maybe that's why... but he still has a father and so many brothers and sisters! So, where is the end?"
The end was unexpected: the family tree broke off at the end of the eighteenth century. No dates of death, no reasons why the Redferns seem to have stopped marrying, having children and dying. As if they all suddenly disappeared. The latest date was 1789 - when the last child was born.
Margaret looked at the family tree in surprise. A shadow darted over it again, the girl looked up irritably to tell an amateur to peek over someone else's shoulder... and stared straight into the eyes of some vampiric creature. The creature, overhanging from the top of the bookcase, gazed out big cherry eyes at Margaret with interest.
For a second or two, both girls (the vampiress was completely naked!) gazed at each other, fascinated, until the undead blinked. Previously, Margaret would have screeched wildly, running away wherever the road takes her; after six months under Angel's supervision, she said through set teeth "Motus!", pulled out a revolver from a holster disguised as a reticule and cocked the trigger, while the undead, crashing into the closet, crawled out from under the books. And only then the girl became scared.
The vampiress opened her mouth and hissed, showing her long white fangs. Her black hair rose like a cloud around her head and stirred like snakes. Nevertheless, the critter for some reason did not rush, although it could, and with a rapid jump ascended to the top of another bookcase. Long, whitish stripes from claws remained on the walls and shelves.
Margaret backed up the aisle to get out the door. The librarian lay at the counter, his cassock stained with red stripes, and deep holes from vampire fangs darkened on his pale neck.
"Oh God," the seconds that Margaret spent looking in the direction of the poor fellow, the vampiress would have had enough to rush and rip her head off; but for some reason the undead remained in place, only grinning and hissing. Miss Sheridan's peripheral vision saw another shadow on the left, but this one did not attack either.
"Motus," the girl whispered; the sheets of copies flew into her hand. The undead were distracted for a moment, and Margaret shot her in the head. The bullet hit lower, in the chest, and slightly to the left. The screeching vampire was thrown from the bookcase, but Margaret noticed a large burnt hole in her flesh. "Purr" was loaded with Archangel-class bullets, and until now, the girl had not seen their action live. She felt sick. The partner of the first creature rushed forward with a wild roar.
"In ignis!" Margaret shouted, not to care a dime on the safety of the papal wisdom. The undead were engulfed in golden-crimson flames. She shied away, hit the closet, and the books immediately glowed merrily. The fire consumed the hair, face and hands of the creature, which ran away with a howl. But then the first vampiress appeared in the aisle. The entire left half of her chest was a burnt-out hole. The undead's hair curled around the books and brought them down on Margaret. Miss Sheridan hide behind the librarian's desk and whispered a search spell. She can't let wounded undead out of here! It'd kill half a dozen people just out of rage and pain!
Volumes rumbled across the desk; on the stairs there was a fussy stomp and shouts - the papal guard finally woke up. The vampiress let out a ferocious screech, but rushed not at the prey, but away from it. Margaret was completely stunned and almost lost sight of the undead, but woke up in time, rested her elbow on the desk and shot the critter in the back of the head. The vampire's head exploded like a tomato and spattered in all directions with charred rags of flesh. The body collapsed and immediately began to decay.
The search spell has finally caught the trail of the second vampiress. Miss Sheridan darted from her seat and rushed into the maze of cabinets and shelves, just in time to hide from the eyes of the guards. Margaret noticed three or four men in the gap between the books and immediately threw the guard out of her head.
The vampiress rushed away from the entrance, here and there setting fire to books, and the girl still could not understand why the undead were behaving so strangely. Vampires belonged to the primitive class, and their non-lives were mostly led by an empty stomach. So why would the undead run away from the guards, who are both food and medicine for them?!
Margaret overtook the fugitive by the tall, lancet windows, decorated with golden stained-glass patterns. Despite the fact that bright sunlight was pouring through the glass, the blood-sucking critter rushed to them - and jumped out into the street in the rain of debris. Miss Sheridan, without leaving the deep amazement, jumped to the window and fired. The bullet caught up with the vampiress in flight to a nearby rooftop. The body fell on it like a sack, and the sun almost instantly incinerated the remains. But that's exactly what it was supposed to do to a still, um, living vampiress!
Miss Sheridan holstered the Purr and hurried away to the door in the corner. The girl did not know where it was leading, but now the main thing is to get out of the library, return home and tell Angel about everything.
***
Angel worked in his office. Margaret decided not to bother him, especially since she wanted more and more to dive into the bathtub at last, and left him a note on the table by the door. In each of his mansions, she had her own room, with a separate bathroom; however, Miss Sheridan did not know how many houses her mentor actually had.
He created his own immeasurable wealth (exceeding the annual budget of some countries, as Redfern once let a remark drop with a sense of his own superiority) and worked tirelessly to increase it. The lion's share of his time was devoured by "cases" about which the girl knew only that they were associated with a lot of documents and monetary settlements. She never tried to delve into this, because she barely understood even what her father sometimes told her, and there it was all much easier.
However, Margaret knew for sure that to maintain the huge castle in Riada, more funds were needed than Dad was able to earn in a year. And if you consider how much Angel was preparing for the future organization of hunters for the undead and evil spirits, and the providing consultants with everything they need...
Better not to think about it, Margaret decided. They now lived in a beautiful white villa surrounded by a large garden on the outskirts of Aventine — Angel's private home, with a laboratory and library, but not intended for hunters, unlike a castle.
She shoved copies of the book into a drawer in the bureau and rushed to the bathroom. There she threw off her clothes while filling the oval niche with hot water, pinned her hair, poured liquid soap in the bath, and dived into the lather.
"Why do we have no one wants to make a decent water supply?"
She figured out the heating, water supply and sewerage system with pleasure, especially since Angel, seized by educational enthusiasm, showed her all the engineering connections and calculations. No torment with buckets and chamber pots, and for a shower head Margaret was ready to sell her soul to her mentor.
Sunlight poured through the three small round windows under the ceiling, and Miss Sheridan again thought about the fact that vampire damsels, for some mysterious reason, freely run back and forth during the day instead of immediately incinerating. But the vampires did not cost anything to kill her! She cowered and slid deeper into the water, as if she wanted to hide from a belated fear - she is only alive because, having tracked her down, the undead just sat next to her and did not attack, even when the girl fired at them with a revolver. This was far too different from what Margaret had read in The Classification and had watched the practicums under Angel's supervision.
She would classify these vampires as Baobhan Sith, but they are supposed to hunt at night and sleep during the day. The girl frowned. In general, she would not say that the vampires hunted her. Rather, they tracked down and watched. But why?! Are they going to write a dissertation on human behavior in the natural environment? Margaret snorted. The only virtue of the vampire was an underdeveloped brain, capable of thinking only within the limits of "finding food - eating food."
There was a knock on the door.
"Margaret, are you there?" Angel asked anxiously; the girl dived into the foam up to her chin. "Are you okay?"
"Yes!"
"They didn't bite you? Are there any scratches? Bleeding bruises?"
"No, not one. They did not approach me at all. It's strange; I think it is Baobhan Sith. They live to eat, don't they?"
Angel was silent for so long that the girl had already decided that he was gone and reached for a towel.
"May I come in?"
"No!" Margaret screamed. "Don't dare!"
"Why?" He demanded. "What are you doing there?"
"Because I'm taking a bath there!"
"Ah," the mentor said after a pause. "Okay. I am waiting for you downstairs in the dining room. Are you absolutely all right? Dizzy, aching joints, nausea?"
"No."
Angel drummed his fingers on the door, muttered reluctantly, "Okay," and Miss Sheridan finally heard light footsteps receding.
Half an hour later, Margaret descended the stairs, which were twisted with a wide screw in an almost completely glazed bay window. Through the windows she could see the lush garden, already shrouded in a dusk haze; the oranges shone like suns in the firm green foliage. The girl sighed. With each visit, she understood more and more why Angel liked Ilara so much. She stood on the round landing, admired the garden and suddenly felt someone's gaze, as if a wet feather had been drawn along her back. Shuddering all over, she exhaled an unmasking spell - but found no strangers. Silhouettes appeared for a moment in the garden, but they were ordinary household spirits. No one hidden or threatening. Margaret put her hand on the holster with the Purr, turned away and went downstairs.
In the dining room Angel was already waiting for her, with a sketchbook and pencils at the ready.
"Draw them," the mentor ordered. "Tell me everything in order. What's wrong with you?" He asked, looking intently at the girl's face. Margaret shook her head, picked up the sketchbook and quickly sketched a drawing, talking about the meeting with the Baobhan Sith.
"You were slow," Angel said dryly. "This is by no means your merit - that you are safe and sound."
"I know, I know," Miss Sheridan sighed and turned the sheet of portrait to him. Redfern's gaze slid over the image and settled on the dotted inscription, "We're being watched." Angel paused, then slowly dropped his eyelids and put his hand on Margaret's shoulder.
"Well, at least you're drawing well," he pulled the girl closer. "This is really Baobhan Sith, and they did not hunt for you, because they prefer to drink the blood of men."
"Can they run at noon now, too?"
"This is what we'll find out," the mentor muttered under his breath.
"What will we do?" Margaret whispered.
"Let's sit down to supper. Stay close. It was dusk in the library," he said loudly. "That was where they were hiding. But we will talk about your stupidity later. The food is getting cold, sit down."
Margaret sank into a chair and put down the album. Angel poured soup into bowls and demanded to hand over the newspaper. On the first page, the girl glimpsed something familiar, but she had no time to study the editorials. She took a spoon and plunged it into the soup, sitting on pins and needles. Redfern unrolled the newspaper, fenced off the window, and placed his free hand on Margaret's palm. They interlaced their fingers.
"Concentrate," Angel whispered. "Catch the trail when I start."
The girl nodded. The soup literally didn't flow down her throat and she squeezed her mentor's hand so hard that he muttered, "Come on, calm down."
"What if it not only sees, but hears?" Thought Margaret. Angel whispered a spell. Miss Sheridan concentrated on his voice, breathing in rhythm with his. The soup was in her way, so she put down the spoon and began mindlessly rolling a bun on the tablecloth in time to Redfern's whisper. Finally, Margaret caught a faint vibration in the air - the protection around the house responded to Angel's spell, and the girl whispered hers. The vibration escaped the walls of the house in a wave, followed by Miss Sheridan's spell. There was silence. Angel released the girl's hand, flipped through the newspaper and said:
"Eat your soup, or it will get cold."
Margaret mechanically took the spoon and looked sideways at Redfern. The mentor usually had a brutal appetite and ate almost three times more food than an ordinary man of his size. But now the food did not interest him: his eyes were burning, the wings of his nose swelled up predatory, and he leaned forward in obvious anticipation. Suddenly the house and the fence around it were surrounded by a white flash, and in Margaret's head a piercing cry of pain sounded like a distant echo.
Angel jumped up, tossing the newspaper aside, the girl, too, and both rushed to the glass doors to the terrace. A sparkling white ball curled up in the mentor's hand. Margaret found her search spell - it darted about the fence, like a crazy silvery snake and almost jumped, but for some reason did not move further.
"Angel, what's wrong with him? I messed up something, right?"
The mentor quickly looked around, muttered a few more short spells, snorted, swore, and dissolved the white ball into the air.
"It means that he is not here. He is very far away, so your enchantment cannot catch his trail."
The girl broke the spell with a sigh. No benefit from her...
"But where?" Angel whispered. "I got him when I twisted the protective field to the maximum, but that's all. Where is he? And where does so much power come from?"
"And why does he even know about you. Have you, by any chance, told anyone your entire biography?"
"No wonder he got wind of something about me," Angel said thoughtfully. "It's impossible not to leave a trace, and sometimes I'm worried about all sorts of ... quick-witted. But ... - he frowned and fell silent, bowing his head. When Margaret wanted to approach the fence, the mentor grabbed her abruptly by the elbow.
"Into the house," he ordered curtly.
"But don't you need help..."
"Into the house!"
"All right," Miss Sheridan muttered in annoyance and returned to the dining room. She did not really understand what the reason for the panic was - of course, sometimes the silly undead rushed at Angel's houses, but that was why there was a powerful defense around, incinerating intruders at the first touch. The girl picked up the newspaper and blinked at the editorial in surprise: the picture had seemed familiar to her before, but now she realized that this was Breswain Harbor, which she and Angel had visited. The article relished the details of the "horrific disaster" - the shipwreck of the Dorgern frigate right at the port entrance. Margaret had time to read it to the end when Angel finally returned.
"The protective field is intact. The bastard only pried, not approaching. But from such a distance! How much strength is needed!"
"And why did he yell if so far away?"
Angel winced.
"Because he still used the spell, and all of them, in one way or another, are part of our mind. When I burned him, destroying the fruit of consciousness, then consciousness also got it. However, he is cunning - he used a variant of the tracking charm, but did not try to get inside."
- But why should he? Margaret asked in bewilderment, throwing the frigate out of her head.
"I don't know yet," Angel said. "But I'll find out, and then not only his brains will be burned."