6 Chapter 6

Night of 21th February

Margaret yawned and pushed the book away. She'd had enough for one day. The principles of constructing spells already climbed out of her ears, not fit in her brain, and, looking at the clock, the girl decided - this is from the fact that she sat at the textbook until midnight. She marked the chapter with a red ribbon bookmark, went to the window and pushed the curtain. A lonely night street was poorly lit by a lantern; Margaret looked into the darkness until she thought that the shadow of the neighboring house was stirring. Miss Sheridan rubbed her eyes - from now on she need to spend less time on books. She was already reaching for the bell for the servant, when suddenly a hot wave hit her chest with such force that Margaret staggered and clung to the curtain. The floor has gone from under her feet, her ears are blocked, a mist swirled before her eyes.

Margaret sank on the carpet. There was a noise in her head, and in that dull rustle a voice sounded. The girl against her will began to listen, trying to make out the words, and then the flat medallion under her clothes became so hot that her skin was burned like a hot iron. Margaret screamed piercingly - the pain sobered up, dispersed the noise, the sound of a voice and the viscous faintness paralyzing the mind and will. Her eyes were still swimming, her legs felt like cotton, and Margaret broke through a hot sweat. She understood who had come for her, and she was trembling. She still faintly heard a vague voice, but the pain from the hot medallion did not allow her to concentrate on it. The voice gradually receded, until it completely stopped.

Miss Sheridan, semi-fainting, fell to the floor. She was shivering. The medallion was still burning her chest, but if not for it, the maniac could order her anything. And she would obey.

"That's how he does it," the girl clenched into a ball. "He doesn't even have to stand nearby. But there must be some distance at which it no longer acts..."

With effort, she climbed to all fours, crawled to the window and peered carefully over the windowsill. Maybe he was still hiding in the shadow of a neighboring house, but Margaret could no longer distinguish him. Her head was spinning, before her eyes it was getting dark.

"Miss!" it came to her through the cotton wool in her ears. "Oh, Lord, miss, what is it with you!"

The girl blinked, shook her head, and made out the chaperon. Miss Thay rushed to the ward, grabbed under her armpits, dragged her from the window and sat near the chair.

"Oh my God, are you sick? Come on, my dear, let's get up," Miss Thay wiped her forehead, offered her shoulder to Margaret, and the girl somehow got up to immediately fall into a chair like a bag.

"I'll send for a doctor," the chaperon said decisively, taking a breath - yet it's not easy for a little chubby woman to drag seventeen-year-old girls a head higher.

"Oh, no!" Margaret hissed. "Better for my uncle... for Commissar Brennon..."

"You rave, poor girl," Miss Tay put her little hand on the girl's forehead and suddenly froze. The chaperon's gaze slipped away and became scattered, as if she had suddenly fallen asleep in reality.

"Miss Tay," Margaret called. The chaperon stepped back and looked around the room with empty eyes. "Miss Tay?"

The woman went to the table and took the clerical knife.

"Miss Tay!" Margaret shouted shrillly. "Stop it!"

The chaperon turned to the girl. Miss Sheridan rose and, clinging to a chair, backed away from it back. Her legs trembled and bent.

"Help!" Margaret cried. "Help!"

Miss Thay rushed at her, holding out her hand with a knife. The girl screeched, pushed herself off the chair and darted to the door. Her head was spinning right away, the floor went off to the side, and Margaret fell, but, fortunately, on her back. The chaperon silently rushed at her, aiming a knife at her face.

"Help!" Margaret squealed. She caught Miss Tay by the wrist and weakly poked her knee in the stomach. "Help me! Anybody!"

The chaperon panted and grabbed Margaret by the elbow, trying to crawl higher on her. The girl fought, pushing the knife away, but her hand trembled more and more, and Miss Tay fell on her with all her weight. The door slammed open and Eddie's legs flashed past Margaret. Brother grabbed Miss Tay across the waist and dragged her like a hound. The woman struggled in his arms without a sound, brandishing a knife. Margaret crawled away from her, resting on her elbows, and whispered:

"Stet adhuc et videre."

Miss Thay froze, and Edwin twisted her hand with a knife. The father burst into the room with a revolver and, with a punch of the handle, knocked out a weapon from the chaperon. The woman rushed behind the knife with such force that Eddie could hardly restrain her. Mom flew through the open door and hit miss Tay on the head with a porcelain figurine. The young shepherdess broke in flinders; Miss Tay finally went limp. A trickle of blood flowed down her cheek and neck.

"Oh hell," Edwin whispered and released the chaperon's body. "Peggy, are you all right?"

"What's going on here?" Dad asked. He lifted Margaret to her feet, and she squeezed her eyes shut against his chest.

"She went nuts," Mom said, panting. "This person seemed suspicious to me a long time ago, and if you had not dissuaded me, I would have kicked her out a month ago! Peggy, did she hurt you?"

"No, it's all right," the girl forced out with effort. Embarrassedly coughing, her father put the revolver on the shelf where the shepherdess had stood a minute earlier, and hugged his daughter with both hands, as if he was afraid that she would fall dead. Margaret felt that he was trembling.

"Maybe bind her?" Eddie asked. "Well, the doctor, the police... aidmen?"

"Bind," Mrs. Sheridan agreed immediately. "Joseph, lay Peg down and call this lazy, deaf idiot."

"Whom?"

"Her maid!" the lady of house barked. "Eddie, when you're done with this one, quick to uncle Nathan. I will take care of the servants. A little more and they will start leaving in packs!"

"Mom!" Margaret sobbed plaintively, listening with horror to the rustling in the dressing room. "Please! You can remove her and... and... I'll die now!"

Father grabbed her in his arms and grunted, brought her to the bed. The girl wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek to the thick whiskers.

"It's all right, Dad," she whispered. "I don't need the maid; I want to stay in silence for a while."

Mr. Sheridan sighed frantically and pressed her to him.

"Of course," he muttered. "Of course, honey. But are you sure Eddie or I don't need to stay?"

"No thanks," Margaret sniffed softly and sank down onto the pillow. Father put a handkerchief in her hands and hastened to Martha's help: the servants finally deigned appeared in response to the noise, and now she was giving instructions mixed with poisonous remarks about the benefits of the deaf servants. The chaperone tied with the curtains cords was carried out by two footmen; the maid was sent for a doctor; Eddie disappeared in general turmoil while the rest of the children were herded into the nursery with difficulty. When the door finally closed, Miss Sheridan felt more exhausted than from the attack of the maniac.

As soon as she was left alone, Angel flew out of the dressing room. He was pale and angry, darkened eyes burned fiercely, like a wild cat. But he rushed not to the window, but to the girl, with feverish swiftness he felt her from the top of her head to her hips. Then he let out a faint sigh through clenched teeth, and pressed Margaret to him with such force that her ribs cracked. Struck by the expression of dark eyes, the girl timidly embraced him and shuddered, feeling the same faint trembling as her father.

"Unsnatched," Angel breathed muffledly, and Margaret closed her eyes so as not to burst into tears and buried him in the chest like a kitten into a cat. Only now she felt really safe - and really scared. She heard how often Angel's heart beats, felt his intermittent breathing near her temple, his fingers, painfully squeezing her shoulder, his cheek, pressed her hair, tart smell of cologne...

"All right," Margaret muttered in a weaving tongue and almost let tears come out from under her eyelashes. Why is she being so persecuted?!

"No," Redfern answered quietly, "not right."

She sobbed.

"But what should I do?"

"Cry. It is still possible."

"And then?"

He stroked the girl's head and whispered tenderly:

"And then I will rip the skin from him alive."

Margaret frantically sighed several times, sniffed and wiped her eyes with her hand. The clasp of the dress flickered over a burn on her chest, and the girl hissed in pain. Angel pulled back quickly, gave Miss Sheridan a tenacious look, and after a second he was already unbuttoning her bodice. Margaret barely had time to realize what he was doing.

"Stop it!!" She squeaked, blushing.

"He burned out. Take off. I will bring you a new one." He pushed a bottle of transparent jelly from the belt and, while the girl was busy with the chain, he began to rub the ointment in the burn. "I wonder what kind of beast it is if it burned an amulet that withstood a direct blow from the Strangler."

Margaret nearly jumped. How could she forget!

"I saw!" She whispered, clutching Redfern's elbow. "Now I know what he is doing! I can tell!"

"And he knows that too. Margaret, are you sure you want to stay here?"

"Where else am I..."

There was such a clatter behind the door, as if a whole crowd of uncles were about to break into the room. Angel jumped up and grabbed Margaret's hand.

"Come on! I've had enough, I'll take you to a safe place!"

"Are you crazy?! Surely there are uncle, mom, dad and... do you even understand what they will think if I disappear?!"

"But..."

"To the dressing room!" Margaret hissed. "Quickly! Listen to everything I tell them!"

Such a complex expression appeared on Redfern's face that the girl nearly hit him with a reading lamp - it seems he wanted to grab her and drag her by force, but prudence won at the last moment, and he scurried into the dressing room when the door was already opening. Margaret barely managed to wrap herself in a plaid.

"Peggy!" the uncle burst into her room the first. "Are you safe?!"

"Your maniac attacked me," Miss Sheridan said. "Now I know how he does it. Want me to tell you?"

***

Nathan was waiting for the result in a small living room on the second floor. He stood by the wide window, his hands clasped behind his back, and frowned around the street. This carrion was here, almost at arm's length — and no one could stop his. Except for the damned pyromaniac with his amulet.

"Regret it?" The witch asked quietly. Brennon glanced at her over his shoulder: she was sitting in the corner of the sofa, legs stretched out, arms crossed behind her head, and clearly enjoyed what was happening. Longsdale, rushing at the first call (or rather, a desperate cry), entered Margaret without Jen.

"About what?" The commissar muttered.

"About what you can't see in the dark. Suddenly he's still here, huh? Hiding there in the shadows, but you cannot make out."

"And you? You see?"

The witch gracefully rose and slipped to the window. An orange ring flashed in black eyes around the pupil; the smellers swelled eagerly.

"No," she finally said disappointedly, "he left."

Nathan unclenched his fist and looked at the blackened flat circle. An intricate sign was carved in it, similar to a heraldic shield woven from herbs.

"If not for him..." Brennon said muffledly and fell silent, unable to say the obvious aloud. If not for the damn pyromaniac! "That bastard could have ordered Peggy anything."

"Yes," Jen glanced at the medallion, grimaced, and stepped back. "And your sorcerer guards his prey tightly."

Well, the commissar thought sadly. We are not capable.

He almost wished that the pyromaniac had not fulfilled his threat the day before. Suddenly his "safe place" is now the best shelter for Peg?

Longsdale returned to the living room with the hound, leaving the parents with Peggy. From the gloomy physiognomy of the consultant, Nathan realized that the matter was even worse than it had been in the morning.

"Well?" He asked abruptly. Longsdale shook his head, put a suitcase with his sorcerer's equipment on the table, and opened it.

"This is not hypnosis."

"But is she safe?"

The consultant glanced at Brennon over the lid.

"Now no one is safe."

The commissar clenched the medallion in his fist.

"So you say that every person in this city can become a murderer at any moment, because that's how a crazy maniac will inspire him?"

"Yes," Longsdale answered impassively and pulled a box from his suitcase. "Take it."

"What is it?"

"Amulets similar to what was on Miss Sheridan. There are ten pieces."

"For whom?"

"One for you. Do not argue. You must not lose your sanity."

"And the rest? The remaining one hundred forty thousand inhabitants?"

The hound poked its nose into Nathan's hand.

"I will order a batch of amulets and bring it to the department," Longsdale snapped the suitcase. "Otherwise, the only way to help is to find a maniac as soon as possible."

Brennon took out a silver circle on a chain from a box and hung it on his neck. The locket weighed almost nothing; Nathan put it under his vest.

"Wear without taking off," the consultant said. He sat on the sofa and opened the notebook. Jen immediately got to him and looked over her shoulder.

"Not true!" She cried indignantly.

"Where exactly?" The commissar asked tiredly.

"You were mistaken, Raiden," the consultant told the girl. "Victor van Allen was not affected by hypnosis."

"How do you know?" Brennon picked up a notebook extended to him and read it. Longsdale's conclusions were filled with mysterious words, interspersed with Latin, Elladian and some other squiggles, but Nathan caught the big picture.

"I reach the point,�� he thought with gloomy bitterness. "I can already see the difference between the "imprint of the spell" and the "smell of the witcher!" Ugh! And what next? Arrest boggarts for the poltergeist in the wrong place?"

"I went to a young van Allen today; your duty officer found me there," Longsdale said. "At a cursory examination, it really seems that he tried to hypnotize the young man."

"I did not say that!" the witch denied with indignation, and Nathan almost with tender emotion noted that she was filled with crimson paint, like a schoolboy. "I said it was like hypnosis! You!" She pulled the commissar at his frock coat. "Well, tell him!"

"You didn't say it," Brannon confirmed, to the hound's snarky snort. "It was about the fact that it was an effect without enchantment, similar to witchcraft, but produced by human."

"Yes!" Jen exclaimed offendedly. "I will not confuse our hypnosis, hypnosis under the spell, and this... this thing!"

"So what is this thing?" The commissar asked. Longsdale thought for a long time and finally said slowly:

"The strongest magical effect on the mind. No spells, no enchantment, no witchcraft - only a will amplified a thousandfold."

"With what?"

"I don't know," the consultant sighed. "I don't know what can strengthen the will of one person so that he can so overwhelm others."

Brennon considered his words. Something remained incomprehensible.

"Why are you so sure that this is not a witcher and not a witch?"

"Oh, I told you..." Jen began impatiently, but she fell silent at the sign of Longsdale.

"You don't quite realize how much a witcher or witch is different from a ргman," he said softly.

"Well, the difference doesn't look very noticeable," Nathan chuckled.

"Appearances are deceptive."

"Really?" Brennon squinted at the girl. Once she turned right in front of him into a torch; maybe this is her real guise?

"Blood and magic are inseparable in their veins," Longsdale continued. "They conjure as freely as they breathe, and leave not a print of the spell, but their smell. Humans do not smell it, but witches and witchers easily distinguish relatives from this odor."

"So they don't use spells at all?"

"No, why? They use it, but when they need something very specific. Sometimes youngsters who have not yet mastered the intricacies of using their powers help themselves with spells," Longsdale looked at Jen closely. The girl sniffed impudently and crossed her arms over her chest with a proud, independent look.

"Well, isn't that our case?" thinking, Nathan asked. "Someone subjugates people without any spells. Does it not follow from this that this someone is a witcher?"

"No."

"But why?!"

"A human needs crutches for sorcery," Longsdale said patiently, "in the form of spells. The spell leaves the imprint by which I recognize another sorcerer. Because there is a trace of his personality in it, and in order for the spell to work, the power of desire, imagination and will must be put into it. Now, when I examined both the young man and the girl, I did not find the imprint of a specific spell - I see only a trace left by a man whose will suddenly became stronger thousands of times. As if it was enough for him to formulate his desire, and the strength of his will inspire it to any person."

"May be it's a half-human half-witcher?"

"No," Jen said sharply. "We are not human, your human females cannot bear from a witcher, and males will not fertilize a witch."

The commissar nearly choked. Obviously, the girl was offended by the assumption itself. But why?!

"Why? Can't our men and women cause you," Brennon sarcastically emphasized the word, "appetence?"

"They can. Appetence- yes, children - no."

"Didn't anyone try to get around this stupidity? Well, some sorcerer fell in love..."

"They can't fall in love," Longsdale said. "They have no soul."

"So what?" Brennon asked in shock. "How does this interfere with the production of offspring?"

"It doesn't interfere," the witch said. "We are creatures of a different nature and that fact interferes it."

"But..." the Commissar thought for a moment. So, then, all these half-breed tales are just tales? A woman can not give birth to a child from the "spirit of the hill"? Or only from the witcher?

"You see, hereditary chains..." Longsdale began, but Brennon interrupted him:

"And what does the soul have to do with it? Does it exist? How do I know, I don't feel that I have it."

"Oh no," the consultant said quietly, "if you hadn't had it, you would have immediately understood the difference."

The hound sighed a little audibly. All this time it was lying with its face to the door, towards Margaret's room, and looked like the embodiment of inhuman longing.

"And you?" Nathan asked. "Do you have it?"

Jen fidgeted warily in place. The consultant thought for a moment, frowned, bowed his head, and said nothing.

"I believe it is already possible to interrogate Miss Thay," he finally declared, got up, and took the suitcase. The hound reluctantly rose.

"Uh ... okay," the Commissar muttered, pretty surprised. Although the devil knows them - maybe in their consulting circles questions about the soul are as indecent as questions about lingerie. "I put two policemen to her to twist as soon as she tried to break through the wall with her head."

Longsdale nodded. Some vague, unformed thought was spinning in Nathan's head, but he couldn't catch it. He left the living room after the hound and the witch, remembered that he was holding something in his hands, and quickly returned for the box with the medallions. It was here that he was overtaken by insight.

"Hey!"

Longsdale stopped in the middle of the stairs and turned to his shout.

"You said you would order us a batch of amulets. In what sense - order?"

"In the usual," the consultant answered a little in surprise. "But you don't think that I am casting amulets, bullets for my weapons and forging blades right in the basement of my house?"

"So they deliver this things to you, or what?" Brennon gasped. "Someone produces it at the factory?!"

"Well, I don't know about the details. I know the address to which I send the orders."

"You know?" the commissar squeezed out in impotence. "Know? So why don't you go there?"

The consultant face reflected the same confused amazement as when Brennon asked him about his family and memories.

"What for?" Longsdale sincerely surprised and began to go down. Jen bit her lip and looked at the Commissar with displeasure and guilt; the hound's gaze was demanding and intense.

Okay, Nathan thought. Okay...