1 Chapter 1

Blackwhit, Breswain, Aventine

Autumn 1864

5th September

"Well that's all," Brennon said contentedly, signing the court papers to send the case to the court proper, "it remains to pack it — and retire in good conscience, eh?"

Byrne shuddered all over. It has been five months since Nathan returned from vacation, and the detective is still not fully recovered. Suddenly, he realized how his boss could play a dirty trick on him at any moment by retiring. The commissar remembered with emotion with what joy - and speed! - the senior detective scurried out the office, barely finished with a lengthy report. The only reminders of Byrne's month-long reign were new blinds and a different chair. By the way, Brannon liked the blinds more than the curtains. September was warm as summer, and the sun warmed up the room even through the narrow gaps between the planks.

"It's a lovely day," the Commissar said. "The very thing for a picnic or fishing."

"Wouldn't advise in Twinn River, sir," Byrne replied politely, never ceasing to glare at him suspiciously. "The other day, they caught eyeless fish out of him. And they'll catch many another ugly creature if they continue to pour all the sewage into it."

"You can get out of town," Nathan continued, glancing gibingly at the detective. "Clean air, wind of freedom, this and that. Ah?"

"I don't like the village, sir."

"Yes, the city is more fun," Brannon nodded and slammed the folder shut. "They cut, rob and rape at every step."

He pushed a stack of folders over to Byrne, and the detective began packing them into a box. Nathan went to the window and peered through the crack in the slats of the blinds. Two workers, supervised by Victor van Allen, were updating the paint on the cafe's facade. Nearby construction was in full swing - Valentina bought a neighboring building and expanded the business. The police were already longingly dreaming of future lunches and dinners, for which they would not have to fight the clerks and other visitors in the small hall of the Shell. There was a knock on the door.

"Mister Broyd is calling you, sir," the attendant reported. "You and Detective Byrne.

Byrne tugged convulsively at the strings on the box.

"We are on our way. Relax," the Commissar added good-naturedly, "I'm not going to retire this week."

"It's good, sir," Byrne muttered. "What are you going to do there, in retirement?"

Brennon knew why the detective was so afraid of career advancement - on the department rumors spread with might and main that the homicide Commissar was about to lose his bachelor's freedom and leave his office for the sake of the prosperity of the cafe and bakery. Nathan sniffed. He would like to find this spreader and have a heart-to-heart talk with him!

Telling the attendant to take the box to the expeditionary department, Brennon locked the door and straightened the amulet nailed under the sign. The detective also wore the silver medallion he'd gotten from Longsdale, and the chuckles of his colleagues had fizzled out lately. Climbing the stairs, Nathan went over in his memory a lot of rotten cases that were closed for lack of evidence or hung for years without moving, and wondered how many of them would have been solved with the help of a consultant.

"Sir, you forgot," Byrne handed him a piece of paper. "I found it in the book."

"Which book?"

"Classification of the undead," the detective coughed. "I took it from Longsdale."

Brannon slipped the paper into his pocket and knocked on the chief's door.

"How do you like reading? Exciting, huh?"

"Not the right word, sir," the detective said gloomily, and followed him into the office. Puffs of smoke floated inside, and Broyd sat in the middle of the tobacco fog and puffed through a cigar, studying a letter. Brennon could not determine the nature of the puffing - either triumphant, or surprised, but, perhaps, irritated...

"Here, read it," the chief said immediately and pushed the letter across the table. "Well, what, huh?"

The commissar dispersed the clouds of smoke with a message and walked closer to the window. The letter, on several thick sheets with a faintly printed coat of arms at the top, was written with a lot of errors. Nathan forced his way through the tongue-tied praise, got to the point, and whistled in surprise.

"Are they serious, sir?"

"Like a priest during a sermon," Broyd snorted and waved another letter. "This was sent to me by high-ranking guys from the Republican Security Department, straight from the Home Office. No jokes."

Byrne coughed softly, and Broyd nodded for the Commissar to pronounce what he read.

"Colleagues from the continent are coming to us," Brennon squinted at the title: "From Lin-den-sht... tsh... strasse?.. In a word, the Kaiser's criminal police want to join our experience, because they were very impressed by our success... In the establishing," the Commissar read, "order and legality in such a short time in such a young state."

"Kaiser's?" Byrne asked in amazement. "And how they, excuse me, will join? I don't know a word in their language, but they in ours?"

"Hmmm," the Commissar said thoughtfully and leafed through the lengthy letter in search of an answer.

"Don't worry about that," the chief said. "As the deputy chief of the RSD assures me, all the arrivals speak Riad language pretty well. There will be three of them in total, and an interpreter will be assigned to them, just in case."

"But why to us, sir?" Byrne asked. "Unless they are not interested in the Metropolitan police in the first place?"

"Dorgern Kaiser has started a police and criminal investigation reform," Broyd explained. "He is interested in how everything is arranged on the ground. This is our ground they want to see."

"Damn it!" Nathan exclaimed, leafing to the end. "A whole secretary of the minister will fall on our heads!"

"Mister Franz Eisler, Secretary of the Internal Affairs Minister," Broyd read out, his face darkening, "Mister Konrad Straub, Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police Department, and Doctor Johann Roismann, a forensic scientist. We have already been ordered to lick and carry on our hands. Apparently, someone from there," he poked a cigar at the ceiling, "wants to suck up to Kaiser Wilhelm. As long as he has the largest army, then the influence on the continent is also not of the last."

Brannon sighed heavily.

"Well, well, someone from there wants, but what should we do? Wash the department with soap, put flowers, spread silk carpets, organize a dance of the seven veils?"

"You - pack your suitcase," Broyd snapped sternly. "Come with me to the capital, to meet."

"Me?!" the Commissar choked with a cry "For what?" and stared imploringly at the chief. "What for?"

"Byrne will remain in charge of your department."

"Again?!" it reflected on the face of the unfortunate.

"Is everything clear to everyone? Go. The train is tomorrow at three forty pm. You will receive your ticket in the morning in the expedition."

"Yes, sir," Brennon muttered dully, put the letter on the table and left the chief alone with a cigar; Byrne, radiating deep anguish, followed the Commissar.

***

"I think you aren't in the mood," Longsdale said shrewdly; the hound pointed its ears at the commissar.

"Uh-huh," Brannon muttered, and looked around the office with an anguished look. Native, one might say, nest! Together with the first commissar he painted the walls himself and whitewashed the ceiling! After the revolution, in the forty-fifth year, where there were painters and plasterers to take...

"Are you in trouble?"

Nathan fell into a chair and stared grimly at the gentleman and the hound.

"How do we explain it all to them?" he jabbed a finger at the elegant figure of the consultant and the fluffy one - the hound. "Is that all?"

"Explain what? To who?"

Brannon told Longsdale about the coming invasion, sparing no epithets. On the whole, he didn't care about the Kaiser, but who asked them to literally climb here with their feet?!

"Why do you think the Dorgernian police have never encountered Intervention?" The consultant asked, clearly trying to console. The hound put his muzzle on the arm of the chair and sniffled in support. Brannon snorted in sorrow.

"They may have encountered, but it is unlikely that this Straub personally chase the ifrits. If Redfern is not lying, there are only a hundred and twenty-seven of you, and you meet less often than snow in July."

"Yes," Longsdale nodded thoughtfully, "there aren't many of us. Well, don't tell them."

"How? Surely someone will blabber! It's a good thing," the Commissar added, measuring the twofold essence with a heavy gaze, "that we are not paying you anything, and you are not listed with us in the accounting papers."

"But isn't it flattering to you that your police system is so highly regarded?"

"Well, maybe," the Commissar muttered. "There is little. But why go here?"

Longsdale considered.

"Tell me, can I, to allay your discontent, invite you to the theater?"

"What?!" Brennon choked. "Why is that?!"

The hound snorted maliciously.

"To allay your displeasure," the consultant repeated patiently. "Correct your mood before the trip. Do you know Blackwhit has a theater?"

"Yes," the Commissar replied, although he did not know why it was needed. "I have never been there. However, I interrogated ham actors a couple of years ago, when in that quarter someone got into the habit of hitting passers-by on the head with a club and robbing corpses."

The hound snorted so much that Nathan suspected he was being laughed at.

"What are they doing there?" The commissar asked in annoyance.

"Usually - they watch performances." Longsdale took a small package from his pocket. "But we'll be looking for something otherworldly. Or," the consultant frowned, "not quite alive."

The Commissar stood up with interest: Longsdale unrolled his handkerchief and showed a narrow, sharp, slightly curved claw - white, slightly pinkish, translucent, in appearance like glass.

"It's not broken."

"Exactly," the consultant nodded, "the claw is not broken, it is shed off. Some creatures shed old teeth and claws as they grow. And since these creatures grow as the number of victims increases..."

"Gotcha," Brennon returned the claw to him, took his hat and cane. "Where did you find it?"

"I didn't find it," Longsdale replied. "They brought it to me."

***

To Brennon's surprise, the theater was very quiet — in the Monday afternoon, when all decent people are working hard to earn their living. An elderly caretaker opened them and ushered them into the director's office on the first floor, behind the foyer, among such a maze of narrow corridors that Nathan marveled how the builders managed to cram them into such a small area.

The director of the theater rose to meet them, emerging from the stack of papers like a beaver from the hut. For two years he has not changed - still the same short, well-built man, about forty-five in appearance, with a lush, completely gray mane and luxurious sideburns. Seeing the police Commissar, he was noticeably wary. His blue eyes narrowed, and he gazed at Brannon from head to toe.

"Ah, you," the director finally concluded without much affection. "Mister Longsdale, are there any difficulties with my request?"

"Mister Edward Farlan," the consultant introduced him ceremoniously. "Commissar Brannon, Head of the Division of Murders and Especially Grave Crimes."

"We know each other," Mr. Farlan said coldly. The Commissar chuckled. "Frankly speaking, I did not count on the intervention of the authorities."

"Mister Longsdale is a police department consultant. He is obliged to inform us about all suspicious cases that he encounters."

The hound made an extremely skeptical sound. Mr. Farlan's gaze fell on the animal and grew heavy.

"Have you brought a hound here?"

Longsdale looked at the hound as if he was surprised by the question itself, and said:

"When you contacted me, it seemed to me that you were concerned about the safety of your employees and spectators. In that case, it's a police matter."

"The police have already done their matter here and have not shown the slightest respect to us."

"But the guy who treated one of your jesters to death with a club, made safely to the gallows," Brennon said. "So, I'm listening. What made you turn to Mister Longsdale?"

Farlan fumbled his cane under the table and limped past them to the door.

"Please follow me, gentlemen. Your pet can be tied at the back door."

The hound silently gave the theater director a long look.

"Fear not, he's tame," Brannon said. The mighty beast looked at the commissar and snapped his teeth thoughtfully.

"I figured," Mr. Farlan said dryly as he led the visitors through narrow corridors to a mysterious target, "that you, hmmm... an expert on certain species of animals, and I never thought the police had anything to do with capturing them."

"You see," Nathan pointed out calmly, "the hound is just right. Right, Snappish?"

The hound showed him the whole set of teeth.

"Well, you don't respond to Red yourself," Brannon muttered.

"This claw that I brought you," Farlan continued, climbing the tight ladder with the help of a railing and a cane, "was found by one of our carpenters. Frankly speaking, if it were not for the place of the find, I would not attach any importance to this. Please come in."

"What is this place?" Longsdale asked and stepped onto the stage. Farlan pointed upstairs with his cane. Brennon lifted his head and whistled long. In the darkness above the stage, a structure was barely visible, a good twenty feet away.

"Damn myself! How did it get in there?"

"The point is not how," the director said even more dryly, "but that this is an auditorium, and I don't want any animal to jump from there when it is full of people."

"Yes," Longsdale agreed thoughtfully, "you're right about that..."

"Where are all your actors now?" the Commissar asked. "Why is there nobody?"

"On Monday we have a day off. Therefore, I invited Mister Longsdale today."

"And I didn't invite you," the Commissar read in his face. However, they did not get along at first sight the last time either.

"What it is?" Brennon pointed to the structure as the hound sniffed the scenes and the consultant removed the tool belt from the suitcase.

"The grates," Farlan replied with some contempt. "Necessary for lifting and lowering decorations and other elements. The carpenter always checks their condition in the evening after the last performance on Sunday. Actually, yesterday he found a claw there and now..." the director looked with annoyance at the Commissar, the consultant and his hound, already clearly regretting his decision.

"How to get in there?"

Farlan looked back at the consultant and blinked in surprise: he put his cane, hat, coat and vest on the stage and girded himself with a belt with instruments hung on it.

"Are you going to catch the animal right now? So you don't need help, nets, sleeping pills or a gun?"

"No one is there now," Longsdale said calmly. "Because if someone was, it would have jumped down to the prey."

Farlan frowned and looked at the grates. Then he turned and limped back into the narrow corridors. From there he led his companions to a narrow, dark and steep staircase made of stone, which rose upward, fenced off rather by a hint of a railing of a thin rod. The director touched the step with his stick and sighed. He had already put his foot on her when Nathan said:

"Thank you, then we ourselves. When we get down, I would like to see your carpenter in the face."

��Yes, well," Farlan stepped back from the stairs with noticeable relief. Brannon glanced sideways at his left leg as he pushed past (the architect, building the theater, strove for the strictest economy of space). The director's left hand was missing the little finger and ring finger, and the middle finger was crooked. The temple had a pale old scar. Isn't that why this worthy gentleman shies away from the police so much because in the past he has some criminal affairs?

"Or maybe," Nathan sighed, bent over three deaths to crawl up the stairs, "it's just personal dislike."

Longsdale, who was larger and wider at the shoulders, had even worse. Sometimes he stopped and examined the walls. Finally, almost at the top, he pointed out to the Commissar long, fresh scratches in the gray plaster.

"What do you think it is?"

"Some of the vampireous," the consultant said and carefully climbed onto the lattice from the bar. In the gaps, there was a stage below and a ginger hound roaming around it. Brannon looked around. All around there were some blocks, winches, cables, mechanisms, the purpose of which he did not know; overhead the roof slabs blackened.

"Look."

Nathan cautiously moved closer to the consultant: he found more scratches on the uneven bars and showed the Commissar a second claw, which he pulled out of the tree with tongs.

"Damn it," Brannon muttered and looked around. The most unpleasant discovery for him while reading the "Classification of the Undead" was that vampireous do not sleep in coffins, like fairy tales, but prefer to climb higher and jump on their victims' heads. And there was plenty of room for a whole brood of critters in the darkness of the ceiling.

"Do you have a lamp?"

"I can see everything. Oh yes!" Longsdale suddenly realized. "Sorry. Here."

He gave the Commissar a device like a tube with a flared end in which there was glass.

"Say Lumia," the consultant suggested with almost childlike spontaneity, watching Nathan. "Focus your imagination, desire and willpower on the flashlight."

"It's about time," Brennon muttered sourly, and wondered if it would be possible to hit the vampireous flashlight if it suddenly jumped.

"Oh, just say it!"

The commissar stared at the flashlight and muttered:

"Lumia."

To his amazement, the lights inside flashed and then went out. Nathan concentrated, imagined a glowing flashlight, and repeated "lumia". He, of course, did not work - the light was eventually turned on by the consultant, but the lantern honestly blinked in response to Brannon's efforts.

"Interesting," Nathan circled the grate with his lantern. He thought that this sacred knowledge can be comprehended by only a chosen few, and that's what it is...

"What are we looking for?"

"Claw marks, claws themselves, teeth, scraps of skin, hair, blood stains."

"Do you think it's already eaten someone?"

"If it sheds its claws, then it grows. You need food to grow. It probably doesn't kill victims yet, though."

"It can hunt in the streets, but hide in the theater," the commissar cautiously walked along the grate in circles, illuminating his path with a lantern. "By the way, why exactly here? I hope you don't say now that it is built on the graves of thousands of innocently murdered babies?"

"No, no," the consultant looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "It's just a good place for a cozy nest."

"So what is this dirty trick?"

"I don't know yet."

Brannon looked down at the hound and the theater director who was talking to a man; then upward, at the crosshairs of dark, barely distinguishable beams and concluded with a sigh:

"Now I will definitely leave for the capital with a calm heart."