Brannon tossed aside the sheet. Kennedy stood next to him and wiped his pince-nez with such an air, as if he were saying: "You explain it yourself how you want!" There were deep punctures on the corpse's neck on both sides with a pale pink edge.
"Exsanguinating, sir," Byrne said. "He was found on the stage late at night. There was some blood all around, just a few small spots".
"Who found it?"
"Theatrical carpenter. He ran to the scream. Found him like that. Then the others came running," the detective took out a sheet of paper from the folder. "A list of everyone who was in the theater on the seventh after ten in the evening. Director Farlan immediately sent for doctors, but it was too late. The arriving doctor declared death from blood loss. Here is his conclusion. Then someone, thank God, thought to call the police. I arrived there at a little after eleven at night, examined the body and the place," Byrne handed the Commissar a folder. "All here, sir. Tomorrow the wife and eldest son of the deceased will arrive - they are visiting relatives."
Brannon put a brief description of the victim on top of the report. Joseph Temple was fifty-three; of these he spent forty years in the theater. He was married to a former actress who bore him four children. They were going to return from their relatives to the premiere of the play "King Iolaus" with Temple in the title role. Brennon had no idea why this was so important, but Farlan, judging by the interrogation protocol, lamented as if the cancellation of the premiere had drain dry him and the entire theater.
Or maybe it really drains dry, the Commissar thought. The money for the tickets will have to be returned.
It remains to be seen whether any human has anything to do with this, or whether it is the hungry undead.
"Okay, I'll finish reading it in my office. What does Longsdale say?"
"That this is undoubtedly a bite mark from a vampire creature," Kennedy said venomously. "Allegedly, there are creatures in nature that suck human blood, thereby prolonging their own life."
"There are blood-sucking bats, I read an article by some naturalist in a magazine," Byrne said. "He even published drawings of the bites."
"I don't argue about bats, young man. Although, in order to suck so much blood, it will clearly take at least a hundred mice. I just protest against the term "revived dead", which..."
"That's enough," the Commissar decided. The pathologist's desperate struggle for a scientific view of corpses was already wearying him. "Where is Longsdale now?"
Byrne coughed and lowered his only one eye.
"At your house, sir."
"What?! Why on earth?"
"He said that you need protection, and went... well, to protect."
"F*** him," Nathan hissed. That was just what he lacked! After all, he climbed even without asking!
"But he left a report on the table for you," Byrne said hastily. As if that could be comforting!
On the other hand, since Jen said that the vampires tracked him down, then so it is. Moreover, the witch did not go to Longsdale, but kept watch for the Commissar, sitting in the waiting room. Although, Nathan did not understand why on earth they would hunt him down and should be following him all the way to the capital.
"Okay," he grunted. "What other damage?"
"There is no incompatible with life," Kennedy said. "There are dying marks of a struggle: bruises and abrasions on the arms, shoulders and knees, on the side to the left - a mark from falling to the floor. But Mr. Temple died from severe blood loss." The pathologist frowned at the holes in the victim's neck. "The bite was made with two long sharp fangs; I am preparing casts for you. There are also claw scratches here and there."
"Did you check this crap above the stage? Longsdale said it was the best place for an undead nest."
Kennedy sighed heavily and covered the corpse with a sheet.
"Yes, sir," Byrne said grimly. "Some dirty trick was climbing there, leaving a lot of scratches on the wood. We also found many scraps of skin and almost a whole wig of dark hair. But we could not bring it - it all it all crumbled to dust at the first touch."
"I see," Brennon took the autopsy report from the old man and said, "Byrne, send someone to the hospitals around the theater. Have them ask whether patients have gone to see a doctors with complaints of weakness, dizziness, and blood loss. I will go to the theater to talk to the director. If Longsdale shows up, let him wait for me here."
"Do you think this creature has bitten someone before, sir?"
"Since it grows, shedding its skin and changing claws, it means that it eats. I'm worried about something else." Nathan looked again at the body under the sheet. "Longsdale knew there was a vampire in the theater. Most often, the consultant takes three to four days to finish off the undead - stalking, ambushing, and the end. So why didn't he succeed this time?"
***
Brannon rested his chin on interlocking fingers and stared at the consultant's report. By an unspoken agreement between Longsdale and Broyd, with all cases of attacks by the undead and evil spirits, where human intervention did not appear, the consultant dealt with himself. It would seem that the death of Joseph Temple belonged to such cases. But something was bothering the Commissar, and Longsdale was definitely alarmed. It was not only read between the lines in his report; he would not have sent the witch after Nathan if he had not been seriously concerned.
"Can any human set the undead on an enemy? On a competitor for a role, for example? It's not ifrit, damn it, but, in fact, stupid hungry creatures, not much different from animals."
He remembered the five Baobhan Sith on the train and shivered. Brannon was aware that if the witch had not appeared on the scene, everything would have ended very badly. But why would the vampires go after him so purposefully? What difference does it make to them who they eat?
Why, then, did they not rush right away? The Commissar frowned. After all, if it had not been for this strange delay, Jen would have found only a couple of bloodless corpses. However, the undead did not rush to prey, although they could. What held them back?
If there was someone who had killed Temple with the help of the undead, then that same person could have sent his tame creatures to deal with someone who would start an investigation. The only question is, is it possible for a human to subjugate the vampire?
However, only Longsdale could answer him, and since the consultant was absent, Brennon got up and took his hat to go to the theater. He had an extremely vague idea of the customs and life there. Who knows, maybe it's not about the competition for the main role - sometimes it is enough for the murder that the victim had a nasty character.
"Or relatives can't wait to lay their paws on the will."
But even if the Baobhan Sith were acting on someone else's orders, why didn't they kill them right away? Brannon's thought was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Longsdale appeared in the doorway. The consultant's face and the hound's face were so relieved that the Commissar felt uncomfortable.
"You are all right!" Longsdale exclaimed instead of greeting, and the hound took on the duty of politeness, wagging its tail in a friendly manner. "Raiden reported to me, but tell me, you were not scratched? Didn't you get bitten?"
"No, luckily, I kept them at a revolver shot. I'm going to the theater. Are you with me?"
"Yes," Longsdale frowned in bewilderment. "But why? Joseph Temple was killed by vampires."
"And could someone subjugate them to himself? It's not an Ifrit, is it?"
The consultant pondered. Nathan left the office and locked the door. The witch stood guard on the stairs and, without asking, moved after the commissar, not taking her eyes off him. Devilment!
"It's generally possible," Longsdale said. "For me," he stressed, and Nathan flinched in amazement:
"For you?!"
"I can subjugate primitive undead. But, as you know, I am not quite a typical philistine."
The commissar was deep in thought for a long time, while they got into the carriage, Jen climbed on the high-bench, snapped the reins and directed the bay pair to the theater.
"Do you suspect that one of you did it?" Brannon finally asked. "Is that why you jump around me like that?"
"No!" Longsdale cried. "None of the consultants will..."
"Why are you so sure? What if someone goes crazy? Or will he change his mind and change sides? A?"
"It's impossible," Longsdale said firmly. "Consultants cannot make alliances with undead and evil spirits."
"Why? What's stopping you?"
"Because it's impossible."
"Why not? Someone forbade you? How?"
"WE can't," Longsdale repeated. "We hunt and kill. We do not agree, we do not protect the undead and evil spirits. Never."
"Are you so sure that none of your colleagues will go over - for the sake of profit, say?"
"No. Never. None of us."
The commissar looked at him intently and left him alone. Sometimes it seemed to him that someone was deliberately introducing certain blocks into the heads of such consultants that did not allow them to do elementary things for others - for example, to be interested in their own past. Unless, of course, someone really makes such hunters out of human. And Nathan was never able to find confirmation of this idea. Sometimes it seemed completely wild to him, but sometimes - as now - he looked at Longsdale and thought that there was a point in it ...
"Do you think someone set the Baobhan Sith against Temple? But why?"
"For some selfish reasons or because of an acute personal enmity," the Commissar replied. "What do you think?"
"I think," Longsdale said through set teeth, "that the Baobhan Sith is not supposed to be so nine-lived to run away from me on the roofs on a clear day."
"Wait! You wrote in your report that you caught up..."
"Of course, I caught up! Who do you take me for? I'm a professional, and I've dealt with two in the theater. I mean, sunlight is fatal to lower class vampires. For everyone except these two."
"That's it," Brannon muttered. "You killed two vampires, but one still survived..."
"I cleared out their lair," the consultant shook his head. "This is the usual procedure: after the hunt, the lair is destroyed. The theater was clean and protected by amulets, spells and garons. And yesterday," Longsdale finished through clenched teeth, "they were gone."
"Shouldn't you have felt that someone was destroying your defenses?"
"I felt it, but I was outside the city - I had an urgent job at a cemetery in an abandoned village. I managed to return to the arrival of the police and examine the body. Jen was already following you, so... damn it! I should have stayed and watched the theater! I'd take this guy on the spot!���
"You didn't know."
"I didn't know, but I should have understood right away! Baobhan Sith do not sunbathe on a summer afternoon, and I had to track down where they got their immunity to sunlight!"
"How did you know they were following me?"
"After the hunt, I sent Jen to your home, she could smell their tracks. It's strange. This is uncharacteristic behavior for lesser vampires. Too conscious."
The crew stopped in front of the theater. The old gatekeeper pasted over posters with black edging. Brannon rubbed his sideburns.
"What are you going to do? I'm talking about theater safety."
"We'll see," Longsdale said. "I have a couple of tricks in stock."
"Maybe it should be closed altogether?" the Commissar thought. "Along the way, check all the employees about contact with magic - probably shits one of their own."
The hound went up the steps first. As he passed the gray columns, Brannon noticed old marks of shrapnel and bullets. They were deliberately kept, and when Nathan walked over to the brass plaque next to the door, he understood why. Looking around, the commissar found a black marble plaque.
"A lot of people died here once," Brannon remarked. The hound stroked the marble with his paw. "I did not participate in the battles for these quarters, I only heard how they were shelled."
Longsdale put his hand to the wall and closed his eyes.
"It's amazing," he muttered, "how few undead and evil spirits are in Blackwhit, considering how many people have died here recently."
The Commissar coughed.
"Is it because of Missis van Allen?"
"Yes. These vampires, too, did not originate here, but came from somewhere else."
Nathan was about to ask how vampires are generally born and why, but the consultant opened his eyes and said in a businesslike manner:
"However, the building has nothing to do with it. It is not a bad place, if that's what you mean."
"I wonder why? Look how many dead. How can you even figure out why one place is being made bad and another is not?"
Longsdale read the text on the brass plate and replied:
"Perhaps, in this case, because this house became a shelter and protection for many people. They survived. Therefore, the reason for the appearance of vampires is not in this building. If I'd thought to track them down, find out where they came from..."
"You will have a chance." Brannon pulled the long, twisted handle on the massive door. "One is still quite alive. Bear in mind that Farlan will not be thrilled with our visit."
A flower-filled table appeared in the foyer, behind which Temple's portrait was barely visible. Several people, men and women, were whispering quietly at a distance; the theater director, leaning on a cane, stood in front of the table and looked at the portrait with a heavy, sad look. Finally, sighing, Farlan turned away and saw the Commissar with the consultant.
"Good evening," the director said coldly. "And to what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Our condolences, sir," Brannon nodded at the portrait. "Were you friends?"
"I've known Joseph Temple all my life. Although it was not easy to be friends with him, he was always where you need to be in difficult times. Is that all you wanted to know?"
"No, sir. Can we talk in private?"
"About what?" Farlan looked first at the Commissar, then at Longsdale. "How invaluable was your help?"
"I apologize," Longsdale said with deep seriousness.
"You can take it away," the director limped into the depths of the narrow corridor. "Your apologies won't bring him back."
"However, what killed Temple is still here and still dangerous." The Commissar followed Farlan uninvited. "It can attack other people."
Farlan went into his room, got to the table and sank into a chair with relief.
"What do you suggest?"
"Can you close the theater for a while?"
This idea did not inspire the director.
"Are you out of your mind?��� He asked wrathfully. "What do you think all these people will live on?" he shook the accounting ledger. "Or do you think that the actors feed on the stage light?"
Brennon didn't even know what a stage light was, but rather amiably said:
"I don't mean forever. For a few days or a week. I understand that you need to compensate for the losses due to the cancellation of the show, but nevertheless now it is better to worry about safety first."
"Well, we don't have any big losses," Farlan muttered. "Few people demanded a refund for tickets, but... although, on the other hand..." he thought, leafing through a notebook with some kind of schedule. "Um, um... what do you intend to do?"
Brannon sat down in the chair opposite and asked:
"First of all, tell me, did Mister Temple have enemies?"
Farlan's eyebrows went up in amazement:
"Enemies? In what sense are enemies?"
"For example, relatives dissatisfied with his will or competitors in the theater."
"Oh my God," Farlan said mockingly. "Over the years in the theater, I assure you, I have seen everything, but no one will kill for a role. Even for the leading role in the leading production of the season. Wait," it suddenly dawned on him, "do you think this is murder?"
"So the Commissar thinks," Longsdale corrected gently. "But it's quite possible that Mister Temple was just the first victim of the surviving... mmm-hmmm... surviving beast from the brood which I, uh... eliminated."
Farlan stroked his forehead with his palm, brushed his elbow against a stack of posters rolled on the shelf, and they fell upon the director with a rustle. Brannon leaned forward, mechanically gripping the hilt of the akram. The hound stood up and inhaled tensely.
"What's the matter?" Farlan asked sharply.
"Sit still," Nathan said through set teeth. "It couldn't crawl far."
On the wall behind the rack and the shelves were long, whitish scratches and streaks of cloudy, translucent mucus.
"These are the remains of discarded flesh." Longsdale was already on his feet, clutching a shimmering green trihedron. "This is not Baobhan Sith."
"And what is it?"
Streaks of flesh stretched upward toward a narrow ventilation shaft under the ceiling.
"I don't know yet. But I prefer to find out before it grows."
"Hey!" Farlan shouted. "What are you talking about?!"
"Where does this gap lead?" Brannon jabbed the dagger to the ventilation grill. The theater director turned, frowned in bewilderment, and stretched his hand toward the streaks of the pale mass.
"Do not touch!" Longsdale snapped. Farlan pulled back his hand and belatedly rebelled:
"What kind of tone do you allow yourself?"
The hound pushed past him to the shelving and sniffed the undead traces, then licked and rumbled angrily.
"You must get all living beings from this place immediately," Longsdale said politely but firmly.
***
"Can't you just wipe it off with a rag?" Farlan asked; the hound and the Commissar pushed him back to the door, but he managed to pull out a pistol from somewhere. Why does the theater director need him?
"We can't." Longsdale pushed his way to the shelf, ran his dagger over the slime, and dipped his finger into it. Farlan puffed softly, and Brannon didn't try his patience.
"Can you at least roughly estimate what it is?"
"These are fetal tissues," the consultant replied. "But I don't know yet what will grow from this embryo. Vampires at the initial stage are all the same..." He licked his finger thoughtfully. "But this one ate recently. Apparently fed on Joseph Temple."
"What do you mean - fed?" the director specified in a trembling voice.
"There's a nest of vampire predators in your theater," Longsdale explained, before Brannon could wedge with his common sense. "I killed the adults, but apparently the cub crawled away and hid while I cleaned the nest."
"So you better get all the people out of here," the Commissar added. Farlan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead and squinted at the scratches and mucus. He looked almost as unhappy as Kennedy at the words "otherworldly entity."
"Okay," the director muttered. "Now we will organize," took the cane and limped away.
"Snappish, you should look after him," Brennon said in an undertone. The hound considered, nodded and silently slipped out of the office. But it probably weighs under two hundred pounds...
"Which of what you said is true?" the Commissar asked, going up to the consultant.
"All." Longsdale moved the director's chair to the rack, climbed onto it, and shone a dagger into the narrow vent. "To grow into something definite, this creature needs to eat. I think it went in search of food."
"But why didn't it jump at Farlan?"
"Because I'm here. The undead senses who is dangerous."
Brannon sighed. It didn't sound too flattering to him.
"And you can establish whether someone controls this creature?"
Longsdale looked down at him.
"Do you still believe that a human was involved in this?"
"Maybe not a human," the Commissar shrugged. "However, you said that vampires somehow became resistant to daylight. So someone helped them. Probably the same someone ruined your theater defense."
Longsdale jumped out of his chair and gave Brannon a skeptical, appraising look.
"Okay," the consultant muttered, "I'll be around in the end... Come on."
Nathan rarely participated in Longsdale's undead hunts, precisely because he could only act as bait; but this is damn insulting!
They again found themselves in a maze of narrow corridors, but the consultant moved forward quite confidently, explaining on the way that he had studied the architectural plans of the theater. Brannon could only envy such a memory. His thoughts returned to the vampires on the train. They promised to take him somewhere - where? Or is it just a vampire saying? But what if they were indeed instructed not to eat him, but to take him away?
"Nonsense," Brennon shook his head. "Too unreasonable assumption. Eh, it would be good to interrogate this creature first, and then... eliminate it."
One can hardly say "kill" about the undead - after all, it is already dead... Nathan shivered. It suddenly occurred to him that if any undead were human before, then someone like the Strangler or Pauline Defoe could well turn people into undead obedient to the will of others. He was about to ask Longsdale a question, but the consultant stopped and raised a dagger glowing green to the ceiling. Scratches and streaks of gray slime were along the hardwood floors.
"Where are we going?" Brennon whispered.
"This corridor leads backstage to the technical part."
Akram vibrated faintly in the commissar's hand.
"Let me lure it out," Nathan suggested quietly. "It will jump, and you..."
"If it jumps, then I'll only accompany you on your last journey," Longsdale snapped, drew a sign around the Commissar and muttered to himself. Brannon moved away involuntarily. "Okay, that's better. Stay close and remember - they rush from above."
He turned away, sniffed at air, and his eyes lit up predatory. For a moment, Brannon fancied another — another Redfern. He remembered a similar, ferocious fanatical fire in the dark eyes of the pyromaniac.
"Upstairs," Longsdale whispered. The light from the dagger slid down the stairs leading to the grate - wet, slimy spots were visible here and there.
"Can we interrogate this creature?"
The consultant considered and nodded. They began to climb the narrow, dark staircase. When they reached the grate, Longsdale was the first to step onto the boardwalk. Having got out following, the commissar noticed through the slits a large red spot below - and right there on the side, on the verge of visibility, a blurred, whitish-gray silhouette flashed. Nathan recoiled and drew his revolver from its holster. The consultant hissed a short spell and hurled a tangle at the silhouette. The undead flew up in long, silent leaps and disappeared into the ceilings, where the shadow was so thick that it was possible to hide the elephant.
"Is it one here?" Brennon asked in a whisper. Longsdale cocked his head to the side, listening and sniffing. The tangle rolled to his feet - and at that moment the creature rushed from above. The consultant flung Nathan aside like a sack of rags and plunged the dagger into undead back. The blow was so strong that the blade nailed through the skinny ribcage, and the point crawled out under the vampire's left chest. She let out a strangled wheeze and rushed to the Commissar, holding out her long arms with sharp pinkish claws. Brennon was most impressed by their delicate color.
Baobhan Sith's hair curled like a whip around Longsdale's throat. Nathan rushed to help, but the second creature jumped at him from the side, as if weaving from the shadows. She knocked the Commissar to the floor. If Brannon hadn't involuntarily put out his hand with the akram in front of him, then, surely, the last memory of the commissar would have been long white fangs and a pale pink mouth that opened wide above him. Pouncing on the knife, the vampire recoiled: a deep dark but bloodless wound stretched along her belly. Its edges were rapidly charred, and the Baobhan Sith writhed in pain.
The signs on the long blade of the akram turned crimson. The undead hair rose and moved, but Nathan already knew what to expect from her. He stood up, not taking his eyes off the vampire, and backed away to where out of the corner of his eye he noticed the blocks and winches darkening against the background of the wall. The undead, hissing ominously, followed. She circled in front of the commissar, but did not dare to attack - the akram kept her at a distance.
"I hope the third one does not jump on my head," Nathan thought gloomily and lowered the knife. The vampire jumped; Brannon darted behind the blocks and pulled the lever. Under the grates, something rushed down with a rustle, the blocks spun wildly, and the winches slashed the undead like thin saws. Baobhan Sith's hair coiled around the cables, and her head jerked down. There was a loud screech. The commissar jumped back, dodging shreds of flesh (suddenly poisonous?) and lay down behind the next block, to which was attached something like a balcony on cables.
The mechanism, having passed through a part of the vampire, strained creaked, then there was the sound of broken winches, and Nathan looked out of hiding. The exhausted undead staggered slightly out of the broken cables. The skin was cut off from her, and the skull was crushed in places, but the creature did not lose vigor. Placing her surviving eye on the commissar, she flung herself at him like a cat. Something huge, reddish and glowing, broke through the grate flooring from below, knocking down the undead right in the jump and sank fangs into it.
"Snappish, don't burn anything down here!" Brennon shouted and jumped up, looking for Longsdale.
The consultant had already become the master of the situation: he pressed the vampire with his knee to the floor and drew marks on her back with a dagger. The undead, contrary to expectation, hardly squirmed or hissed. On the contrary, she sprawled on the floor, and her expression became more and more peaceful and human. Longsdale read something softly, chanting, stroking the vampire's head with his free hand.
"Now," the consultant gently whispered, "now we will go home..."
The Commissar stopped, lowering his akram. Baobhan Sith sighed softly and rested her head in her hands. The marks on her body swarmed into the air and swirled, connecting the vampire and the consultant by a thin web. Longsdale bent down to the girl, brushed the black hair from her face and cooed softly over her in a foreign language. She trembled weakly, and her trembling passed on to the consultant. On his arms and neck, scarlet bite points suddenly appeared, as if pierced with an awl, the veins were filled with something dark and strongly protruded under the skin. Longsdale let out a heavy half-moan, half-sigh. The girl shuddered for the last time, suddenly opened her eyes, rapidly darkening to a dark brown color, smiled and crumbled to dust. The marks flying in the air dissipated.
Brannon paused, walked over and held out his hand to the consultant. Longsdale leaned on it and rose. The bite marks were gone, but the only thing that mattered to the Commissar was that they were. Therefore, he did not like to participate in hunts - they always ended with this. Nathan knew he would never have had the heart to first hunt for the undead who were killing people, and then forgive her like that in order for some vile creature to rest in peace.
...although later he always recalled the dying cry of a child who turned into the utburd, and then doubts began to torment him again. It was a contradiction that he could not resolve...
"Why can't you just kill the undead?" Brennon once asked when they were returning with a consultant in his carriage from another raid through the abandoned mines east of Weer.
"Why, you can," Longsdale replied. "But the ashes of the slain undead remain cursed and poison the place in which they find themselves. Even if you throw an urn or a corpse into a swamp or bury it in the middle of the desert. And the mass grave will eventually begin to spawn undead by itself. or to attract evil spirits from the other side. You must always to clean the remains and destroy the curse that led to the appearance of the undead."
"But you have to go through it every time at the end of the hunt. How do you have the strength for this, for the carrion that killed hundreds of people?"
The consultant looked at Brennon more closely than usual, his eyes flickering pale in the darkness.
"But every undead was once a human. No one becomes undead of their own free will."
But the Commissar was not at all sure that the monsters needed forgiveness...
"Let's take a look at the second," Longsdale said. "You wanted to interrogate her?"
"Hmm. If I may. It seemed to me from the last meeting that they have a very limited vocabulary."
The hound was pressing the kicking vampire tightly to the floor with its paw. Longsdale squatted down beside her, and the critter immediately tried to grab him with its claws. The consultant caught her arm and calmly broke her wrist. Brannon frowned. He could not understand this sequence in relation to the undead. The consultant, with interest, scraped the vampire's skin with his blade and examined the whitish crumb that remained on the dagger.
"Look, this is some kind of mixture."
The commissar studied the scraping from a good distance (or else you will inhale this dirty trick inadvertently). Longsdale removed the flat box from his belt, dumped the powder into it, and closed the lid.
"Curious," he remarked.
"There's something there," Nathan said, gazing intently at the undead. The idea of interrogation had to be rejected: the vampire's skull was half shattered, and she could not speak. But on her skin, especially in the place of scraping and where the hound clawed, the commissar examined something like patterns.
Longsdale pulled a magnifying glass from its case and buried his nose in the vampire's side. She twitched again, but the hound confidently called her to order - he squeezed the rest of her head in his mouth and clenched his jaw.
"Indeed," the consultant muttered. "There is a pattern. Damn it! We'll have to skin her off to..."
The Commissar did not have time to be properly shocked by this idea. The hound suddenly let out a strangled howl and jumped back. The Baobhan Sith's body arched in an arc so that it rose above the floor, resting on the crown and heels. The spine buckled until it cracked and snapped in half. The ribs parted with a crack, tearing the skin, it smelled of cadaveric stench and putrid blood - and the undead burst, splashing Brennon and the consultant in black tufts.
"Bloody crap!" the commissar shouted. Above them, over the ceilings, a creature swept past - vaguely similar to the Baobhan Sith, bald, with whitish skin covered with a gray pattern. The hound jumped, clung to the beams with its front paws and climbed up. Longsdale sprang to his feet and rushed in pursuit of the undead. The Commissar hurried after him, not wanting to be the last dish served for supper.
The ceilings creaked under the weight of the hound, and plentifully poured down dust; Longsdale did not let the creature jump, and the vampiric fetus thrashed uselessly under the roof. He made two complete circles, finally desperate and tried to punch through the roof, clinging to the planking under the tiles. The hound overtook him, dug his teeth into his leg and jerked him off the planking down onto the floors. The consultant grabbed the beams, climbed up with the dexterity of a cat, and grabbed the vampire by the throat with one hand and squeezed his hands with the other.
Brannon tried to repeat this trick, but he couldn't. He could only watch from below as the consultant loomed over the undead and fixed a burning gaze on his face. His eyes darkened - the pupils dilated so that they completely flooded the iris. Longsdale turned pale, muttered a few words through his teeth, and pushed the vampire into the beams. The undead were already fluttering weakly; Brannon could see the same patterns on his body. They were woven into a tracery, but the center was on the back, with which the vampire pressed against the beams, and Nathan could not see...
The undead jerked under Longsdale. His arms and legs were cramped with the same spasm as the other Baobhan Sith. The consultant bounced off and jumped down; the hound growled in disappointment. Brannon stumbled back and covered his face with an elbow. The vampire exploded in the same black shreds as the previous one.
"What did you do with him?" The Commissar asked. Longsdale stood with a hand over his eyes. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. The undead are harder to hypnotize than the living."
"Did you see something?"
"The sea," the consultant replied. "I saw the sea, the ship, and I heard Dorgern's language."