Brannon met Longsdale in the emergency room of St. James's Hospital. It was overcrowded with wounded - almost all with burns of varying severity. Jen sniffed hungrily and licked her lips.
"Well?" Brannon asked.
"They are now free from the curse," the consultant replied. "But it was powerful enough that I was able to find the place where its source was located on the residual trail."
"So you can contact the master if you find the source?"
"If he is still near it, then yes. What for do you need it? Do you want to talk to him first, and then eliminate him?"
"Do you often eliminate people like him?" after a pause, the commissar asked.
"Not really. But sometimes I had to. Not every person is capable of achieving such outstanding results."
"Do you think that turning your own kind into undead is an outstanding result?"
"In some sense, yes. I've never seen that somebody try, um, to take to the assembly line and produce undead like chickens on a farm."
"It never occurred to me either. Okay. While Redfern is looking for the master's ship, we need to divert his attention to ourselves. By the way, unless the presence..." Nathan was confused. "Shouldn't someone like Mrs. van Allen stop the master from cursing everything here?"
"Not really," Longsdale said grimly. "With a major source of power at his disposal, he may well set a curse in motion. Of course, vivene will smell it pretty quickly and destroy it, but it will work for a while."
"That is, the master can repeat?"
"Yes. Therefore, I will now go to the laboratory and begin my search. Jen will stay with you."
"Oh, well, good," Brannon grumbled resignedly. Longsdale sometimes worried about him worse than an pushy nanny.
The Commissar found Valentina in the ward on the floor above. Mrs. van Allen was sitting on Detective Byrne's bunk with her hand on his forehead. A faint golden glow emanated from under her hand. Byrne sighed in peace, and a blissful expression appeared on his face that made Nathan jealous.
"Done," Valentina removed her hand. "He was hit with a brick when he tried to drive these unfortunates away from the cafe."
The witch snorted:
"Unfortunates! Oh yeah! They were very happy when they broke your windows. So much animal joy, I almost choked."
"Aren't you supposed to feed on suffering?" The Commissar asked.
"We eat everything related to pain. A passionate desire to cause it to others will also do, especially from hunger or with a great waste of energy. I fed on what I could, in general."
"I'll see to it that they get better as soon as possible," Valentina said and exclaimed reproachfully: "But you still came back, although I asked you to stay in Breswain. You are no better than my late husband!"
The Commissar choked.
"He, like you, all the time strove to stick the head of the tiger in the mouth, even knowing that its teeth were about to clench. You returned, although you know that the master is following you! However," Mrs. van Allen added, more muffled, "people like you always return, and I can never keep or protect you."
"I don't need to be protected," Brennon replied as gently as possible. "I'm the only one out of danger here, as long as this guy wants something from me."
"Yeah, but we don't know what," Jen interjected. "Maybe he wants to pull the brain out of you. By a hook through the nose, I heard that the priests of Nikhat used to have such fun in their time, and he is a lover of all exotic things."
"Longsdale intends to find the source from which the master draws strength," Nathan said quickly, until the widow again started talking about wrapping him in cotton wool and hiding in a safe. "The more we occupy the master, the better for Redfern and Peggy."
"Are you so sure that the pyromaniac will fulfill the agreement?" Jen asked skeptically.
"I hope so," although he hoped much more for the remnants of prudence and kindred feelings in Peggy.
"There you are again," Mrs. van Allen said with a smile. "Why do you always choose yourself as bait?"
"So it goes. My choice is limited."
The widow lowered her head and thought about something of her own. Maybe she was remembering her husband. Nathan knew almost nothing about him and doubted that he had the right to question.
"Don't worry about me like that," he said softly.
"And how I must worry for you? I can protect you from the undead, from disease, curse and hypnosis, but not from what you yourself do. Victor… my husband did the same so that we would sail out of the harbor and be saved, and I…" Vivene sighed. "I couldn't… I didn't protect him or those who returned to the shore with him so that we could escape! I cannot save any of you while you yourself rush to one embrasure, then to another!"
Brannon said nothing, despondent and embarrassed. She never spoke to him about it - he only knew that her husband had died during the mayhems in Meerzand, but he did not ask how. Looking around, the Commissar found that the witch had disappeared. He coughed and gingerly took Valentina's hand.
"And you are exactly the same," the widow said bitterly. "Why don't you leave the master of the undead to Longsdale, since it's the duty of a consultant?"
"I cannot. Valentina, you would not talk to me if I could do that."
Vivene just shook her head.
"It's strange that this master of the undead has no interest in mister Longsdale."
"I suppose he's naturally wary of being shocked by an undead hunter. That's why he aimed at me as a valuable bait. How did he know that," Brannon said with annoyance. He was, in fact, much more concerned that the master knew how friendly the relationship between him and the consultant was. This means that they were followed for a long time.
"Or maybe the fact is that he is simply one of them, one of the consultants, and is hiding from a colleague. Admit it, you thought about it."
"I thought," the commissar confessed. "That would explain a lot. Even that this guy is chasing Redfern. The pyromaniac produces a lot of things to support the consultants, but remains anonymous to them. Here is someone who decided to get to know each other better. If one of the consultants broke down and changed his point of view..."
"You see. So what's stopping you?"
"I asked Longsdale about it. He said it was impossible."
"What else did you expect to hear?"
Brannon sighed heavily.
"Nathan, I'm not saying he's lying. He may be quite sincerely mistaken."
"That's not quite the point," the commissar said after a pause. "That's not why I believe him. The thing is..." He paused, choosing his words. "I think they have something with their brains. You see, he didn't even think about the fact that he didn't remember his friends, his family, or his past. It does not occur to him that it is possible, for example, to look for a factory where his bullets are cast. He never wondered why he didn't age or why he was so connected to the hound."
Valentina stared at Brannon, expecting to continue.
"It seems to me that if I am right... if there is someone who turns human into consultants, then nothing prevents him from doing something with their brains so that they do not think about obvious questions. Is it possible, do you think?"
"Possible," Valentina said coldly; her eyes darkened. "But if I ever meet him, he will very much regret his genius."
12th September
Margaret opened her eyes with difficulty. All around was a mist, through which a narrow strip of light shone into her face. Her mouth was dry like a desert. The girl propped herself up on one elbow and felt sick. She leaned back against the wall and rubbed her eyes. When the dizziness and nausea receded, and the mist in her eyes cleared a little, the first thing that Margaret saw next to her was Angel's body on an armful of straw. With a cry, the girl rushed to him. For one terrible moment it seemed to her that the mentor was not breathing, but then Angel's chest weakly rose and fell. On his wrist, Margaret felt an intermittent pulse.
"Thank God!"
The girl hugged Angel, settled his head on her chest and touched his hot forehead, ran the tip of her finger along the purple abrasion on his cheek and sighed convulsively. They had no amulets, no potions, no weapons, only wide black bracelets speckled with strange, rounded icons. They were not even left with Angel's coat or Margaret's jacket to hide from the cold air, which, together with the faint light, oozed into two cracks - under and above the door.
Miss Sheridan examined the shoebox where they found themselves. A small, narrow, low room (Angel could not have straightened to his full height), an earthen floor, the whole situation was exhausted by two armfuls of straw.
But we are not on the ship, the girl thought. And that's good!
Angel let out a barely audible sigh. Margaret stroked his hair. There were purple round bruises around the neck and in the open neckline of the shirt, with a dot of dried blood in the center. The girl felt a pair of the same around her neck. How much poison did he get if he still hasn't come to his senses?
Margaret put her lips to his temple. A vein beat on ше, and the girl muttered an anesthetic spell. Nothing happened. She repeated more insistently - and again nothing. Margaret tried warming charms, telekinesis, fire spells, and finally snuggled up to Angel in dismay. The magic didn't work, and now she was really scared. Magic and a revolver were all she could oppose her enemies to protect Angel and herself. And now she had neither one nor the other.
She lay there for a very long time, trying to collect her thoughts. She barely had the strength to get up, and she couldn't carry Angel out of here, even if she could open the door. But there must be at least some solution! Is she so helpless without magic?!
"Yes," an evil voice whispered inside, and Margaret pressed into the mattress, clung closer to Angel to warm him a little and keep herself warm. Finally, the mentor stirred. He rolled his head over her chest, eyelids pulled up heavily, dark eyes glinting under them.
"M... marg..." he hissed barely audibly.
"I'm here," the girl whispered.
He squeezed Maragret's hand and tried to raise himself, barely keeping the wandering, dispersed gaze on her face.
"Margaret ... you ... are you in pain? Do you… have any pain… anywhere?"
"I'm all right."
Angal leaned forward, his face white with tension, his gaze darting anxiously:
"They touched you!.."
"Yes, unpleasant, but they did not harm me. Please lie still," Margaret admonished gently, putting him back. "You got this dirty trick much more than me."
"They… didn't do anything… to you?.."
"No," Miss Sheridan said patiently. "The vile bastard searched me and took away every last bottle of potion and even a brooch with a sting, but I am alive and well, which cannot be said about you."
"Thank God," Angel muttered and passed out, sprawling on top of Margaret. The girl swallowed. His persistent concern frightened her even more than the loss of magic. They could do anything to her while she was lying unconscious! But, fortunately, those vague threats with which mother, governesses and companions frightened her, passed her. Until.
"I'll kill everyone who dares to touch you," Angel said suddenly, quietly but clearly.
"But there were at least four of them."
"Everyone."
Margaret sighed and made him comfortable.
"You'd better take a break before swinging threats."
He chuckled:
"What, I look so sorry?"
"Well, I wouldn't call you healthy. What is this poison?"
"Mazandran muck. The effect is similar to the "elven strike" spell." He winced and touched the marks on his neck and chest. Margaret began to gently rub his temple. Angel pressed his cheek against her chest with a sigh.
"I can't use magic."
"Yes. Because of this," the mentor raised his hand with the bracelet. "The spell on it is Mazandran, but it works in the same way as our own."
"I saw something similar when Pauline Defoe used the rune chains to neutralize mister Longsdale. Can these bracelets be removed?"
Angel finally opened his eyes and, blinking, carefully felt the bracelet.
"Without a key - no."
"But mister Longsdale or his hound was able to break the enchanted chains..."
"Don't compare," Angel cut her off sharply. "In the consultant, little is left of the human. I don't want your insides ripped open or you was incinerated on the spot."
He was always angry when a girl mentioned Longsdale and she decided to change the subject:
"We're on land. The floor is earthen, there are no windows, only a door. Angel, can we escape when you recover a little?"
"The question is when this will happen," the mentor paused and added reluctantly: "All kinds of poisons affect us badly and for a short time. Family feature. Someone else would have died from so much of this filth."
In captivity of the enemy, chatter about other Angel's " features" Margaret did not want; she decided that Redfern was hinting at his special vitality after irradiation, but he suddenly added:
"Poison resistance. That's what let Defoe down when she put you to sleep with the potion. It affected you weaker, and you woke up much earlier than she hoped."
Margaret jerked in surprise.
"What are you talking about?!"
"Us, girl. I told you - us."
Margaret was confused and found no answer. Us?! Why on earth did he suddenly decide to unite them like that?! They can't be relatives! How is it if mom... Oh, God, did he mean her father?!
"You are implying that we... that is, my dad... that is, his dad... or grandfather..."
"Take a closer look at us at last," Angel said sharply. "Haven't you noticed the similarities yet?"
Margaret said nothing. Relatives on the father's side had not communicated with them since he married her mother, and the girl had no idea about the family ties from this side. It suddenly occurred to her that the kidnapper was eavesdropping on them, and perhaps Angel, with some calculation, tells him that he and Margaret are relatives. But why? How will it help them?
The door creaked open. The girl involuntarily clung to Angel. He lifted up, covering her with his shoulder. A man in a sailor's jacket slipped inside, put the jug and mug on the floor, threw a piece of bread on the straw, and slammed the door. Miss Sheridan craned her neck, trying to make out the landscape behind him, but saw only a slice of the clear blue sky.
"It is unlikely there is poison?" Margaret suggested timidly.
"There might be a potion of truth or some other rubbish."
"Let me try and see what happens."
"No way!"
"But it's better for it to work on me and not on you. Is not it so?"
Margaret got up and, holding on to the wall, reached the jug, Angel followed her with an alarmed look. The floor was still floating under her feet, so she carefully dragged the bread, jug and mug into their corner.
"There is water," the girl sniffed, filled a mug and took a few sips.
"Margaret!"
"Drink!" Miss Sheridan thought with delight. The water tasted sweet.
Gradually, the weakness, dizziness and nausea disappeared, and the terrible consequences did not come. When Margaret felt better (although it depends on what to compare), she refilled the mug and brought it to Angel's lips, supporting his head. He drank it all down greedily. Apparently, the kidnapper was generous with the medicine so that they could get to the ship on their own. Or at least they could stand without assistance.
"Angel," Margaret asked, breaking the bread, "what if it's one of the consultants? Suddenly one went over to the other side?"
The mentor's eyes widened, and he even jumped on the straw:
"Excluded!"
"Why? They have great power. Isn't that a temptation? That would explain why he is following you."
"And I say it is impossible! Consultants are incapable of rebellion because..." He trailed off abruptly. Margaret patted him on the shoulder reassuringly and held out the bread. Incapable - so incapable, after all, soon they themselves will find out everything.
"The process makes it impossible," Angel said faintly.
How so? The girl wanted to ask, but the door swung open again. Now there were several people: three sailors and a huge bearded Mazandran man. Margaret stiffened, squeezing Angel's hand.
"You two, devour," one of the sailors ordered in Ilarian with a hard Dorgern accent. "Hurry!"
Angel took a bite of the bread, studying the Mazandranian and the sailors from under his brows. In her stomach, Margaret grumbled hungry, but under the supervision of the kidnappers, she almost choked on her portion. The Mazandranian was remembered by her last time; she recognized the person who had given the order by his voice. His face was rough, cheekbones, with transparent bluish eyes and red side-whiskers. Shaggy red hair stood out from under the hat. He did not take off the girl's greedy assessing gaze, and she moved closer to Angel.
"Stay away from him," he whispered in Latin. She would never voluntarily approach this guy!
"On the way out," the sailor ordered when the water and bread came to an end. Angel stood up and held out his hand to Margaret. The Mazandranian went out first, the sailor waited for the captives to cross the threshold and slammed the door behind them.
***
Brennan slammed the folder shut and put it back on the pile of ones he'd been looking through yet. The mood was not happy. Last night, returning from the hospital, he dropped in to see his sister. For the first time in six months, she allowed him to cross the threshold. The house was not damaged, all household members were alive and well - only for the most part they were scared half to death.
"Do you know what the matter is?" Mrs. Sheridan asked Brannon. The Commissar shook his head. Through the living room window, he could see a thin translucent dome covering the entire house and garden. Now the dome was slowly melting in the twilight, becoming invisible again. Nathan noted with his already trained eyes the sparks of spells flying over the fence and the gate.
"That's she?" the sister thrust him a thin bundle of letters. "Did Margaret do that?"
Brannon just sighed. He didn't hear maternal pride in Martha's voice.
"Or her man, this man you haven't told me anything about?"
"What's the difference now. She protects you or he at her request - the main thing is that you are almost the only ones who are more or less safe. Try not to go outside, and if you go out, then armed and not alone."
"Armed!" Martha snorted. "Not alone! Twenty years ago, we also moved from house to house in short dashes. But I don't want to go back like this to the days of my youth."
"While we are looking for the instigators, you better take care of your own safety."
"We! And they?" she jabbed her finger at the neighbors' fences. "How can they take care if their runaway daughters don't hide their home under the devil's pots?"
"The devil has nothing to do with it. It's just magic," Nathan muttered wearily and walked to the door.
"Just magic!" His sister hissed in his back, following him. "For thirty-nine years I have never seen this "just magic", but look at that - here it appeared! My own daughter, without my knowledge..."
"I'll write to you when it's safer."
"And you knew everything! Knew - and said nothing!"
Brannon slammed the door. It was a pointless conversation. Even if he admitted that he saw Peggy, he would never be able to bring the girl home.
The Commissar pushed the folders aside and reached into the drawer for the breakfast parcel Mrs. Van Allen had sent him when there was a knock on the door.
"Mister Farlan," the duty officer reported. "He wants to see you."
"Let him come in," Nathan hastily shoved the bundle back, barely having time to smell the bacon aroma. The theater director dignifiedly crossed the office, leaning on a cane, rejected the offer to sit down and coldly said:
"Mister Temple's family would like to finally have a body for burial. Enough time has passed, and Missis Temple wants to bury her husband properly."
The Commissar considered. In fact, Temple's body could no longer give them new evidence, and it did not seem to be going to rise up and suck blood either. Nathan was pretty sure the actor was the accidental victim; and since Longsdale concluded that the deceased would not turn into an undead, then was there any point in keeping the corpse in the morgue?
"Okay," Brannon opened a drawer of forms. "Sit down. This will take a few minutes."
Farlan blinked incredulously and sat up. He was clearly preparing for a long struggle and was somewhat embarrassed to find, instead of a locked gate, hospitably open.
"Few minutes?"
"You need two forms," Brennon explained mechanically, creaking his pen; his thoughts were far from both the director and Temple. "Put the seal below, give one to mister Kennedy, keep one for yourself. Sign here and here."
"And his things?"
"Get it from the attendant downstairs."
Farlan paused in surprise, then asked cautiously:
"Aren't you supposed to keep the bodies until the end of the investigation?"
"The investigation into Mr. Temple's case is complete."
"Really?" Farlan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "So what should I say to his widow and son? A wild beast attack?"
"Alas, yes."
"What is it? Wolf? Bear? Crazy marten?"
"You can turn to Mister Longsdale for a conclusion."
"Excellent," the theater director snorted. "I can see how our police protect us day and night, tirelessly."
Nathan glanced at him, finally waking up from his thoughts.
"When and where are you going to bury him?"
"It's up to his wife. We'll have a little memorial at the theater tonight. Do you intend to ban?"
"No, why would. At what time?"
"In the afternoon," Farlan answered dryly and took his leave. Brennon told the attendant to brew coffee, unwrapped breakfast, and dug his teeth into a juicy bacon and mushroom pie. Just in case, we ought to check this theatrical gathering. A crowd of people in a confined space is an excellent target for both vampires and curses. Meanwhile, it was neither hide nor hair from Redfern. What is he doing there? Brennan didn't trust the guy one bit, but he hoped Peggy would at least send a note about the result of their labors.
Although it is so dashing to find a whole ship - this is too sugar. It would be nice to at least find some trace...
Longsdale worked tirelessly in his laboratory; Brannon finally managed to fight off the witch's supervision, so now he hoped that with her help the consultant's affairs would go twice as fast. The Commissar already had a plan in place if the consultant managed to track down the undead master. Nathan guessed that Broyd would not approve of the planned, and therefore decided to modestly keep silent about them, putting his superiors before a fait accompli.
The Commissar was somewhat depressed that the investigation had become almost unofficial - even if they succeed in catching and neutralizing the master of the undead, how will they prove to the RSD investigators that it was this type who drowned the ship? Not to mention everything else - vampires, sea serpent, curses... Brannon chuckled embarrassedly into his cup. In fact, he wanted to assemble the wreckage stolen by Redfern and return it to where it should be, but it completely flew out of his head after the events in Blackwith.
"It is unlikely that they would have learned anything from these fragments anyway," Nathan consoled himself and immediately caught himself that he was ready to forget about the usual course of the inquiry. For example, that stealing evidence is a criminal offense.
"It's time to stop this," decided the commissar and glanced at his watch. Three more hours before noon; he must make it to Longsdale and then, bringing Jen, to the theater gathering.