Chapter 23

15th September

"So the ship sank with all the evidence," Broyd concluded.

"Uh-huh," Brannon confirmed mournfully. The chief of police rustled with papers: the interrogation of the sailors was recorded by Byrne word for word. The Commissar could only console himself with the fact that his guesses about the fate of the "Kaiserstern" were correct, because no court would accept this nonsense. And in what court should all this be taken? Into yours? Dorgern? The Republican Security Department?

"If there's no evidence, there's nothing to incriminate," Broyd said. He paused, put the sheets in a folder, and asked: "You think Roismann sailed away... on a tame sea serpent?"

"Yes, sir."

The chief sighed softly. Brannon didn't blame him: it's hard to hear such things from subordinates early in the morning. Broyd tied the laces tightly on the folder, thrust it to the Commissar, and ordered:

"Hide it and do not show it to anyone."

"Is the investigation complete, sir?"

"You want to find Roismann," Broyd looked at Brennon shrewdly. "Do you think that he will not stop there?"

"Why would he stop? He has a den in which he can lie down and shit from there again."

"But you understand that this will no longer be an official inquiry?"

"Yes, sir," Nathan muttered grimly. Broyd took out a cigar, cut off the end, and slowly lit it.

"I cannot approve of this, and you know it. If Longsdale finds a way to pin Roismann quickly and without witnesses, then I'll give you a day or two."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Broyd dismissed the Commissar with a wave of his cigar, and Brennon went to his room. In his office, other files with accumulated cases were waiting for him, and detectives circled around the door in the manner of sharks waiting for their prey. Nathan forced himself to forget about Roismann, stuffed the seamen's interrogation sheets deeper into the table and called Regan, who was eager to finally report on the progress of the investigation into the urban unrest. Which arranged by the damn Roismann!

It wasn't until three o'clock that Brennon emerged from the abyss of affairs. The brutal hunger finally drove him out of the office and brought him to the Café Shell, which, to Nathan's surprise, was open, even though the workers were still working on repairs. However, the visitors remained faithful to their favorite institution, and the Commissar hid himself from the crowd of fellow citizens in a corner in the back of the hall. Marion brought him a roast duck with porridge, Brannon asked the girl how things were going, and, encouraged by the news, set to work on the duck.

His thoughts immediately returned to Redfern's castle. More precisely, first to Redfern, and then to his castle. When the Commissar dragged the pyromaniac to the bedroom, despite his resistance and attempts to break free and show the armory, he sternly asked:

"Can you lie still at all?"

"I can, but ..."

"So why the hell don't you lie?!"

"And when I still have a chance to finally explain to you..."

"I am quick-witted. I already understood," Nathan said through set teeth.

"So you finally understand that I'm right?"

With that, Brannon ended the pointless argument. Stretched out on the bed, Redfern closed his eyes with obvious relief and buried his head deeper into the pillow.

"Do you have any medicines?"

"Why do you need it?"

"I don't need anything," the commissar replied dryly. "But you're going to die without them right now."

Redfern twitched the corner of his mouth painfully and turned away.

"Can I bring you this water from the lake?"

"No. Go... go see what you are interested in," the pyromaniac definitely managed it with difficulty. "I will send you home as soon as I get some rest."

Brannon still couldn't decide if it was a discreet sign of trust or if Redfern was so unbearable to think that someone could see his weakness. Now the Commissar thought that Angel had swallowed his potion not even for the sake of a tour of the castle, but simply to look like a healthy zinger in the eyes of the "guest". Actually, Nathan suspected that the pyromaniac let Peggy go home for exactly the same reason. He should have some poultice to his sick pride, and then swallow the potions...

Yet Brannon could no longer treat Redfern the same way. Even realizing that the pyromaniac had at his disposal two and a half centuries, the Commissar was delighted with what was done - and after all, practically alone! Of course, Angel did not mix the mortar himself and lay the bricks, but he did not have deputies, departments with detectives and police officers, like Broyd, for example. Returning to the laboratory, looking at the staircase going down two floors, Brennon was only amazed at how this idea came to the pyromaniac at all - and the persistence with which he embodied it in reality was amazing.

The Commissar went down to the second underground floor. He walked past rooms sparkling with electric glare on new equipment - it seemed that these rooms were about to be filled with people who had left for a while. But these people did not exist yet - and the pyromaniac for some reason believed that Brennon would be able to collect them, organize their work, achieve results ... but who will teach them not to be afraid?

Of everything that could interfere (ignorance, mistrust, skepticism, ridicule), the only thing that was important was fear. Nathan did not know where to find so many people who could look at an ifrit once and not go crazy. And Redfern wanted to make them live like this every day. Lead a life so far from normal that you can't imagine it ...

Brennon pushed back the plate, clasped his fingers, and rested his chin on his hands. Among all these people, quietly discussing their affairs at lunch in a cafe - who could, day after day, search and kill creatures that do not even dream of in every nightmare? How many people will be able to survive this understanding - the world is not what it seems and is full of horrors? Who will take responsibility for destroying their lives? How many of them will survive?

But still - he again remembered about the children who were killed by the Strangler, about the girls who met Pauline Defoe, about those whom Roismann had turned into undead. And Nathan could not help but think about how many of these people would have survived if at least someone had found out, tracked down and neutralized their killers.

Brannon got up, threw the money on the table, and quickly left. Perhaps someone had already sat and thought about it, and finally made a decision that he managed to implement - and created monsters to hunt creatures from darkness, evaluating dozens of lives in someone's one. Striding briskly towards Longsdale's house, the Commissar fled from the fact that he almost agreed to the price.

***

"I'm just for a little while," Brannon said. "I wanted to ask if you have the ability to track down Roismann."

"I'm not sure about Roismann himself, but I can track the movements of his serpent," Longsdale replied, and put the box on his knees. "Raiden got something useful."

The Commissar glanced sideways at the witch. She was still trying to stay away from him and definitely felt guilty. Sixty-two people at a time ... the detectives finally clarified the death toll. Brannon frowned and peered into the box. Inside, transparent emerald plates glittered, semicircular, with a strange polishing. Nathan was vaguely familiar with their appearance.

"What is it?"

Longsdale smiled.

"In Mazandran they are called sea emeralds and their magical properties are highly valued. These are actually the scales of a sea serpent. With its help, I can trace his path. However, I do not yet know how to find Roismann on land."

"Damn right," Brannon said in surprise. "We were shown such in Bhudrani, this is the southern port... but I thought it was just superstition."

"You can take one as a keepsake. They say that it prolongs youth and gives longevity," the smile of the consultant became sly. "You'll need it when Missis Van Allen changes her name."

Jen snorted. The Commissar look morose indignantly: this was the last house he had expected to find gossip! Why the hell do they all care so much?

"This is still an unresolved issue," he muttered.

"Yeah," the witch said mockingly. "You'll need to think about it for a year or two."

"And it does not concern you at all, impudent!" Brennon snorted.

"Even gratitude for the fact that Vivene spent most of the day with your niece will not make you think more quickly?"

The Commissar turned away, embarrassed. He must finally visit his sister and check on Peggy. Valentina sent him a note, where she said that the girl was all right, but he had to go in, check it out... Nathan admitted with annoyance to himself that he was afraid of meeting his sister - Martha, forgetting her present respectability, could have hit him with a poker for everything that had happened to her daughter.

"I hope you got some rest yesterday," Longsdale said. "As I understood, having seen off Mister Redfern, you have returned home?"

"Uh... not really," Brannon muttered, braced himself and told everything. The pyromaniac would hardly have been happy about this, but the Commissar felt that he was obliged to do so - especially since he could not fulfill his promise to Longsdale. After all, he never found out who was doing it, or how to reverse The Process...

"Loony," Jen said quietly when Nathan finished. Longsdale was silent, bowing his head and thinking. Only the hound sat down next to Brannon, put his paw on his knee and stared intently into his face. If only Nathan could understand what Snappish wants to convey to him! The commissar patted the hound on the withers and asked:

"What do you remember? Where were you when you woke up? Do you even remember anything about... about the first hours?"

"The room," the consultant replied quietly, frowning. "A small bedroom with a long table by the window... a lot of drawers... A bookcase in the corner... yes, there was a letter. An envelope with instructions on the table by the bed." He dropped his hand from the armrest and fumbled through the air. The hound immediately returned to his chair and slipped under Longsdale's arm. The consultant buried his hand deeply into the thick red fur.

"I read the instructions. All the things in the room belonged to me. The envelope contained a letter to the bank with my account..."

"Which bank?"

"Villanuova Bank, Ernesinha," Brennan said nothing, surprised. He waited that the consultant to name one of the banks in Riada or Ilara.

"Have you been to the castle?"

"No, it was a big house, a mansion outside the city."

"Which city?"

"San Juan de Almados," the consultant said suddenly, and Nathan nearly jumped.

"Where is that?"

"Yes." Longsdale rubbed his forehead. "It was San Juan. A small, half-extinct town on the northeastern coast of Esmerana. There are mountains around, you can leave either by sea or by the only road..."

"What the hell were you doing in Esmerana?"

"Before The Process or after?"

The Commissar did not elaborate. He was deeply disappointed - he had hoped that Longsdale would describe Redfern's castle or, at worst, mention Ilara, where the pyromaniac hangs out a lot and often. But this also means that Redfern has at least three bases in three countries, and who knows, maybe there are many more such bases?

"And the castle? Is he familiar to you at least by description?"

"I've been to many castles," the consultant said with a smile. "Almost every one had something to work with. But, you see, Redfern could completely rebuild it, and I no longer recognize the castle from the description."

"And that's right," Brannon sighed. "I thought that your family connection would lead exactly here..."

"You believe that I belong to the Redfern family, but like I understand that Angel Redfern was born at the end of the sixteenth century. Even if you're right, I might never have known him. In fact, he is my distant ancestor."

"But you knew him," the Commissar said, looking intently at the consultant. "You recognized him and tried to strangle him there on the ship."

"Wha-a-at?!" Longsdale jumped up in his chair and exclaimed in indignation, "I don't remember that! I couldn't do it! Why should I..."

"The other one remembers him," Brennon replied, noting with surprise that he had never seen Longsdale so indignant. "The person you were before The Process. Your hound remembers Redfern too."

Snappish put his muzzle on the consultant's knee.

"I don't remember..." Longsdale whispered lostly. "I don't remember anything like that."

"It's you, John," the Commissar said softly, "who you were before your transformation. You knew Redfern and you are very angry with him for something. Perhaps because it was he who brought you to that house on the coast of Esmerana, or because he did not interfere with The Process."

"You said, sir, that all the Redferns just disappeared one day," Jen interrupted suddenly. "You even showed me their family tree. The last child in their family was born seventy-five years ago. Since the pyromaniac arranged all this in their castle, then maybe they found out about everything: about the undead, about evil spirits, about consultants - and decided to become part of the organization of hunters? And if Longsdale or whoever he was there opposed..."

"What about children?" Brennon asked, who froze on his skin from this assumption. "Where did they put the children?"

"Well... and where do you usually put them?" Jen shrugged. "Maybe they raised the kids and made them consultants, too."

"What kind of family that is ready to do this?"

"If the pyromaniac is like that," the witch chuckled, "then how do we know that his relatives are any better? As you say, for generations they drank water from a magic vein and can be so different from people..." she paused, thinking, and reluctantly added: "Maybe they were already more like us. Look, the pyromaniac two hundred years younger than the last generation, and completely crazy. Can you imagine what kind of descendants he has?"

"Well, he's not exactly crazy..." Nathan muttered: there was a grain of common sense in Angel's reasoning sometimes. But if the Redferns made such a decision, and Longsdale became an outcast in the family, because he did not agree, then this explains a lot...

"But then where are they all?" The consultant asked quietly. "Why did they leave their castle?"

"I do not know. There could be reasons..."

Longsdale frowned and finally looked up at the Commissar.

"Can you find the Redferns?"

For some reason, the hound sighed softly and licked the consultant's hand.

"Do you want to see them?"

Longsdale was silent for a long time, thinking tensely, and finally said:

"Yes. I want."

16th September

Margaret reclined in bed, wrapped in a blanket, and looked out the window. This is her bed, and her room, and her pillow - and it was so strange to be here again, to see the same street and the same houses next door through the window again. She barely remembered yesterday: she vaguely realized that at first she cried for a long time, burying herself in her soft mother's chest, then there was a hot bath, some kind of food - and another beautiful face in a golden halo, and then Margaret fell asleep, tightly holding her father's hand.

Valentina, the girl thought. It must have been Valentina...

She shifted on the bed. Mom had sent the maid to the lingerie store, and now the corset was mercilessly digging into Margaret's hips, chest and back. For six months she completely lost the habit of these wonderful sensations. Thank God there was no crinoline yet, although Margaret was uncomfortable in Mrs. Van Allen's eldest daughter skirt and blouse.

The brothers did not leave her all morning, and Mom hardly drove them away when Miss Sheridan was already dizzy with a lot of news. She had no idea how much the younger ones would grow in six months and how much they would want to tell her. Dad didn't tell anything - he sat silently in the chair next to her, not taking his eyes off Margaret and not letting go of her hand. When Edwin finally took the younger ones away, the father asked:

"Does this person offend you?" and she nearly died of shame. Dad turned gray and aged ten years. The girl sobbed and reached out to hug him. Her father pulled her to him and stroked her head. Margaret sniffed softly. She could not keep and her family, and Angel by her side - and she knew that she would still have to choose again. But she didn't have the courage to tell Daddy about it.

Now that they had given her time to think, Margaret had to decide. She could stay - in her cozy little room, next to mom and dad, with brothers, with cousins, with uncles and aunts; but no matter how she tried to think only of them, her thoughts returned to Angel again and again. Is he healthy? Did he manage to get to the doctor? Did anyone help him? Maybe he needs help right now, suddenly he is alone, too tired or fell unconscious somewhere on the way home! And if someone treats him – he be taken care of properly?

Will she find him again? Will she see him again? Although he promised, but...

Margaret bit her trembling lips. Memories of everything, starting with the abduction, now merged into a continuous darkness, from which, like flashes of flame, disgusting pictures emerged. They disturbed her even in her sleep, but yesterday she was too tired to wake up from nightmares, and only fell deeper into oblivion. Now these nightmares again surrounded her, and the real world receded, dissolving in painful memories, until someone put a hand on her shoulder and whispered:

"Margaret..."

The girl jumped out of bed. Angel stood next to her - still too emaciated and pale for a healthy person, and Margaret froze in place, afraid to touch him. What if he is still ill? Angel held out his hand with a smile. Incredulously, she touched the smooth skin where the wounds and scars had been.

"Don't be afraid," the mentor said. "It doesn't hurt me."

Margaret gently took his hand and pressed her lips to his palm. Angel shuddered, tried to free himself, but how could she let him go? The pulse on his wrist pounded under her fingers; his palm was dry, warm, whole... but suddenly everything will disappear now, suddenly he is cheating to calm her down, and there are really only crimson inflamed scars?!

"I'll explain to you later," Angel whispered, stroked the girl's cheek and wanted to hug, but Margaret recoiled in fright, while firmly grabbing his hand. It will hurt him! The mentor finally gently escaped her grip and unbuttoned his shirt.

In the hair on his chest left streaks of smooth skin where the burns had been. Margaret gave a short sigh of relief. Angel hesitated, took her hand and pressed it to his chest. The girl felt the beat of his heart under her palm, and tears suddenly came to her eyes. Staying here means never seeing him again!..

"Come on, don't, Margaret," he said gently. "It's all right now. And you…"

She clung to Angel and wrapped her arms around him tightly. He was warm, like a big cat, his own faint scent mingled with the scent of eau de toilette, and he was still so thin that ribs showed through under the skin. Margaret touched her lips to the strip of skin on his chest, and he gave a strange, ragged sigh. The girl immediately pulled away anxiously to look him in the face. She barely had time to notice how his gaze changed in a moment - gentle, piercing, greedy - and Angel's lips pressed hotly to hers.

He squeezed her in his arms, as if in a vice, and his kisses had nothing to do with those that Margaret allowed some of her admirers... once upon a time. Burning, long, more like obscene caresses - none of these snotty puppies kissed her so madly and greedily, and she did not answer anyone in kind, so her lips burned. Angel clenched her hair into a fist, preventing her from pulling back and sighing, and she grabbed onto him as she felt dizzy. Touch - hurry! - his face, and neck, and chest - to make sure at last that he is intact, alive, real, next to her, run her fingers into his thick wavy hair, kiss his delicate white eyelids, eyelashes and sharp cheekbones. She was thrown into a fever from the hot heat radiating from his body...

...and somehow they ended up on the bed. It was so sweet to feel the weight of his body as he pressed her into the bed, so safe to find herself in the cramped space between the blanket and Angel! It's a pity that there are no six arms, like the Mazandran goddess. Then she would have hugged him!

Angel kissed her so hungrily, as if he feared she would disappear. Suddenly his lips pressed hotly to her breasts, because for some reason the shirt unbuttoned, and his hand went over Margaret's thigh under her skirt and squeezed tightly. The girl jerked all over in surprise and cried out weakly.

Angel froze. He clung to her for a few seconds, his breath hotly tickling her neck and chest, his hair - Margaret's cheek, and then he muttered:

"No, that's enough, it's still early," and slid onto the bed. Miss Sheridan took a deep breath and began buttoning up the buttons, dyeing from the roots of her hair to her neck. Moreover, Angel was still looking at her from under half-closed eyelids and did not even think to tidy up his clothes! How did it all work out like this… Margaret furtively touched her swollen lips, thought and lay down next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. Angel kissed the top of the girl's head.

"It's still early?" She asked, and ruffled the dark curls on his chest with her finger. Interestingly, he will remain striped?

"Yes. Don't tease me." He squeezed her hand.

"Is it unpleasant for you?"

"Pleasant. That's why you don't have to."

"Why?"

"Oh," Angel said, putting so much into one sound that Margaret could not resist, raised her head and asked menacingly:

"What are you hiding from me? You are hinting at something, but I do not understand at all what!"

The mentor looked at her first in surprise, then in disbelief, and finally - stunned.

"That is, how do you not understand? Didn't you understand what Roismann 's sailors wanted to do to you?"

"Something disgusting," Margaret said quietly. "But what do they have to do with it? You wouldn't do the same, would you?"

"Oh my God," Angel muttered and pulled away.

"You don't want to touch me because these people touched me?" The girl asked in a trembling voice. "Are you disgusted?"

"Of course not! How did you get such a wild idea?!"

"Then why are you angry?"

He silently looked at Margaret, pulled her to him and hugged her.

"Never," he muttered, "never repeat such heresy again."

...she had never been so comfortable and calm as now, when they were lying close to each other, and she felt Angel's even deep breathing, his special smell, the pounding of his heart. She did not know that a man could have such a pleasant to the touch skin... Margaret stroked his leg with the toe of her shoe. None of her admirer could compare with him.

"Let's leave that for now," Angel said. "You need time to forget everything. And then..."

"Then?" Margaret pushed him.

"Then I'll give you a book."

"Which one?"

"Anatomical atlas."

"What for?" The girl asked after a second of amazed silence.

"So that you study the differences between men and women that are not obvious under clothing."

"Why can't you explain it to me yourself?"

"How do you imagine it?" Angel asked with a strange expression on his face.

"Then show me."

He covered his eyes with his palm and muttered:

"How? How could you live to that age and... in the years of my youth, even twelve-year-old girls locked up in a monastery managed to find out!"

"To find out what? Well Angel!" Margaret stirred him impatiently. He was silent for a while, apparently collecting his thoughts, then sighed and grumbled:

"Why didn't your mother bother with that at all? Has she decided to postpone it until your wedding?"

"What does my wedding have to do with it?"

Angel stared at her with piercing gaze and said slowly:

"Margaret, how do you imagine the wedding night?"

"I don't understand what you're talking about," the girl complained, completely confused. "What does someone's wedding night have to do with your explanations? Why can't you just show me?"

"If I show you, your virginity will suffer irrevocably."

"Why?"

"God, what I have lived up to..." Angel mumbled longingly. Margaret snuffled indignantly. The mentor was hiding something important from her, and she hated vague hints since childhood. But you cannot get an answer out of Angel with ticks if he himself does not want to tell, so the girl did not insist on immediate tearing off the covers.

"How did you get here?"

"Your parents put the mirror in the dressing room again. They probably hoped that you would come back or Longsdale would find a way to track you down." Redfern sat up and began buttoning his shirt. "Where do you want - to the castle or to the Aventine?"

Margaret was quiet. He looked at her expectantly.

"I have to tell Mom and Dad."

Angel frowned, looked away, and lowered his head.

"I was wrong when I forbade you to meet with them," he finally said. "And I was wrong when I forced you to leave the home."

"You did not force me."

"And what did it lead to? I was barely able to protect you, and if you intend to stay, then you do not need to force yourself because of me..." his tone became more and more irritated, and Margaret said softly:

"I do not force myself. And then I did not force, and now."

"I didn't want... and now I don't want you to see them. But..."

"Why don't you want to?" Margaret asked. Angel probably feared that her family would harm her, but stabbing him with the fact that not all families are the same as his own was wrong. Especially now.

"You can meet with them as often as you like. However, if you decide to stay here, then I..." Angel pursed his lips, but then still managed with an effort: "We will think of something with your training, if... if you want to continue."

It was not easy for him, and he sullenly fell silent. Margaret knew how hard it was for him to admit that he was wrong and give in to others. She took his hand and whispered:

"I'll be back soon. Wait for me."