14 Chapter 14

24th February

"The girl didn't survive, sir," Byrne said. "The boy remembers nothing, except that a short gentleman approached him and his sister."

"Damn," the commissar grunted and sat down in front of the corpses, which the hound found near the outskirts of the village. Two men hacked each other with axes, the third hanged himself on a nearby poplar. The tree creaked pitifully under the weight of the body. The police cordoned off the house and the village. While the consultant and the hound were exploring the maniac's lair, Brennon, along with the detective, examined the dead. The dark night turned into a murky morning.

"We can track his carriage on a trail in the snow," Byrne said uncertainly. "But what if the maniac captures ours?"

"Raiden's already doing it," the Commissar replied. "Does the boy remember any details?"

"The gentleman was short and skinny."

"Excellent signs," Brannon said. "Short in stature, frail build, wears gray gloves."

Byrne sighed. However, the Commissar understood that the detective did not have a chance to draw up a detailed portrait.

"Inspect everything around, describe in detail the bodies and the scene of the crime. Here," the Commissar with a gesture drove a fireball to Byrne; the detective courageously took this phenomenon, only on the sly he crossed himself with his thumb. "I'm in the house."

The Commissar walked to the laboratory of the maniac. A carriage appeared on the road; Nathan narrowed his eyes and realized with disappointment that this was not a police, but someone's personal. His doubts were soon dispelled: the carriage stopped near the cordon, the pyromaniac jumped off the high-bench and with an impatient gesture demanded that Brannon pay attention to him immediately.

And his lordship's legs will fall off to come up, Nathan thought sourly and went to meet Signor Fiamante. Well what the hell?! Brennon was sure the guy was a native Riadian, what the hell was an Ilarian last name? Burning, you see!

"Well?" The Commissar asked. "Where is Peg?"

The niece immediately leaned out of the window, maybe not as fresh as a May rose, but so cheerful that Nathan envied her was seventeen years.

"Uncle, how are you? Are they all safe? Did you catch him?"

"No," the Commissar said, flow away. But Raiden is chasing him. And you?"

"Everything is fine with me. Signor Fiamante found..."

"We found," the pyromaniac interrupted impatiently, "a possible place where the maniac to appear."

"It's good?" Brennon asked carefully. The pyromaniac snorted.

"Do you still think that such people spontaneously arise, like mice in the hay? Remember already - spontaneous portals are not fiction, and the maniac will carry its imprint on himself until the end of his days."

"That is, if you find the starting point," Nathan was interested, "you will be able to follow the maniac?"

"I hope so. Well, or at least I can assemble the amulet that can track the imprints of portal magic. Then, with some effort, you can find a carrier."

Brannon scratched at his beard.

"And what do you want for this?"

The pyromaniac's eyes flashed.

"Oh! You're a smart man," he remarked with a chuckle.

Peggy flung open the carriage door and leaned out of it all to take part in her destiny:

"Uncle, if you haven't caught him, then he will come for me again. Or he will start killing girls so that I come to him. I... I still can't go home."

"Jen will guard you."

"What will you do when you find a maniac?" the pyromaniac asked. "Your witch is the only one who can approach him."

"I won't let you take Peggy," Brannon said, glaring at the signor. "I have some way to hide her."

The pyromaniac pursed his lips and stared stubbornly at the Commissar from under narrowed brows.

"Is that so? Then you don't need to know what kind of place we found, and the amulet, I suppose, is also not needed?"

"Uncle!" Peggy exclaimed and put her hand on the pyromaniac's shoulder: "Please!"

She was obviously addressing her signor, and he answered her with a displeased look; during all this time, Margaret never gave out either his name or surname, even by accidental reservation. When did she become so? Or always was, but they did not notice behind the gentle face, big eyes and beauty of the fairy?

"What are you thinking about, Peg? About your reputation? About your honest name, for example?"

"But no one will ever know," the girl shrugged. "Everyone has already seen how I left."

"What does they have to do with knowing that out or not?" Brannon said. "Peggy, you trust yourself to a completely stranger man about whom you know nothing!"

The niece looked into his face so seriously and calmly that Nathan suddenly felt complete powerlessness. Indeed, maybe she already knows the pyromaniac so well that it's better not to think? Probably, if he were her father, he would have found a way out. But he was only her uncle and did not know what to say to her. And what should he say to her parents? "Someday it would have happened anyway, no one promised you that it would be the one your chose"?

"Let's try a compromise," Margaret said. "I will hide in your hiding place, uncle, but you will allow me to help Signor Fiamante."

"Can he guarantee your safety?"

"You know, this is just impolite of you, considering how much he has already done for me! And for you too!"

"Is my word still not enough for you?" The pyromaniac asked mockingly.

"Why should I believe the word of a man who does not even know his name?"

"Well, let's bargain still," the sorcerer snorted. Margaret leaned over to him and whispered something, her brown locks touching his wavy hair. The signor paused, and fixed Nathan with a keen, piercing gaze.

"If you want, then sooner or later you'll have to say it anyway," the girl said in the tone of a nanny admonishing a capricious child.

"I'd rather later."

"But you yourself said you needed him. What do you think how he should name you? And trust?"

Brannon was surprised to hear this exchange of riddles. However, the arguments seem to have penetrated the pyromaniac. He looked the commissar up and down again and said through set teeth:

- Angel Redfern. Are you now ready to finally listen to me?

***

"The Edmoor crash happened seven years ago," Nathan said. "The story came out loud - not only because of the number of victims. The railroad workers were forced to revise all the rails with almost a magnifying glass, to examine every screw in the cars - so, in a sense, it was also useful. Definitely this slaughterhouses on the wheels has become more safer."

"So what happened? I heard about the accident, but I was busy on the Continent and did not go into details."

The Commissar untied the string on the first bundle of newspapers from the police archive and laid the newspaper on his desk. The hound lowered its muzzle to the tabletop and squinted at the editorial.

"Edmoor, so you know, has been producing stagecoaches, coaches and carriages for a couple of hundred years. The demand for which dropped significantly when the construction of railways began in the country. The townspeople rioted several times when the provincial authorities decided to build a railway line to Edmoor. However, the protests came to nothing, and a station and a train station were built in the city."

Nathan handed Longsdale an engraving of the station's grand opening. The consultant looked, handed it to the witch, and she put it under the hound's nose. After Jen lost the maniac during the persecution, she behaved very quietly and modestly.

"Even during the construction, there were rumors that the rails were constantly flooding these, like their... groundwater. Naturally, the contractor did not want to lose such a jackpot and built with the tenacity of a beaver on the dam. So, seven years ago, the townspeople, having inhaled properly the smoke and soot from the trains, decided that they had had enough and bethought to make a storm. Of course, they were not going to throw themselves on the tracks. Eick Talbot, who was recognized as the instigator," the Commissar pulled a copy of the case from the box and threw it on the table, "testified that they planned to block the movement of trains when they arrived at the station in both directions at once."

"And what happened to them?" Longsdale asked.

"It happened that there were thousands of victims. On the seventh of January, residents waited for the trains to stop and blocked the tracks. The leaders have already climbed the barricades and let's proclaim their demands. What they didn't know was that the owner of the railway company had decided to double the number of trains traveling on this line. The station employees tried to convey this simple message to them, but the townspeople locked them in the basement of the station. Only one baggage porter managed to get out. He sent a telegraph message to both stations - before and after Edmoor. By that time, the police had arrived to disperse the riots, other townspeople had moved in, and a mass brawl had begun."

"They didn't have time to stop?" The witch asked eagerly, listening to the commissar's story like a bedtime story. "Crashed into the crowd, right?"

"Uh-huh," Nathan muttered. "By the time the telegraph messages reached the stations, the trains were already at full speed approaching Edmoor. Of course, the drivers saw crowds of people and, as the investigation showed, tried to slow down."

"But failed," the consultant said.

"Because," Brennon continued, "the rails the rails suddenly started moving like an iron on a silk sheet. Both moving trains, both standing at the station, the station itself, the station building - everything collapsed in less than half an hour. Below was a deep and narrow cave, exactly along the tracks. They say that a constant cry was heard from the crack for several days - and the rescuers could not go down and reach the very bottom."

"Didn't the developer and the owner of the railroad company know about the karst cave below?" Longsdale asked. The hound snorted disdainfully.

"They knew," Nathan said gloomily. "At the trial, reports from geologists who were studying the soil before construction surfaced later. But the owner of the company decided that the case will cost piles under the foundation."

"Piles," the consultant repeated thoughtfully. "Surely they only accelerated the destruction of the cave ceiling, which began from constant vibrations due to the movement of trains."

"The case was declared nationwide." Brannon pushed a file box to the table with his foot. "The collapse of the ground turned out to be so large-scale that half of the block around was formed like a house of cards. The inhabitants of the houses, those who were at the station and the railway station, passengers, almost everyone who stood on the tracks were killed. There were no more than a hundred survivors."

"And most importantly," Jen pulled the newspapers to her, "the rescuers could not get them out of the hole. Mass painful death. What we need."

"If there are not more than a hundred survivors," Longsdale remarked, "then there is a chance to find them."

"No," the commissar cut off his hopes. "Nobody will give us so many people, but on our own we will be busy for six months. Besides, where is the guarantee that the names of all survivors have surfaced? The maniac could well have survived, crawl out from under the rubble and disappear in search of help, who knows where. Not to mention the fact that a shell-shocked person may not even remember his name."

"Well," Longsdale summed up, "it should be enough for a small portal.. What happened to the city after?"

"Now Edmoor is almost deserted," Nathan scratched his beard. Red raised its ears with interest. "So, maybe some evil spirits really started to rage there. Of course, people often want to get away from disaster sites, but not all at once. Blackwhit, for example, was revived several times - after plagues, fires, wars, and now there are ruins and a handful of inhabitants in Edmoor. In fact, a village. All this is weird."

"It's not really weird if the portal opened up there," Longsdale said. "People often instinctively try to escape from such places. Not to mention the invasion of creatures from the other side, the liveliness of evil spirits, the intensification of emanations from all bad places in the area, diseases, the death of livestock, poisoning of soil, water, air..."

He was so elated as he recounted all the misfortunes that Brannon winced with indignation.

"You speak as if it pleases you."

"Uh... well, no, of course," the consultant was confused. "But the picture has cleared up."

"Yeah, like hell. Until the pyromaniac makes this amulet of his... By the way, is it really possible?"

"Possible," Longsdale said displeasedly. "I, in the end, can do it. Although for this I need to go to Edmoor."

The Commissar swore in upset. He knew it! There was no need to agree.

However, Nathan consoled himself, rejoicing in his perspicacity, Peggy didn't stay with him anyway. And that's good - and immediately he darkened. If this Redfern will really assemble his amulet, he could find the maniac before they did, and what would he do with him? Jason Moore's black, gnarled body came back to Brennon's eyes. But still, at the thought of how painful his death was, an animal triumph stirred in his soul.

"Child killer," it whispered to Nathan, and he shook his head, driving away unwelcome thoughts.

"Listen, does the name Redfern mean anything to you?"

The hound froze, stretching out its paw to the newspaper. Longsdale frowned perplexedly.

"No. And what?"

"The pyromaniac's name is Angel Redfern. I thought since Jen had established your blood relationship..."

"No," the consultant said, "I don't remember that name."

The hound's upper lip lifted, exposing its fangs, the muzzle wrinkled, the ears pressed to the head, the mane reared. The hound remembers, Brannon remarked to himself. But what does this mean?

"Okay. What we have? A maniac who has gone into the unknown," (Jen sighed in repentance), "his ruined den and a certain corpse, which he dragged away with himself. Do you think he will look for the missing parts of the face?"

Longsdale nodded.

"Yes. Judging by how dear this dead is to him, he will certainly try to finish the case. The question is where he will store the corpse. We destroyed the necrocamera, and if he does not have a spare one, the damage to the body is a matter of several days."

"Then he'll come for Peggy again," Brannon said. Jen flashed orange eyes.

"I'll meet him! Do you want me to fry him? Not entirely, will remain for your court?"

Brannon considered. Redfern's words were still itching in his head. Indeed, how will they put the maniac in prison, keep him there and bring him to trial?

"Just not to death," the commissar finally said, and the witch's face filled with violent glee. "Leave his snoot intact. Longsdale, is there no way to neutralize this vile creature?"

"How? Any person has willpower. He has it reinforced. It cannot be taken and turned off. Maybe I find a way to defend, but I don't know which one yet."

"But he has no power over Valentina?"

"Yes. And over her children," the consultant confirmed. The hound poked its muzzle into the commissar's hand and sniffled in support. "Miss Sheridan is safe in her home. Until the maniac tries to capture the girl herself."

25th February

Victor was bent over the ledger in the spice closet. A thick, tart aroma, from which it seemed that you were breathing buns instead of air, dizzy and forced out of it any thought about the girl. Miss Sheridan. "Call me Margaret," she said, holding out her hand to Victor with a soft, tired smile. And he stood and stared at her like an idiot while Commissar Brannon explained that his niece would need shelter for a while. Then, in silence, Victor took her small suitcase and left, and from then on he wondered what kind of shelter could be found in the coffee shop and bakery.

A delicate cough was heard in the closet. Van Allen jumped over the ledger as if he had been stabbed with a bayonet, and when he landed, he saw Margaret. The lamp gilded her brown hair and threw sparks of sunlight into her large, radiant, dark eyes. In a light gray dress and a fluffy white shawl, Miss Sheridan was very fragile, almost porcelain.

"I didn't bother you? Can I help you?"

"No, don't!" Victor cursed himself for such obvious rudeness and hastily said: "That is, you are our guest. You don't have to help... I mean..."

He shut up helplessly. Why he must be so ignorant! Why does a sober mind always turn off at the most inopportune moment?!

Miss Sheridan sat down at the table, looked at the ledger and the shelves of boxes full of spices. Then her pensive gaze touched Victor, and the young man almost suffocated from the storm that arose in his chest.

"I didn't mean to disturb you. But I can't do nothing at all. Please, can I help you a little?"

Victor grabbed the knot of his tie, put his hands in his pockets so as they not to get in the way, and finally mastered one phrase:

"Sure! If you are not too busy."

And then he realized that his idiocy is incurable. She just said she's not busy! Margaret lowered her long velvet lashes:

"Thank. Otherwise, these thoughts will wear me out completely."

Victor gave her his chair and pulled up her the ledger, inkwell, ruler and pencil. Until now, he had a chill on his back when he remembered that for a moment it seemed to him that the girl killed in the park was Margaret.

But who is following her like that? Why hide her here?

Victor had no doubt that he was ready to protect her from this monster in any way, as at sixteen he defended his sisters and mother from Protestant fanatics, although the only weapon in the house was the poker. But didn't the police find a safer place? And Victor did not dare to ask Margaret herself. He leaned over to her and explained in which columns and what should be entered, took from the shelf a box of cardamom, the measuring cup and the scale.

"Why?" Victor gritted his teeth so that something unworthy would not seep through them. "Well why?!"

Because she is a rich heiress. No matter how warmth he felt in his soul from the fact that she sat next to her and diligently wrote down the names, weight, balance and consumption, no matter how tenderness spilled inside from one glance at her head bent over a book, one can never even dream of that she was always near him.

Why was he able to go out to the fanatics raging with their own righteousness and almost not tremble, but he was afraid to ask her any question, afraid he'll tell her... tell her... and she would laugh! Indeed, does she not hear such confessions twice a week, or even three?

"And if not?" a voice inside whispered. "And if she does not laugh? If? If? Just tell her, it will immediately become easier!"

Margaret raised her head and looked at him questioningly, and Victor found himself violently smothers the bag of paprika instead of weighing it.

"Sorry," he grunted, "I was thinking."

The girl's gaze became focused. She stared at him until Victor was bathed in heat, and then she smiled like forest fairies who lure mortals into the thicket. Van Allen buried himself in the sack and began to rake paprika out of it for the bakery.

"I hope I'm really helping you, not hindering you," Miss Sheridan said with a laugh, and her soft, chest voice made his insides twist into a knot.

"What are you, no way," Victor said. "That is, do not hinder. That is, I meant... I wanted..."

He heard his own accent and fell silent helplessly. In the silence that followed, there were footsteps on the stairs, the voice of Marion and the voice of Commissar Brannon. Margaret wrapped in a shawl and stood up.

"Where are they going?"

"To my mother's study," Victor replied, surprised by the expression on her face. She turned pale, her lips pressed together, her eyes sparkled like a cat's. "I will take you to the room, they will probably want to te..."

"Shhhh," the girl pressed her finger to her lips and tiptoed past him to the door. As Victor struggled to control his pounding heart (so close! Almost touched his face with her hair!), Miss Sheridan peered cautiously through the crack. The Commissar and Marion went up to the second floor and disappeared into the study. Then his sister went downstairs and returned to the cafe. As soon as she disappeared outside the door, Margaret whispered "Come on!", grabbed Victor by the hand and pulled him along with her.

The young man's head became somewhat confused, because after a while he found himself sitting in a narrow corridor, under the door of mother's study. Miss Sheridan pressed her ear to the door. Victor did not even have time to ask a question - the girl quickly whispered something and rubbed some knag with her finger. The voices inside immediately became so clear, as if mother and commissar were talking in this knag. Van Allen choked, but as soon as he heard the Commissar, all his questions (all hundred) were simply swept aside:

"Are you sure you can protect them? This man breaks people like matches."

"From magic - I can. But from the mayhem, if he forces our neighbors to attack - no."

Victor's throat went dry. He knew what a mayhem was, yes; but what other magic is mother talking about?

"So far, he has never used more than three people," a deep sigh came. "I still think I shouldn't have brought her here."

Margaret snorted softly.

"Why do you so dislike Mr. Redfern's proposal?" mother asked; Miss Sheridan dug into Victor's hand like a cat with its claws. "He didn't do her any harm."

"Because," the commissar responded with obvious dislike. "You never know that he did not harm; maybe just waiting for a chance. I would rather trust her honor to your son than to him. Nobody knows what this guy has in mind."

Victor's heart turned over. Does the Commissar really think so about him?! Trembling, the young man dared to squeeze Margaret's hand, but she did not pay attention to him at all, all turned into hearing.

"But so far he has always kept his word to you regarding your niece."

"You probably don't understand," the commissar said after a pause. "Few people can harm you, but for us humans, meeting the undead or such a maniac can be costly."

Victor quit held of Margaret's hand. What is the Commissar talking about? What ordinary human are and why does he seem to separate his mother from them? And what does it mean - undead?!

"Yes, probably," mother said thoughtfully. "Sometimes it is difficult for me to understand why you do this or that."

"But how do you distinguish us?"

"Well," there was a chuckle, "there are special people among people. I highlight them and try to remember. Separately, I try to remember my neighbors."

"And Mister Longsdale?" The chair creaked. "Look, I need to talk to someone about this. Otherwise I'll be crazy."

"Are you afraid of him?"

"No. But I'm afraid I made him an impossible promise."

"Oooh," Margaret breathed and nestled up the door. Victor was staring blindly at the wall. The words poured into his ears, almost without touching his mind. Mother was talking about something completely incomprehensible to him.

"What promise?"

"I gave him my word to find out who he was and to find the one who made him so. But I'm not sure anymore that I can..."

"You can," Valentina said softly, "and I will listen to you, and help everyone in my power. But not now."

"Yes," the commissar muttered, "now is not the time. The most important thing is to find bas ... sorry, maniac, and finally to ensure Peg's safety."

"Still, Mr. Redfern is right about one thing - how are you going to put the claw on such the person? If the portal really affected him, then it is an irreversible change. No one can make him an ordinary person again."

"I know, I know! And I know Redfern intends to kill him, but..."

"But?"

"It's unacceptable," Brannon said sternly. "This is lynching and lawlessness, and barbarism is worse than Mazandran. I will not allow this. I don't know how, but I won't allow it."

Someone headlong ran up the stairs, stomping their boots, and Margaret rushed away from the door, dragging Victor with her. A policeman rushed into the office without knocking and shouted:

"Sir! Oh sir, we found on Twinn such thing!"

"What is thing?" asked the commissar with enviable equanimity.

"Body, sir, God forgive me! The body... is... such... as from rags, and instead of a face... Lord!" The policeman hissed.

"This is it!" The commissar growled. "I'm going! The carriage..."

"Downstairs, sir."

"Valentina, I'm sorry, it's urgent. I'm..."

"Yes," mother said, "I will wait."

Комиссар Браннон полетел вниз по лестнице, как пуля, оставив своего подчиненного далеко позади. Виктор, забыв о Маргарет, подошел к двери, и она внезапно распахнулась. Мать сидел�� в кресле, внимательно глядя на Виктора, и его сердце мучительно упало. Она была такой же, как всегда, по внешности ничем не отличается от ...

«Обычный человек?» - спросил приглушенно Виктор. «Почему обычный человек? Чем ты отличаешься от нас ?!

"Нас?" Ее тон мучительно поцарапал Виктора. Если он ее сын, то это значит ... это значит ... и он, и Марион, и все они ...

«Я хочу знать, кто ты!» ван Аллен кричал на своем родном языке. «Я имею право знать!»

Мать налила стакан воды в вазу с высушенными осенними листьями и дотронулась до них рукой. Через секунду Виктор увидел ответ.

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