Margaret loomed on the landing as soon as the ripples of the portal stopped flickering in Brennon's eyes. Either the girl was waiting for the return of the mentor, or the castle had a notification system about open portals.
"Angel!" Peggy's exclamation was a mixture of anxiety, relief and for some reason - indignation. She rushed down the stairs, suddenly froze on the last steps, stared at the pyromaniac, or rather, looked him over from head to toe, and blushed like a cherry. Maybe she finally noticed her uncle, or maybe because during these days she ceased to be an innocent girl. Angel coughed and said:
"Roismann is dead."
"Oh!" the girl responded, and her eyes flashed with vengeful joy. She slid over to the pyromaniac and cupped his face in her palms.
"Alas, I didn't do it," Redfern admitted, wrapping his arms around the girl, like an octopus with tentacles. "Therefore, I hardly deserve your grateful kisses."
Margaret looked inquiringly at the Commissar.
"And not me, Peg. Roismann was killed by his Mazandranman. Jadugar."
"Witcher!" Margaret exclaimed in amazement. "The same as Jen?!"
"How does she know all this?" Brannon thought bitterly. However, there is also the library, to the eyeballs filled with a bunch of books about magic, witchcraft and everything that that a decent girl absolutely does not need to know.
"Yes," Angel nodded. "Roismann somehow managed to enslave one of her Mazandran kindred… but we'll talk about this later. I'm dirty as hell, and your uncle could use a shower, too."
"I made arrangements for your bath and supper. Uncle, let's go, I'll show you to one of the bedrooms. You've already used the shower, haven't you?"
"Uh-huh," the commissar muttered. Although what is there to be surprised? Surely the lapse from virtue took place a couple of days after Redfern got better after healing baths in this pond of his.
"Then let's go quickly. I will order that your rags... your clothes were put in order. Angel..."
"I'm all right," the pyromaniac said softly. "Nobody was hurt… except for my pride. I wanted to bring you his hide, of course, but Jadugar didn't do too badly either."
Margaret's eyes sparkled with curiosity, but she managed to keep in herself the dozen questions that were obviously swarming in her head, and motioned for the Commissar to follow her. On the second floor, Angel turned to his bedroom, and Brannon followed his niece. Something scratched him unpleasantly every time he saw them together, but Nathan still couldn't figure out what. Maybe is it the joy with which Peggy imbibe Angel's cruelty? But would she have behaved this way, if by nature she had not such an inclination?
"Maybe we just didn't notice?" he reflected; and yet there was something else, something so unpleasant that Brannon could not even understand why he was feeling this way.
"Come in," Margaret opened the bedroom door for him, almost the same as the one that the Commissar used on the last visit. "Bath with shower over there, well, you know. Uncle, do you like it here?"
"What do you mean?" Brannon muttered. The room was quite nice, and he appreciated such an invention as a shower above all else.
"Angel said that he showed you the laboratories, the library and almost everything."
"Well, impressive."
"Better than in your department?"
"Peg," Nathan said sternly, "what are you persuading me to do?"
"Me?" she innocently opened her huge brown eyes. "I'm not trying to persuade you to do anything!" and flew away like a fairy, leaving Brannon alone with the painful feeling that the resemblance of her eyes to others, just as large, dark, and expressive, caused in him.
Dinner was served in the same room where the pyromaniac had treated Brannon the last time. He found Redfern holding Peggy's hand and stroking her fingers with his finger, telling her something enthusiastically, while the girl listened inspiredly.
Surely about the burst Roismann, the commissar thought sourly; obviously Angel considered the torn corpse of an enemy to be the best proof of love that can be presented to a woman...
Until dessert, dinner went on in silence: Nathan was pretty hungry, and so was the pyromaniac - he ate twice as much as a man of his size could eat, and by dessert he was leaning back in his chair like a well-fed boa constrictor.
"So," this serpent-tempter inquired, "did you like to command the consultants?"
"I was absolutely useless," Brennon replied, softening nonetheless after an excellent lamb stew. "Why do you need me at all? As bait?"
"I'm interested in you as a leader, not in cannon fodder."
"Uh-huh, I supervised a lot there... they could have done it themselves."
"But with your help, they did better."
"As for cannon fodder," the commissar remarked biliously, "you saw how bad this idea is. Have you seen what happened to Dwyer? And he's seen a lot of things in his life, and he dealt with the consequences of the rampant undead. How do you envision recruiting ordinary people for this kind of work?"
"Nohow," Redfern replied honestly. "But I hope you can imagine. Therefore, I suggest you..."
"And who compensates them for their ruined life? How can you pay for what they will be deprived of at your mercy? They will never have a family or a normal life, and hardly any of them will live to old age. Have you thought about that?"
Angel looked down at his coffee cup and muttered:
"No."
Margaret squeezed his hand and looked accusingly at Brannon.
"You do not attach any importance to this, right?" The commissar asked dryly. "But in vain. When hiring people for the service, you must answer their natural question - what they get from this. And if their service is to risk their own skin, then you will not get off with one salary. So what can I offer them, huh? Besides, that they will see more infernal creatures than the priest's painter can think of for a picture of the Last Judgment?"
Redfern looked up at him.
"Will you? Well, offer?"
"Ugh," Brannon sipped his coffee in annoyance. What a stubborn creature! "What the hell... why do you need me? I'm already fifty! Old age is on the doorstep, and you... by the way, police officers are entitled to a state pension. The longer the length of service and the higher the rank - the more. And what do you suggest?"
"Weeell, old age..." the pyromaniac looked at the Commissar and exchanged glances with Margaret. "Don't worry about that. You will eventually have an exceptional spouse."
Nathan nearly choked on his coffee.
"What?!" He asked menacingly.
"Come on, Uncle," the impudent little girl intervened, "everyone knows that Missis van Allen is about to drive you into the church. As soon as you come back..."
Brannon clutched at the sweet pretzel. For the first time in his life, he found himself wanting to inspect the pyromaniac's castle several times from basement to roof.
***
Before leaving, Angel, as promised, had left her the book with carefully placed bookmarks signed "Men", "Women" and "Process." Margaret obediently began to read, and no later than five minutes later her whole world collapsed. The anatomical atlas opened to her such abysses, which she did not even suspect! At first, in a rage, she rushed in search of the mentor - how could he hide SUCH from her?! However, Angel prudently disappeared, leaving no hint of where exactly.
She had to finish reading, every now and then bursting with burning paint. Nevertheless, in spite of the rebellious bashfulness, curiosity in the end turned out to be stronger, and Margaret, pretty shocked by how every woman actually works, reread everything twice, and some passages - three times. By the third time it was easier.
Having studied the anatomical atlas up and down, Margaret by the evening was ready to cling to the mentor, like a ferret to a chicken, but when he returned, covered in dust, mud, shabby, though contented, all this completely flew out of her head. Alive, safe and sound - the rest doesn't matter. Nevertheless, the questions tormenting the girl did not disappear, and she, overcoming her embarrassment, came to Angel's office after dinner. She was especially tormented by one...
"He hardly likes it with me," Margaret thought sadly and scratched at the door. "Compared to some woman... more experienced."
"Yes," a muffled voice came from the office, and Miss Sheridan entered, clutching an anatomical atlas to her chest. The mentor was lounging in a large armchair by the fireplace and, seeing her in an embrace with a book, raised an eyebrow mockingly.
"I probably seem to you a complete fool, right?" the victim of enlightenment muttered and timidly sat down on the edge of the chair opposite.
"You are an innocent little creature," Angel responded good-naturedly and immediately grunted: "Although now not so innocent."
Margaret turned pink again. It finally dawned on her what her parents and uncle were so excited about. She fidgeted in embarrassment, looking at Angel from under her eyelashes and tormented by a question that she could not articulate even in her thoughts.
"Ah... you... well, you..."
"Margaret," he asked seriously, "do you think I take off them when you're around?"
The girl blushed, closed her eyes and in despair buried her face in the satin.
"Come on, come here," Angel took her hand and pulled her towards him; Margaret immediately sank deeper into the chair. "Are you going to avoid me now?"
There was a rustling nearby, and the mentor's hand rested on her shoulder.
"Are you afraid of me?" He asked quietly. The girl looked out from behind the book: Angel was standing nearby and attentively, anxiously looking at her.
"No," after reflecting she decided, and took his hand. The very memory of what it had looked like made Margaret shiver. Angel pressed his hand to her cheek. Suddenly, tears came to the girl's eyes - she so stubbornly drove away the nightmares that tormented her after fleeing from the ship, but they all came back and returned... can she never forget!..
Angel took the atlas behind which she had hidden, picked up Margaret and sat her on his lap. The girl cowered.
"Cry," he whispered. "Now you can."
Margaret buried herself in his shoulder and gave a strangled sob. Angel kissed her temple and hugged her. Tears suddenly flowed like water by themselves. The girl silently clung to the mentor with her whole body, unable to cope with the tremors that hit her harder and harder. Angel did not let go of Margaret, stroking her head, his lips touching her forehead - in silence, without words, until the tears ended. She wiped her eyes with her fist and muttered:
"It's because of me... they did it to you..."
"Nonsense," Angel gave her a handkerchief. "He would have turned to torture anyway, because I wasn't going to talk to him. And because people like him always end up like that."
"But... but they did terrible things to you..."
"Not worse than I already endured. At least they haven't done terrible things to you."
"But Angel!" Margaret exclaimed in dismay. "Why didn't you just tell them..."
"I never talk to them," Angel replied grimly. "Never talk to them about anything and never ask them for anything. They torture others solely for their own pleasure."
Margaret again remembered what he had gone through once, but did not dare to ask if he had learned such a lesson from this. Redfern looked at her intently and said quietly:
"However, if it came to you... then... then it would be..."
Margaret snuggled up to him.
"Never doubt it," Angel muttered. "Do not doubt what I will do to protect you."
She timidly touched his cheeks with her lips, and the mentor hissed:
"The secret of The Process will never be more dear to me than ..." He fell silent, only squeezed her tighter in his arms.
"I know," Margaret whispered. And the damned Roismann surely knew too! Only he did not have time to use this knowledge.
"However, he still would not have believed if I had said that the process is possible only with living people," Angel sighed. "So our conversation would quickly come to a standstill."
"Of course," the girl chuckled and softly blew her nose into the handkerchief. "Rarely stubborn man. Where did he get the idea that you are preparing my uncle to go through this Process?"
"God knows what an idiot can think of. After experiments on Regina Oettinger, Roismann, of course, realized that she was human and that she was subjected to certain magical manipulations. But he couldn't find out which one, and for some reason decided that I, apparently, could do this with your uncle remotely."
Margaret shuddered.
"Angel! But what if Roismann managed to tell someone? Well, about The Process?! Suddenly someone else..."
"I don't think so. This guy is too greedy to share, so his inconsolable heir will hardly be drawn on our doorstep and will demand the secret of the process from me."
"You said that Roismann is not the first..."
"Hmm," Angel made the girl more comfortable in his lap. "Occasionally I was found by all sorts of personalities and tried to rob. None, however, survived even the first attempt."
"All this is strange," the girl said after thinking. "How did it happen that magic and all its powerful gizmos were destroyed?"
"They were never destroyed, little ignorant creature. In ancient times, during the time of Nikhat, the rulers of Mediflumenia, the ancient republics and kingdoms, priests and especially enlightened personalities practiced complex and powerful magic, and in the villages local dropouts treated peasants with spells for diarrhea, and their cattle for deaths."
"And where did it all go?" Margaret asked skeptically.
"Boldly by the sands of time, and more specifically - with the fall of these very kingdoms and the onset of the era of barbarism, magic laboratories, sophisticated rituals and complex spells went into oblivion. Only the village dropouts with diarrhea and cattle remained. Well, since Christian martyrs were also given to magicians for experiments," Angel grunted, "then, as you understand, our mother church treats magicians without much love. So we collect the lost bit by bit. Someday I'll tell you a bedtime story about Fessandreya, Gideon and his spells - that was magic!"
"Okay," the girl tilted her head to the mentor on the shoulder. She felt good: she heard the measured beat of his heart, deep even breathing, felt the warmth and smell of his body - pleasant, coldish, with an admixture of potions. She felt comfortable, calm and safe. "Come on, tell me."
"Oh, this is a terrible tale with a bad ending!"
"As if terrible tales could scare me."
"Well, perhaps not already," Angel said after a pause. "Then listen..."
21st September
"Come on, Brennon, get in," Broyd ordered grimly. The commissar climbed in the carriage of his superiors, wondering what all this was about. It was already evening, Valentina's cafe was closed for some reason to the disappointment of regular customers. The carriage started, and Nathan asked:
"Did the RSD guys finally get to us?"
"Worse," the chief answered laconically and drew the curtains on the windows. Brannon did not bother asking questions, although he thought it would be nice to negotiate the testimony. In the end, it is necessary to somehow explain who Longsdale is without going into real details. But what the hell does RSD even know?
All the way, Broyd was ominously silent. Finally the carriage stopped, the coachman opened the door, and the chief ordered:
"Come out."
Brannon leaned out, saw the landscape, and froze, gripping the door frame. A powerful jab in the back could not move him.
"Well?!" Broyd snapped. "Forward march!"
Nathan obeyed mechanically, looking with growing indignation at the modest church directly ahead. Guesses sparkled in his brain, generating natural resentment and anger.
"What the heck!.."
"Forward!"
At the church, the Commissar was taken in by the hound, the witch, and Longsdale. Brennon was unable to break free of their grasp, but as they escorted him to the door, hissed angrily:
"What the hell do you dare to interfere..."
"Shush!" Broyd cut him off. "Silence!"
There were not many people inside, although at the first glance, clouded with rage, Nathan thought that the church was crowded with crowds of people. On the left the van Allens were - all five, from Victor to Ellin, on the right - the Sheridan couple, surrounded by children. But ahead!..
The Commissar nearly stumbled, but Longsdale's mighty hand gripped his elbow tightly. Ahead, an elderly priest was waiting for the victim, melancholy watching the delivery of the groom to the bride. Valentina, dazzlingly beautiful in a light blue dress, was surrounded by detectives, who cleverly closed the ring behind Nathan when the consultant finally placed him next to the bride.
Brennon did not remember the rest, for the next half hour passed in a deep fog, from which only the priest was dimly visible. Only the moment with the rings was imprinted in the memory of the commissar, and some enlightenment came only when the pater insistently ordered him to kiss his wife. But Valentina coped with a modest kiss on her own.
The honey aroma emanating from her, on the one hand, pleasantly intoxicated, and on the other, caused such an acute awareness of the irreversibility of what had happened that Nathan felt a prick of panic for a moment. This is forever! He is now a father - there are five children jostling on the left! And the cafe? And the service? And Marion, who is already at the age of a bride, so ahead of him shine harsh interrogations of candidates for the hand and heart... the usual thought calmed him a little, and Brennon, taking Valentina by the hand, led her to the exit.
The hound served as a beacon for the commissar: a fluffy bastard watched the whole process, sitting on the doorstep. When the ceremony drew to a close, Snappish rose to meet Nathan and violently waved his tail. The witch was outside waiting for them. She forcefully shoved the Commissar into Longsdale's carriage, helped Valentina to sit beside him, and slammed the door. As a matter of fact, it was at that moment that Nathan finally recovered enough to wheeze:
"Valentina! Are you out of your mind?!"
"No, why do you ask?"
"But I... you... me..." but that was all he had time to say about his imminent old age, retirement and why would vivene want a mere mortal. Valentina tenderly threw her arms around him and kissed him not so modestly as at the altar. Nathan's thoughts got confused, and he surrendered to the mercy of the winner.
...that night Brannon woke up, looked around the room with sleepy eyes in search of the clock and realized that he was not in his bedroom. A second later, it dawned on him that he was now living right in front of work and, therefore, could sleep an hour longer with a clear conscience. Sighing happily, Nathan rolled over on his side, wrapped his hand around warm soft Valentina and fell fast asleep.
THE END
But to be continued...