"You're f***ing crazy with your f***ing magic!" the commissar growled and unloaded Redfern onto the sofa. As a matter of fact, as soon as they were on the mirrored path, the pyromaniac indistinctly hissed, jabbed his finger at the desired door and crashed into a swoon. Since it is impossible to go back along the trail (and even to turn around is undesirable), Brennon had no choice but to shoulder Angel on his shoulders and stomp to the door.
From the mirror the Commissar went into the living room, furnished in the Caliphate style. After laying down the pyromaniac, Nathan resisted the temptation to bring him to his senses with a hard slap and searched the room for water. Found wine, hookah and unimaginable supplies of coffee. Having poured wine into the coffee cup, he returned to the sofa, lifted Redfern's smart but completely bad head and poured a couple of sips into his mouth. The pyromaniac coughed, woke up, looked blearily around the room, the commissar, and with a sigh of relief sprawled on the sofa.
"Well?" Brannon asked sternly. "What the heck?"
"I wouldn't have made it alone," this parasite whispered. "I had to use your help."
"Help?!"
"Consider that I have invited you to visit."
"Holy shit," the commissar muttered through clenched teeth. He couldn't expect to be back before Angel got better. "Where are we?"
"In the castle. Mine. Family."
"And where is everyone?"
"What are everyone?" Redfern sat up with an effort, drew in a sharp breath and bit his lip. "We're alone here."
"And the servants? Maids? The cook? Who washes it all?"
"What is it to you?" The pyromaniac stood up, staggered, and Brennon took his arm again. "There is someone here to take care of it. Shaving kit, clean clothes," Angel suddenly announced loudly, "hot breakfast: bean salad, bread baked with cheese, chicken soup, carp in broth, risotto with mussels, boiled potatoes with a rabbit stewed in herbs, lamb pie, cakes with orange cream, herbal tea, herbal preparation."
"Are you telling me this?" the Commissar asked. He led the pyromaniac to the door, wondering where the guy was going to get a doctor and where the hell he was going again. "Do you think I'm going to cook porridge for you?"
"No. You can order breakfast."
"Any of the above is quite enough for me."
"I'll eat all this alone," the pyromaniac said, "My... feature requires increased nutrition."
"Uh..." Brannon coughed. Broadcast into space! Some kind of nonsense... and how is Redfern going to shove such a mountain of food into himself?! "Well, I'll have potatoes, a rabbit, a pie, and some tea."
The pyromaniac pushed open the door and nodded toward the stairs.
"We're going down."
"You should lie down," the commissar grumbled, resigned to the fate of the nanny. "Doctor, medications, this and that..."
Angel disdained common sense and crawled down the stairs, clinging to Brannon and the railing. Definitely, his own helplessness, and even in front of a witness, infuriated Redfern, but for now he kept his irritation to himself.
"What do you do when you find yourself in such a situation alone?"
"I'm going down the stairs twice as slowly," the pyromaniac said through set teeth. He was both feverish and chilly at the same time. Nathan thought that a little more - and Peg's mentor would have to drag in his arms. But where the hell is he going?
They went down into a spacious hallway, and Angel ducked under the stairs. Instead of a storage room, there was a door leading to the next staircase - narrow, spiral, of rough black stone. Light oozed from silvery streaks in the ceiling and walls; in a minute, the Commissar thought he had imagined the castle above this deep cave. The only trace of civilization was the railings along the outer edge of the staircase.
"There's something glowing," the commissar pointed out. The pyromaniac looked at him wearily, chuckled, and answered somewhat incoherently:
"The main family treasure. You'll see it now. Why the Redferns were who they were."
He should have a doctor, Brannon thought. Better a psychiatrist.
The whitish-silvery glow below grew stronger as they descended. Finally the stairs ended, and Nathan, stepping into the spacious cave, gave a short gasp and froze in place.
The vaulted, untreated ceiling of the cave merged into walls polished to a mirror-like smoothness. The shine of the silvery streaks in the stone was so bright that it illuminated the entire cave with almost morning light. It turned out to be small, but within the walls there were half a dozen arches that led to other caves. In the middle, a lake, enclosed in a marble frame, gently splashed. The pyromancer hobbled toward it, untangling from the blanket as he went.
"What the hell is this?" Brennon whispered. The water in the lake was glowing and transparent, so that the bottom was visible - also black stones, layered, velvety in appearance, like skin with silver veins. Below, the channels of underground streams were guessed - the lake was flowing.
"Vein," Angel said. He sat down on the side and pulled off his shoes. "Here is the exit of the magic vein to the surface. A castle was built over it. The Redferns have been drinking this water for centuries, for generations." He threw off his shoes and looked at the commissar. "Perhaps the Redferns are not quite human anymore."
The commissar cautiously touched the water with his finger. Nicely cool, but warm enough to enjoy a dip.
"Perhaps," Angel muttered, "the portal radiation affected me that way because of this. My blood made me like this... not like Pauline Defoe. I don't know."
"So your family has been exposed to this for years?"
"It's not dangerous. Not that dangerous," Angel chuckled. "It doesn't turn you into monsters with horns. My family coped with this without any magic."
The pyromaniac kicked off his shirt and unbuttoned his trousers. Behind Redfern, Brannon saw low railings and steps leading straight into the water. Stripping naked, the pyromaniac stood on the side, grabbed the railing, but slipped in a puddle of water and, having doused Nathan with a fountain of spray, fell into the lake.
"Hey you!!" the commissar cried, barely spitting. He instantly imagined what Peggy would do if her precious mentor cut his skull on a marble step. Brannon jumped onto the side, balanced on it, gripping the railing. Fortunately, the pyromaniac seemed to be floating at the bottom, not drowning, and there were no blood clots in the water.
"Hey!"
Redfern slowly rose to the surface and surfaced. Abrasions, bruises and extravasations have decreased by half, as if someone washed them off with a sponge. He grabbed the railing - the scars on his palm had smoothed out and were no longer bumpy like crimson ropes. The water lapped by Angel's chest, licking at his burns.
"They're healing," Nathan said stupidly. He never read that even in fairy tales...
"It's still not very pleasant," the pyromaniac dropped his scarred hand into the water. "Healing takes a lot of energy. If you overdo it, you can die. But healthy."
"So, maybe it's enough to splash around here?"
"Perhaps I will need a couple more sessions. Please give me a heated sheet."
Nathan found it on a low chest-bench next to the lake. He gave the pyromaniac his hand, helped him out onto the side, and Redfern wrapped himself in the sheet like a caterpillar in a cocoon. He looked noticeably better, although he was still very tired.
"Go," he said, "the shower room is at your service. You will be escorted. For dinner too."
The pyromaniac gave a short whistle, and a golden ball thickened out of the air in front of Brannon's nose.
"I would like to get back to work," the commissar muttered, barely restraining himself not to poke the fluffy ball with his finger.
"It's like you're not at work here," Redfern snorted. "Come on, stomp. I want to take a bath without your close attention."
"If you treat people like that, you won't get many people willing to work in your organization to fight evil spirits," Nathan said. For some reason, this idea no longer dumbfounded him. Apparently, communication with Roismann affected.
"That's why I found you," Angel replied serenely.
***
The breakfast was excellent, and Nathan emphatically dismissed the idea of who made it over a cup of tea with gingerbread. The pyromaniac was drinking some kind of herbal decoction. They were sitting by the fireplace - the Commissar stretched out his legs to the grate, Redfern wrapped himself in a blanket, something chirped outside the window (Brannon hoped that the birds, although who knows ...) Angel, clean-shaven, with wet hair after a bath, although was still tired, but looking much better, and the Commissar decided to proceed with the interrogation.
"Do you think Roismann knows about all this?" He circled the room with gingerbread - a small cozy living room, by the way. Breakfast was apparently served in Redfern's private quarters.
"It's hard to say," he said thoughtfully. "I'm sure that Roismann was going to beat every crumb out of me, although The Process worried him in the first place. But I don't think he knows the details."
"And what does he know? How did he even find you?"
Angel winced in annoyance.
"It is, in general, not so difficult if you are interested in certain issues."
"Why? Roismann caught one of the consultants and, perhaps, got some information, but, as far as I understand, the consultants themselves do not know you."
"Yes. They do not know me personally, but I deal with their weapons, tools, and supplies. It's difficult, but you can track me down. And even you guessed it that consultants are going through some kind of transformation process."
"Oh, I say!" Brannon muttered resentfully.
"I mean, with zero knowledge of magic and spells."
"I know the spell," the Commissar said. "The whole one!"
The pyromaniac raised an eyebrow.
"Lumia," Nathan said proudly. Angel grunted and sank into the cup of decoction.
"This is not enough. The spell is the shell that we fill with our will, desire and imagination. It's part of our consciousness, which is why breaking spells hurts their creator. However, I can give you a textbook."
"My ass."
"Margaret started from scratch a little more than six months ago, and what a result!"
"Shitty," Brannon said sternly. "What have you raised from a decent, well-bred girl? How can she get married now?"
"Decent," Angel snorted. "Well-bred! Who raised her before me, I would like to know if she immediately began our second meeting with a slap in the face? Well, at least she tried."
"Uh-huh, and now she immediately bites off the fingers."
Angel leaned back in his chair, beaming with almost paternal pride. He radiated it with such force that the Commissar abandoned this meaningless conversation. What is there to talk about if this person considers biting fingers to be normal behavior for an innocent girl?
"How do you know about The Process?"
"Why are you asking?"
"Out of idle curiosity."
Large, wary eyes stared at the Commissar over the top of the cup. Nathan understood him: it is better not to chat about this with the first person you meets. If the secret falls into the wrong hands... only Roismann is enough to look at.
"I need to know how the transformation takes place in order to create weapons for them. These are not just fart, but magical items associated with the characteristics of the owner. You will not be able to use Longsdale's trihedron - a charge of magical current will burn your hand to the bone."
"And who is performing it?"
"What?"
"Who turns people into consultants?"
"I don't know," the pyromaniac said.
"How so? You saw The Process."
"It lasts quite a long time and has been completely autonomous for a long time. No one is standing around waiting for the consultant to wake up."
"But sooner or later he wakes up. Someone has to explain to a newcomer what and why everything is started? How do they know what they're supposed to do?"
Redfern stared intently into the fire. He clearly disliked the direction of the conversation, and Brannon decided he would refuse to answer.
"A letter with instructions, weapons, tools and books awaits them," Angel finally muttered.
"But why do they follow instructions at all? Why don't they just get the hell out of it, throwing all those books of yours?"
"Because they have a program of obedience implanted in their brains," Redfern muttered, looking into the fireplace. The Commissar shuddered. Six months ago, he probably would have smashed the ceiling with his head, but now - nothing, not even spilled tea. Obedience program, okay...
"That is," Brennon said evenly, "they are not only robbed of their personality, memories, and desires, but they are also forbidden to ask questions?"
"It consists of certain blocks that exclude factors that interfere with the work of consultants. You treat Longsdale as a full-fledged person," the pyromaniac finally turned his gaze to Brennon, "but it's not so, understand at last. All consultants..."
"It is not true. Longsdale is the same person as you or I, albeit a peculiar one. When you release consultants into the world, the experience gained will change them sooner or later. They still become people, no matter what they do to them."
Angel turned away again and covered himself with a cup.
"Do you approve of this?" Brannon asked. "Do you like that?"
"No," the pyromaniac snapped dryly. "But was there any other way out? After everything you've seen, are you still wondering about morality and other nonsense?"
"Do you need other monsters to kill monsters?"
Angel's cup clinked against the saucer.
"And if so," he replied, "so what?"
Brannon looked at him: a thin hook-nosed profile, an emaciated face, a tense look - he did not spare himself and was not going to feel sorry for others. If he himself devoted his whole life to this matter, then he believed that he had the right to demand the same from others.
"Then why do you want to make an organization of human?"
"Because there aren't enough consultants," Angel said. "The Process is too long, and not everyone can go through it. There are only one hundred twenty-seven of them, and even if the process was still being conducted, their number would grow too slowly."
"So it's not being conducted anymore," Brannon was still amazed: he thought that he would also be shown another victim right in the middle of the process...
"No. Only if necessary - that is, when the consultant dies. This is rare, but it does happen. The last time was in eighteen nineteen."
"How long does it take?"
"About a year."
The Commissar whistled.
"That is, Roismann could not quickly make the army of the undead, as he dreamed."
The pyromaniac gave a snide laugh.
"He couldn't have done it at all. You cannot carry out the process on undead."
"Why?"
Redfern put down the cup and stood up.
"Come on. It's time for a little excursion."
***
From Brennon's point of view, a person who has survived torture and beatings should crawl under the covers and lie still for several days, if not weeks. But the pyromaniac, though holding on to the wall, cheerfully stomped on his own two feet. His eyes burned with enthusiasm, his pupils were dilated, his cheekbones glowed with pale scarlet spots, and the Commissar concluded that Redfern heavily drugged with some stimulating stuff, which he generously refilled in his concoction.
They descended into the spacious hallway along a white marble staircase covered with an expensive carpet. Looking around, Nathan noted that there was not a single portrait of family members, coats of arms or memorabilia in the family nest. Instead, the walls of the hall were decorated with paintings depicting all kinds of creatures, dummies of weapons and dried bunches of herbs, with signatures describing their witchcraft properties. Redfern turned left, flung open the heavy double doors with an effort, and proudly said:
"Well, what's it like?"
Brannon was shocked and silent. He had never seen so many books before. The library stretched for miles and miles around, and the end, if any, was lost in the darkness, as were the top shelves of the cupboards.
"Everything that a hunter may need is collected here. It is replenished all the time."
"Where do you store these replenishments? Completing the outbuildings?"
The pyromaniac hesitated, coughed and said:
"Some enchantment has been put on it, allowing it to expand the space from the inside..."
Brannon tried to imagine this for a few seconds, felt himself close to insanity, and quickly stopped.
"But how can you find something here? Wander for years?"
"What for? There is a working directory."
Redfern beckoned the Commissar to the counter. Most of the desktop was occupied by a panel of translucent black stone. Under it there was a black rectangle in a silver frame, to which Angel put his hand and said:
"Demonology."
The panel immediately displayed a list, which the pyromaniac scrolled down with a finger. Brannon swallowed carefully. You never know, maybe you need to breathe carefully here, it's all sorcery all around...
"That's not all!" The pyromaniac assured him. "If we go deeper into the library..."
"I'm not going to deep into it," Brannon cut him off. "My ass! Today we will go deep, and they will find us in six months."
Angel snorted in disappointment.
"This is a true treasury of knowledge, which has no equal in the whole world. But if you are not interested in books, then let's take a look at laboratories."
"There are many of them, or what?"
"Different laboratories are provided for different research areas, fully equipped." The pyromaniac's hot fingers closed on Nathan's wrist. "Come on. Your shabby tiled morgue is just a medieval barn compared to them."
I hope it won't come to a seizure, the commissar thought. Redfern, seized with feverish excitement, trotted out of the library, swiftly crossed the hall and pulled the lever that opened the sliding doors.
"Three floors!" the pyromaniac said with pride. "One aboveground and two underground," he slammed on the panel at the entrance, and all the laboratories, one after another, lit up with light. "The generator is running downstairs."
"What?"
"Electricity," Redfern said with a sense of his own superiority. "Everything here is illuminated by electric lamps."
"I don't even know what it is," Brennon muttered and leaned on the railing that enclosed the metal staircase to the lower floors. He felt like a savage from the jungle. The offices were in front of him full of incredible possibilities, which Mr. Kennedy's colleagues could not even dream of. What detectives and pathologists would be capable of if they had such means of inquiry at their disposal!
One, the commissar suddenly thought. He did it all alone...
He turned around. Redfern was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, grinning. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and the pyromaniac hid trembling fingers in the crooks of his elbows.
"Let's go down," he said, and took a step down the steps. Brannon caught him in flight, sat him on the step and sat down next to him.
"Well, why?" the Commissar asked.
"You must see," Redfern whispered. "See it all to understand..."
His eyes, huge on his wasted face, flashed fanatically, and he clutched his fingers into Nathan's shoulder like claws:
"You must understand what I am offering you! What should be, what should be created! Everything here - everything to get started, just... just find them." Something gurgled in his throat, and the pyromaniac pressed his hand to his lips.
"Whom?"
"People! People who can..." Angel swallowed convulsively. "They'll be able to learn and... and..." A convulsive shiver went through his body, and Redfern vomited. Brannon sighed heavily.
"Why on earth?" he grumbled and put the pyromaniac on his feet. "What have you swallowed?"
"Stimulant," Redfern said, barely moving his tongue. "I had to show..."
"Great. Who will wash all this here now, eh?"
"There is... staff..." the pyromaniac's knees buckled, and the Commissar hastily returned him back up the step. The second attack of vomiting was prolonged. But the remainder of the stimulating rubbish in the form of a greenish slurry left the pyromaniac's body. However, Nathan still didn't expect to be enlightened in his brain.
"Damn it," Redfern hissed, "this is just humiliating!.."
"Then why the heck did you arrange it?"
"You should have seen... since you are here... when else will I have the opportunity..."
"With your manner of inviting guests - not soon," Brennon replied sternly, and pulled Angel to his feet again. The Commissar was not happy with the shaky result.
"Where is your bedroom in this damn maze?"
"Over there," Redfern whispered and jabbed a finger at the ceiling. "Third floor, first door on the left."
"It would be better if you invented some kind of elevator," Nathan muttered. Drag and drag! Ugh...
"I can show you the infirmary..."
"Just try it!" Brennon snapped, threw Redfern's hand over his shoulder and dragged him to the door, wondering on the go what Roismann had time to invent while he was here babysitting this genius of magical thought.