Valentina sat next to Jen and held her hand. Apparently, this somehow prevented the witch from burning down the whole house right in her sleep. Although Nathan wasn't sure she was asleep. He turned to Longsdale. The consultant sat in a chair as far away from the widow as possible. The hound lay at his feet, шеы eyes-coals fixed on the bed. It was, by the way, Longsdale's bed - he generously gave the girl his bedroom.
"I think the bastard laid out his trump cards," Brannon said. The consultant raised his eyebrows in question.
"A dozen bloodsucking beasts. Not less than fifty damned people." Brannon nodded at the witch. "If not for her, I would not have been standing here. And if not for her," after a pause, he finished grimly," at least fifty people would be alive now.
"She warned you," Valentina said.
"But not that she will burn down people who are guilty only of the fact that the master of the undead hands itch."
"She couldn't stop."
Brennan frowned at the witch. He and Farlan owed their lives to her, but... now, for the first time, he really realized how dangerous the witch is and how much she is different from him and any human in general. But Redfern had warned!
...where the hell did he disappear?
"Do you think the master threw all his undead against us?" Longsdale asked. He looked at the widow jealously, without affection.
"How should I know? Maybe he already has factory production set up. I'm asking you: is it possible that the master of the undead is now left without the undead themselves?"
"I don't know. We don't know anything about how he turns humans into undead. He probably has a whole battalion of vampires in reserve. Although," the consultant immediately frowned, "such a massive accumulation of undead is not difficult to detect."
"Okay," Brannon decided. "I doubt we'll hear Redfern again. So get on with what you were about to do: track down the source of the curse you told me about."
"Are you sure? Longsdale asked anxiously. "We don't know what the master is capable of."
"And for what purpose is he pursuing you," Valentina added. "Jen won't be able to protect you right now."
Brannon turned to the window. He no longer wanted Jen to protect him. He doubted at all that he wanted her presence nearby. After what happened, wouldn't it be better to send her home? After all, Longsdale only had to look after her until she grew up. Now she is adult, real witch - and who knows what she'll be like when wakes up...
"Find our vampire shepherd," the Commissar said. "It is high time to have a heart-to-heart talk with him. By the way, have you received any replies to your letters to Dorgern yet?"
"Not yet," Longsdale sighed. "I wrote to three consultants and a few other people. But few of them sit still, perhaps they will read the letters only in a week or two."
"Well, then we will work with what we have. I'll go to the hospital, talk to Farlan..."
The consultant coughed.
"I cleaned up his memory a little."
"What?!"
"Within reason, of course. The gas leak that caused massive panic..."
"And who gave you permission?" Brennon inquired coldly.
"Mister Broyd."
"That's how," Nathan said through set teeth. He understood what reasons forced the boss to do this - but this in no way negates the fact that Farlan, leaving the hospital, will go to bury colleagues, friends, relatives. Brannon glanced at Jen and averted his eyes. The witch isn't the only one involved. He's gotta be a part of this.
"No one can ever catch someone like the master of the undead," Redfern told him then, in Breswain. "And you won't prove anything to anyone."
Well, Brannon thought. Well...
"If the master of carrion wants to see me so badly," he muttered, "he will. I will come to him."
"Nathan, but this is unreasonable!" Valentina exclaimed. The hound stared at him in alarm. "We don't know what he wants from you! We're not even sure if he really wants to see you, and not just..."
"This does not mean," the commissar interrupted her, "that I will go to him unarmed and unprepared."
***
The sailors left and carried away the corpses. Margaret tore off the sleeve of her blouse and wiped the sweat from Angel's face and neck. He lay there, eyes closed and not moving, breathing intermittent and shallowly. The mentor was dull-pale, almost gray, his face looked very thin because of the black bristle. The cheeks were so sunken that it seemed as if the sharpened cheekbones were about to tear the tightly stretched skin. He smelled heavily of sweat, blood and meat.
"Angel," Margaret called softly. He opened his eyes and the girl touched his shoulder. "I'll take you out of here. I'll just find where to put you."
"On the floor," he muttered, barely moving his tongue. "It doesn't matter where," Angel jerked convulsively with his arm in the belt, and Margaret pressed it against the bench so that he would not hurt himself even more.
"Hush. Don't move. I am now."
She smoothed his damp and stuck hair, brushed it off his forehead, and took the lamp. The high-legged bowl was unexpectedly light. Miss Sheridan carried it like a torch. There were several other devices in the barn, like a bench with belts, but the sailors took with them all the tools that would have passed for weapons. In the corner, the girl found a pile of rags, rags and an empty bucket, apparently for cleaning. She took everything with her: she put the bucket away so that it would smell less when they used it as a toilet; she spread the rags in an even layer on the floor next to the bench. Margaret knew that she would not carry Angel far.
"Done," she whispered to him and took hold of the belt. The clasp was so tight that Margaret could hardly push the belt out of the buckle. Angel clenched and unclenched his fist several times and tried to help her with a second belt, although his hand was so trembling, that the help was symbolic.
"Lie still," Margaret moved to his legs - and she felt sick. There was a splatter of blood on Angel's shirt, but his trousers were almost completely covered with it, pieces of skin, meat and fragments of bone adhered to the damp fabric. Margaret picked up a rag and swallowed, rubbing the clips over Angel's knees and ankles. Clips were sticky, slippery, and red.
"I myself," the mentor said and tried to sit up. He was immediately jerked by a convulsive pain, and his face was so contorted that Margaret hurried to lay Angel back. She first freed one his leg from the tight clamps, then moved to the other, looked at the darkened boards under Angel's leg, and suddenly the girl's hands began to shake, her eyes were clouded with a hot, wet veil, and from the smell vomit rolled up to her throat.
"Margaret," it came to her as through the cotton wool, "I myself..."
"I'm now," Miss Sheridan managed through her teeth, swallowed the sour goo that filled her mouth and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She blinked. She wrapped her hand in a rag and began to gently tug on the clip at the bottom, at the ankle. She tried to hurry, listening to Angel's labored breathing. He still didn't make a single sound - no screams, no groans. Although Margaret did not know if it became easier if to screamed in pain. It was worse with the clamp at the knee - with each movement Angel froze, holding his breath.
"Did he hurt you something?" Margaret asked.
"No, this is a reaction to recovery. It will pass. Never mind."
If they don't do something else with you, the girl thought bitterly. She opened the clamp and, barely touching, ran the rag over his leg. Angel grabbed her hand and hissed.
"Don't."
Margaret slowly unrolled the pant leg over the clotted blood.
"Let's."
Angel leaned on the girl's shoulders, she lifted his injured right leg. The mentor turned carefully, lowered the left one from the bench, felt the floor, and stood up.
Redfern was heavy. He tried to lean harder on his left leg, but Margaret almost dropped him anyway when he took a short jump to the bed of rags. The girl helped Angel to sit down, then laid him down, fluffed up the rags under his head higher, he closed his eyes again - and on this her strength suddenly dried up. Margaret hunched over, covered her face with her hands and shook shallowly.
She finally felt the pain under her ribs that rippled through her body with every breath; pain in the arms where Leidner squeezed them, burning in the abrasion on the right cheekbone from hitting the floor, and the same, but weaker - on the left, from the slap. A veil of heavy feeling enveloped her — a dull, stupefying like the smell of blood, mixed with the smell of sweat, damp wood and dust. Alone! They are here completely alone! Helpless without magic and weapons. Absolutely defenseless in front of a person who is able to do anything with them. All that Margaret could not imagine - did not even realize that someone was able to do this with living people who feel pain.
Anything. Oh God, anything! She suddenly felt so keenly that there, in the semi-darkness, in complete silence, some sickening mechanisms lurked, and... and... she knew that she could not stand it. Can't stand such... such as... Margaret squeezed her temples. She couldn't imagine what it would be like, and her mind recoiled in horror at the slightest attempt to imagine. But she knew that she would not have enough strength or pride for... for this...
But she is the only weak point in the armor, which Angel protected from all these critters! Why is she so worthless, why not strong, why is she... why is she letting him down! If not for her, he would not have to think about her, about what they can do to her...
The warm hand rested on her knee.
"Margaret," Angel called, "a girl shouldn't sit on a cold one. Come here."
She let out a choked sob and squeezed Angel's hand, turning away from him. He kissed her fingers, Margaret shuddered and choked on her tears.
"I stink, huh?" The mentor asked softly.
"God!" the girl sobbed almost hysterically. She doesn't care! She huddled under his side, buried her forehead in his neck. Angel hugged her and whispered:
"Do not cry. Please, not here."
She immediately wanted to cry out loud, and the tears rolled up to her eyes so that she could not hold them back. Angel flinched faintly as they dripped down his collar, and pressed his lips to Margaret's temple. He stroked her head until the girl controlled herself and wiped her cheeks with her palm.
"Cannibal," Angel said with a smile. Margaret let out a half-laugh, half-sob. "Just think of who I warmed up in my house!"
"Pffrr, I didn't bite off anything for him."
"But you tried!"
"But I didn't swallow it!" the girl retorted. He was still very pale, and she lay down completely on the edge so as not to disturb him, resting her head on his shoulder, but Angel pulled her closer. Margaret timidly lowered her head on his chest. The dark hairs tickled her cheek pleasantly. After a pause, Miss Sheridan ran her finger over the bristle on the mentor's chin. Barbed!
"I wonder," the girl sniffed, "why did he run away from us so quickly?"
"Scared," Angel chuckled. "He, probably, is not bitten every day by pretty girls."
"With such a bunch of vampires around – he could get used to it. Uncle Nathan must have done something."
"Your uncle doesn't even know we're here. I am sure he has been pouring bile into my address for half a day, because he considers himself deceived. Another thing is suspicious - why we were left together."
Margaret shrank. This she feared most of all - that they would be separated. If then this vile Leidner tries again?..
"Get some sleep," Angel said. "You've been through a lot today."
"Me? But you had a much worse time!"
"Rape is no better," Angel replied, and added muffledly, "Maybe much worse."
He suddenly held her so tightly against him that Margaret gasped, especially from the weight of his body, when he pressed her against the couch and hissed:
"Run out of here as soon as you can!"
His breath was so hot that the girl was scared if he was getting a fever.
"But... no, how..."
"Run!" Angel hissed furiously. "Leave me! Promise me! Promise!"
Oh God, Margaret thought with pain. He wanted to get rid of what made him vulnerable.
"Yes," she squeaked, barely audible. Angel's grip eased.
"Forgive me," he whispered, "forgive me, dear!"
Margaret was seized with a burning shame. Not even for what she thought for a moment, but for the fact that he was forced to admit his weakness in front of her. She lay him back down. Pale spots appeared on Angel's cheekbones. Now, however, he really was powerless to protect her. It must have been so humiliating for someone who is used to always being strong. But even now he is stronger than these!..
Margaret touched his forehead - hot! - and suddenly thought: do all other women feel such tenderness for their men as she does now? Should this feeling be so heavy, piercing and painfully, as if the heart is being poured to overflowing with it, and it is about to burst?
"You despise me," Angel muttered bitterly. "I promised you... and I could not..."
Margaret kissed him on the forehead and, after a moment's hesitation, into the crease above the left eyebrow, the wrinkle above the bridge of the nose and the vein beating on the temple. Angel flinched slightly and looked at her incredulously.
"Do you think they are listening to us?" Miss Sheridan asked, massaging his temple and neck with her free hand.
"Of course."
"Uncle once said that when people talk, they let it slip. Maybe that's why they left us together?"
"Your uncle is a wise man," Angel replied mockingly, "but mister teacher in vain hopes that I will immediately begin to describe the process to you in detail for the sake of small talk."
The barn door creaked suddenly, and a triangle of sunlight cut through the darkness. Both Margaret and her mentor froze. A mighty, tall figure filled the doorway; then the door closed. The Mazandranman, despite his height and weight, moved silently and practically thickened out of the darkness, like a spirit. He carried a tray with a jug, two cups, a bowl of rice, spoons, and a large flatbread. The giant said something sternly in his own dialect, and Angel said:
"He wants you to take the tray."
Margaret got up, and the Mazandranman asked a question. Angel answered, choosing his words slowly. The giant nodded and handed the girl the tray. She took hold of the protruding sides and suddenly felt the fat finger of the Mazandranman push a small, cold cone under her palm.
"Safati Bidhur," the giant said meaningfully, and just as majestically, silently left.
"What does it mean?" Margaret sat down with a tray next to Angel.
"Safati means pure, bidhur... hmmm, I said that you are my youngest and still innocent wife."
"That's very kind of you. Help yourself," the girl handed him a bowl of rice and deftly slipped a cone into his palm. Angel gazed at Margaret, and a light flashed in his eyes.
***
Brennan left the department, frowned at the clouds that had settled in the late afternoon, and walked down Rocksville Street. It was hard to feel that he had just lost a piece of memory, albeit voluntarily. Fearing that the master of the undead also knew how to read thoughts, the commissar firmly ordered Longsdale to remove from his, commissar's, memory everything connected with the latest orders. Nathan remembered that he had made them, but which ones and about what? The consultant, however, vowed to return everything as it was. But, on his way to the theater, Brannon didn't even know why he was going there. He had a piece of paper in his pocket with instructions.
Nathan turned to the Café Shell. He didn't even go home, because he had spent the night at Longsdale's, and before that he was running between the department, the theater, the hospital, the Shell, and again the Longsdale house. It's just right to put up a tent in front of work ... or, in the end, move to the rooms above the cafe. The Commissar blushed a little. He was wary of such thoughts and tried not to think of them.
"You're leaving," Valentina said with mild reproach during their last conversation in the consultant's bedroom. Jen was still sound asleep.
"Yes, it's high time," Nathan looked at his watch to dodge the widow's gaze.
"You don't allow anyone to do such things for you."
"Why should I allow? I myself can," he tried to laugh it off, felt that it did not work out, and tried to explain to her: "Valentina, this will continue. Not always, sooner or later they'll put me out of retirement, but I can never sell cakes, you know?"
"Yes," the widow answered after a pause, "I know. But someone will always wait for you."
Valentina suddenly hugged him, put her head on his shoulder, and for a moment it seemed to Nathan that she was just a woman, the same as everyone else. Her soft hair touched his face; the delicate herbal scent emanating from them reminded him again of who she was. But the temptation became too strong, and the commissar, surrendering, coughed:
"We'll finish all this first, and then... then we'll decide."
"You don't become a bad husband just because you don't want to sell cakes," Mrs. van Allen replied with a laugh. "You can't. You have no aptitude for selling cakes. You can't even sell a button."
She kissed him goodbye. Nathan still felt chills marching down his spine in battalions. He is a man, he must be persistent and take steps in this direction! Fortunately, the theater appeared ahead, and the commissar, with relief, abandoned these thoughts. After all, is it worth worrying about his fifty years when the age difference is calculated in centuries?
Around the theater there was a fence, hastily hammered together from planks, and seven policemen were on the lookout. Brennon asked about the situation, but no one approached the theater (of course! after yesterday!), and it was quiet inside. The commissar nodded, told they not to wait for him back, and went up the steps.
There were traces of the mayhem in the foyer: blood stains rubbed across the floor, broken mirrors, shards crunching underfoot, overturned and broken banquettes, stuffing creeping out from under the tattered taffeta. The chandeliers were torn down and smashed. Everything would have looked like the aftermath of a mass brawl, if not for long stripes of claws here and there. The vampires even managed to scratch the marble floor.
The Commissar took out a piece of paper with instructions. The handwriting was his own, and it turned out to be very unpleasant: to read a letter written by him, about which he does not remember anything. However, the instructions were clear and Nathan got down to business.
He took two flasks from his pocket, opened one, and poured its contents onto the whole mirror. The potion spread, covering the surface with a dark blue slick. When it froze, Brennon opened the flask with something smoky swirling inside and pressed it against the mirror. The haze crept from the flask into the glass, spreading inside like a thin, moving cobweb, but when Nathan touched the mirror, he felt nothing but velvety smoothness. The haze crept inside, as if feeling the edges of a mirror, looking for a way out; and then the surface began to brighten.
At first there were only faint outlines, but after a few seconds the ship's cabin was reflected in the mirror. Well, Brennon did not immediately realize that it was a cabin - from the heap of Mazadran knick-knacks, furniture, carpets, pillows and blankets, he was dazzled. He did not even immediately find in the thick of this luxury a shaved bald man in white Mazandran clothes. He was reclining on the sofa, reading a book, but shuddered, raised his head and stared directly at the commissar.
"Hello," Brannon said grimly.
The shaved guy was alarmed like a chicken, soared from the pillows, yelled something in a language that the commissar had not heard for a long time, but it was too late: Nathan confidently stepped forward, right into the mirror, which bathed him in a prickly cold. The surface was glass and liquid at the same time, so he walked through it like a jelly and stepped onto the fluffy carpet. The shaved man jumped away from the commissar behind the back of the sofa, holding out a hand painted with red patterns in front of him. Nathan recognized mehndy.
"Not happy to see me?" He asked. The door flew open, and the whole opening was filled with such a hefty fellow, such as the commissar had never seen in his life. Huge, a head and a half taller than Brennon himself, bronze-brown, with a black curly beard like a bush.
The commissar barely had time to grab the revolver, when suddenly orange patterns began to flow from the hands of the shaven man. The sight was so disgusting that Nathan almost spat at the sorcerer's feet out of country habit. The orange tentacles reached the commissar and drew back with a hiss.
Brannon drew his weapon from its holster, and then something dug into his neck. He pulled out a long black needle, but in a moment another was thrust into his hand. The giant raised the pipe to his lips again, and Nathan, remembering what he was dealing with, fired. But the poison had already begun to act - the weight of the revolver made his hand twitch, the bullet smashed the porcelain vase, and the floor floated underfoot. The commissar rushed at the shaven bastard. He dodged, Brennon grabbed the back of the sofa and shook his head, trying to disperse the fog in his eyes. The cabin swayed in front of him, knees buckled, and the commissar sank to the floor. The last thing he could make out was a massive bearded figure bending over him.