Chapter 14

The sea was close - the air smelled of salt, and Margaret was chilled from the damp wind for a couple of minutes, they walked through the yard. She could see nothing behind the high fence; they were transferred from the shed in which they had been locked into the barn, barely lit by a couple of bowls of burning oil. These tall-legged lamps, festooned with Mazandaran patterns, looked so wild in the middle of the barn that Miss Sheridan involuntarily wondered is their captor sane. Angel, too, looked around carefully, studied the vague outlines in the darkness and hugged Margaret closer to him.

"I won't let them do anything to you," he whispered. The girl shuddered weakly.

"Do not frighten me even more!"

The Mazandran giant slammed the barn doors and stood in front of them. Margaret, clinging to Angel, glanced at the rest of those present. There were eight of them in total: the Mazandranman, a red-haired Dorgernian and six other sailors, in similar jackets and hats. All except the giant were armed as if they were about to rob the National Bank, and amulets dangled around their necks.

"Against the undead," Margaret whispered, and Angel nodded. The mentor saw better in the dark than ordinary people, although worse than a cat, and the girl did not dare to ask what he saw so threatening there. Six sailors surrounded them, and the red-haired Dorgernian took the apple out of his pocket and began to gnaw, moving a mocking glance from Angel to Margaret and back. One of the sailors mumbled "Uuugh, witch!", Crossed himself and spat towards Miss Sheridan.

"I'm not afraid!" The girl thought desperately, although she was all cold with fear. She suddenly felt acutely that there were eight hostile men around, and the only defender was still reeling after the poisoning. "I'm not afraid! God, I'm not afraid!"

"I won't let them touch you," Angel said barely audibly, squeezing her even tighter in his arms: he was breathing heavily through his teeth with rage. Thin nostrils flared, eyebrows closed angrily over the bridge of the nose, his eyes darkened, and his whole body tensed, as if he wanted to rush at them like a predator at a pack of hounds.

"Don't," Maragret breathed. "Don't provoke them!"

"The girl's got a point," the red-haired sailor said, and flicked the apple core into the darkness. "I'll tell you right now, and you take good note: the respected person will ask you a couple of questions, and you will answer. You will answer until he ordered you to shut up. Gotcha?"

"Who are you?" Margaret asked.

"Don't talk to them," Angel said.

The sailor raised his hat with a laugh.

"Franz Leidner, Fraulein," he swept his hat around the others. "There were more of us before you kill six of ours in Aventine. Not that I yearn for bastards, but..." He pulled brass knuckles out of his pocket, put them on his fingers and snapped his knuckles. "It will be fair if someone is responsible for them. Fraulein, so be it, can pay for two, and you will get the rest."

The Dorgernians surrounded them on all sides, and Margaret shivered. She didn't like the way they looked at her - those looks frightened her even more than threats or angry silence. One sailor tried to grab her skirt. Margaret screamed, and suddenly the Mazandranman emerged from the darkness. He put one paw on her shoulder, the other squeezed Leidner's hand with brass knuckles, bent down and stared into his eyes. The girl was afraid that the unexpected defender would be hit from behind, but the Dorgernians fearfully backed away.

"Release me you freak," Leidner said in a slightly shrunken voice. The giant pushed him away and froze next to Margaret and Angel, like a statue. Miss Sheridan huddled against her mentor, trembling. He stroked her head. It was strange: it seemed to her that the giant was subordinate to the sailors, but no - something was wrong here.

The flames in the bowls stirred, and a draft spread across the floor. A door slammed somewhere. The Mazandran turned his head towards the sound. Light footsteps rustled in the silence and darkness, and a man in a wide dark cherry robe up to the toes stepped into the circle of light. A deep hood covered his head, his hands were hidden in his sleeves, only a long red rosary swayed in time with his steps. The scarlet shoes with curved noses were on the feet of the man. Margaret flapped her eyelashes in shock at this marvel.

"Grandstander," the mentor snorted, and agreement flashed on Leidner's face for a moment; but he hastened to hide it behind a bow.

"Is this jester your respected person?" Angel asked the sailor contemptuously. A chuckle came from under the hood.

"You are a very unpleasant interlocutor, Herr Redfern," the "respected man" remarked in rather clear Ilarian. Margaret gripped her mentor's elbow with her fingers like a cat with claws. How could this guy know that?! Didn't he think Redfern was an Ilar? Didn't EVERYONE think he was an Ilar?!

"I always have a very unpleasant conversation with scum."

"Punch him?" Leidner asked the hood.

"Not yet. Let's talk first."

The wearer of the robe snapped his fingers. A stool with a cushion appeared out of thin air, on which their interlocutor sat down. The flaps of the robe parted, revealing loose white pants and the hem of a long white caftan. It looked more like underwear, and Margaret blushed embarrassedly. The man folded the rosary in his lap and threw his hood back.

"I hope young Fraulein will forgive me this suit," he said with a smile. - Mazandran clothes are much more comfortable than ours.

His face and head were shaved clean, and a gold ring with a pearl gleamed in his ear. Despite the long, large nose and heavy jaw, the physiognomy of the exotic lover turned out to be quite pleasant. The eyes are light, greenish-brown, the smile is very friendly. He examined Margaret carefully and stared at Angel with genuine curiosity. The mentor, however, also gazed at his opponent.

"Come on, let's not condemn the weakness of our neighbor," their captor said cheerfully. "To each his own, right? I do not blame you for your seventeen-year-old mistress, although you tried to assure us that she is your daughter. But as far as I know, this has never been a hindrance in your family, has it?"

Margaret clutched at Angel in dismay. Even the thought that he might be her father (or grandfather) did not frighten her as much as the frenzied anger that distorted his face.

"Don't, be quiet!" The girl pleaded in a whisper, holding him in place, although he had already stepped forward.

"However, who would have resisted," said the master of the undead. - The most beautiful Fraulein, a real gem, the blood of your blood.

Margaret drew a breath with a dificult. It had never occurred to her that Angel might be interested in her just because they had the same blood in their veins. But, Lord, he couldn't be her father, could he?!

"And your grandfather?" it hissed nasty inside. "Great-grandfather?"

"As you can see, I learned a lot about you. The fruits of long careful observation. Of course, I still have questions, but I suppose you will answer them."

"No," Angel said through clenched teeth.

"Really, don't be so rash. As we have already seen, the young Fraulein is very dear to you, and she is a very beautiful woman."

Angel's fingers squeezed painfully on Margaret's shoulder. Leidner stared greedily at the girl, the sailors around exchanged laughter and cheers. Miss Sheridan cringed.

"However, it is unfair and impolite to engage in one-sided dialogue," the master of the undead said. "Of course, you also have the right to ask," and he cocked his head to one side, as if in anticipation of questions. But Angel was silent, and Margaret decided to ask:

"Who are you?"

"Difficult to answer, Fraulein. In Mazandran my name was Achari Ragnihotri – the guru who performs fire rituals."

"God," Angel said scornfully.

"But you're not from there," Margaret said. "You're from Dorgern."

"Oh, dear child, I have lived in Mazandran for many years," the master of the undead straightened his robe, and the girl noticed ocher patterns on his hand. "Indeed, Herr Redfern, you should not dislike the teachings and practices of the brahmans so much. There are many diamonds."

"But if this is so," the girl continued bravely, seeing that the mentor ignores his desire to communicate, "and you command the undead, then what do you need us for?"

"I think your teacher will be happy to answer this question himself. In order to immediately clarify, I explain - I know that you design and manufacture equipment for the so-called consultants. We will leave this aside for now."

"Oh, that's it," Angel said with a sneer. "Another hunter for someone else's good. An ordinary thief."

"Well, in fact, it is too harsh..."

"You are by no means the first robber in my life," Redfern said coldly. "And don't let the fate of your predecessors inspire you too much."

Margaret gave him a weak elbow. She didn't think that in their position they could threaten anyone.

"Let's leave these particulars," Ragnihotri purred, fingering his rosary. "I am not interested in the toys of consultants now. I'm interested in The Process."

***

At the beginning of twelve, Brannon took the cane and the hat, warned the attendant and went to house 86. There the hound met him and immediately led to the laboratory. The beast looked pleased, and Nathan cheered up. Longsdale has never failed, after all.

In the laboratory, the smoke literally stood like a rocker. The hound took a glass mask from the table and poked it into the commissar's hand. The animal did not suffer from the fumes, it simply stopped breathing, although Nathan had noticed that the hound breathes only when he wants. Longsdale and the witch, dressed in long aprons and gloves, tossed about in the smoke, wielding some tools and pouring something from jars into cones. Brannon sat down modestly in a chair, trying not to look around. The freaks in the vessels did not disappear, and at times they also moved.

Finally Longsdale with a triumphant exclamation raised his hand with the flask, in which something swirled, sparkled, and gurgled.

"Look!" he enthusiastically poked the flask under the nose of the Commissar. "I have highlighted the basic structure! Finally!"

Nathan suspiciously studied the swirling brown substance, hoping that the consultant had not had time to invent a deadly poison or a new magical disease in the heat of work. Longsdale beckoned him to follow him, and the Commissar happily left the abode of magical science.

"You wanted to find the source that the master of the undead took advantage of," Longsdale said businesslike. "With this structure, I can do it in an hour and a half. However, I do not guarantee that the master is still near the source."

"Good. No word from Redfern, so we need some trace. Can I borrow Jen from you for a while? I need to check one gathering."

"Of course. It's strange that Mister Redfern is silent," the consultant remarked in surprise. "What can he do for so long? Unless the ship is covered with a heap of disguise charms, but even then... Maybe something happened to him?"

"Uh-huh. Inflammation of hatred for people," Brennon muttered. "I'm sure he had no intention of informing us at all and went to burn the ship in his favorite manner."

"But you asked Miss Sheridan to tell you..."

"I don't think I have any influence on Miss Sheridan. I don't think anyone can influence her at all, other than this guy."

"Why don't you like him so much?"

The hound snorted emphatically.

"Only Snappish understands me," the commissar sighed. He would have put the question differently - who might even like Redfern? What did a well-to-do, beautiful girl, spoiled to the limit with the attention of the worthiest suitors find in him?

"There is nothing wrong with Mister Redfern teaching her magic," Longsdale said calmly. "I don't understand why you are so outraged by this. She is talented, diligent and over time..."

"I am outraged that he stole a minor girl of seventeen from home. He lives with a girl who is younger than him in... in..." Brannon hesitated, finding it difficult to count right away.

"He lives with her," the consultant said conciliatingly, "but she's still a virgin if that's what you care about."

"What?! Why?!" Brennon choked.

"How do I know? But, in principle, virginity is a valuable asset in magic."

"So well, he will keep her in maidens until the grave?!"

Longsdale considered and confessed:

"I do not understand you. Isn't that what you want?"

"Hush up," Brannon decided. Although, as an impotent, the pyromaniac suited him much more. And it would be better - just a eunuch. The hound snorted again and dropped its muzzle to its paws. "I'll try to get Jen back to you as soon as possible. By the way, what did the master do with the townspeople?"

"It's a kind of binding charm that he has spread over the city. Like puppet strings that reach out to the inhabitants and subdue them to the will of the master of the undead. A rare and difficult to perform, but powerful thing. Mazandran magic."

"Uh-huh," Nathan muttered, "I admire his art."

Jen brought him to the theater at almost twelve sharp. The commissar got out of the carriage and looked in surprise at the crowd of people around the building. Are they all actors or family members? According to the testimony, Temple had fewer friends than fingers on his hand, then why are such herds of mourners?

"Sir, can we disperse them all?" The witch asked. "What if this bastard starts cursing all living things again?"

Nathan, in the wake of what Longsdale had said, nodded in agreement and muttered:

"Let's go inside."

The crowd was gradually drawn into the theater. Farlan met those who came at the door, shook hands, exchanged a few words, but as soon as he saw the commissar and the witch, he swelled up belligerently and asked menacingly:

"Why did you come?"

"Take a look," the Commissar replied, trying to estimate by eye how many people were already crowded in the foyer. "There is unrest in the city, but here you have a rather big meeting."

"Do you think they all came here to stage a massacre in memory of Mister Temple?" The director of the theater inquired with devastating sarcasm.

"No, I'm just surprised by the number of acquaintances of a person who is so unsociable, in your words."

"All these people," Farlan hissed after a pause, "and their children would not be standing here now, if not for Joseph Temple."

The commissar scratched his beard thoughtfully. It is unlikely that the actor worked as a doctor in his free time, tirelessly saving lives a dozen a week.

"What are you talking about?"

Farlan closed the doors. He became haggard, thin, and already looked more sad than angry.

"It's been twenty years," the director muttered. "What difference does it make to you?"

Brannon glanced at the marble slab with the names. Such ones hung on the walls of many buildings in Blackwhit, but it never even occurred to him that an actor could also be in the thick of the battle, like those whom the Commissar knew. Byrne, for example, left his eye there and little more than a piece of his face.

"You think that useless parasites like us are just grimacing for the amusement of the public," Farlan said wearily. "And you protect the law, order and peace of civilians, which is useful and honorable. But can anyone say that if it weren't for you, he would have been rotting in the grave for twenty years?"

"I don't know," Brannon replied thoughtfully. "And you?"

"And I am that somebody. They are all," the director pointed to the door. "Temple brought them all here, hid them here so that they could survive the July shelling behind these walls - and now they and their children and even grandchildren have come here."

"Sorry," Nathan replied. "I did not know. Was near the town hall, from there we only heard the cannonade."

"The theater was built in the seventeenth century. There was no building around with such thick walls. It was the only one not be injured... Joseph gathered us all here," Farlan hit the floor with his cane. "Everyone he could bring. Brought me."

"Well, to bring – a lot of mind is not necessary," the witch chuckled. "Or was he herding you all like his own herd?"

"Yes, the pastor came out of him quite well," the director snapped coldly. "Better than many."

"Can we come in?" The Commissar asked. Farlan nodded and suddenly muttered longingly:

"Lord, he had the last season! The last show! And I couldn't even do... couldn't do even a little bit for someone who…"

"You wouldn't be able to."

"Hell no! If I had stayed in the auditorium, I would have tried to get him out of there..."

"Then we would have two corpses, that's all. You couldn't handle this beast."

"How do you know?" Farlan responded bitterly. Jen suddenly leaned against the locked door and listened sensitively. Her brows drew tightly over the bridge of her nose. Nathan also caught a strange hubbub inside.

"What are they doing there?" he asked Farlan in surprise. "Funeral meal held with songs and dances, or what?"

Judging by Farlan's face, he was not planning any orgies. Brannon drew his revolver and cocked the gun.

"Are you completely crazy?!" the director hissed angrily, but then the girl shied away from the door, grabbed both Farlan and Brennon by the scruffs, like kittens, and threw them off the porch. As soon as she jumped off, the doors were kicked out from the inside with such force that they showered the witch, the commissar and the director with a heap of chips. Wild screams lashed Nathan like a whip, and he jumped to his feet.

"What it is?!" Farlan cried: he got up on his knees, stared with glazed eyes at the doorway and froze, turning white before the eyes.

Vampiresses raged inside. Where these creatures crawled out in such numbers Nathan understood when he saw the mirrors that abundantly adorned the foyer. But didn't Longsdale defend the whole theater?! To hell with it!

"Hey, chicks!" Nathan snapped. "I'm here!"

The vampires froze and turned to him. There were at least a dozen of them. They covered themselves with people, like a shield, and eagerly stared at the commissar. Farlan, trembling violently, pulled a pistol from his pocket.

"Have you gone crazy, or what?!" Jen hissed. "Do you want to take them outside so that they finally eat their fill?!"

"I want to take them away from the theater, and you will burn this carrion!"

"But I can now."

"No, there is a peo..."

One of the bloodsuckers rushed forward, and Nathan barely managed to jump off the porch. Farlan quickly crawled away, but the Baobhan Sith caught up with him in a low jump. The director of the theater, displaying a rare endurance and fortitude, unloaded the pistol into the creature's face with a yell. The vampire was thrown backwards, and she gripped Farlan's leg with her teeth. Jen threw fire at the undead, and the flame rolled over the poor fellow's leg. The vampire recoiled, without letting go of the jaws the smoldering shin behind which the straps were dragging.

"Prosthesis!" Farlan howled. "Give me the prosthesis, you rubbish!"

Baobhan Sith squinted at her prey in surprise, spat out the leg, reared up her hair, and hissed. Jen repeated the trick with fire, but it, barely touching the undead, sneezed with smoke and went out. The vampires, laughing melodiously, began to crawl out of the foyer like bugs from a can.

"He protected them!" The witch growled; a wall of fire blazed before the undead, but the creatures confidently, though cautiously, flooded right through it. "The bloody bastard has coated his critters with protective patterns!"

"Then let's get out of here!" The Commissar grabbed Farlan and threw his hand over his shoulder.

"Come on, leave him!" the witch shouted.

"No way!"

"Give it here!" Before Farlan uttered a sound, the witch the witch picked him up, hoisted him onto her shoulders, and rushed away with such speed that Brannon immediately fell behind. He understood how much faster vampires are than a human (for example, himself) and barked hoarsely:

"Take it to the left! To Kintagel!"

The theater, surrounded by a small square, was separated from the destroyed quarter by only two turns along a narrow street. At one time, the mayor fired up to restore Kintagel, but his fuse and money was enough exactly for the theater and the area around. Jen and the Commissar burst into the street; the vampires were catching up, obviously having fun in pursuit, but on the narrow street they were a little behind. Looking around, Nathan saw how the Baobhan Sith were dashingly jumping on the walls of houses, for a moment he thought about how impressive they would be to random witnesses, and immediately threw it out of his head, because behind the silently jumping vampires he heard the sound of a dozen feet.

Jen stopped, turned, and a fire curtain erupted between Brannon and the undead. Nathan backed away, backing towards the witch, but his eyes were fixed on the other side of the street. The stomp was approaching.

"Run!" Jen howled, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him along. Farlan almost did not breathe from everything he had experienced. The commissar rushed after the witch, now and then looking around, and finally, when they had already escaped into the ruined quarter, he saw what he feared. A crowd of people galloped behind the vampires, emitting inarticulate furious screams.

"Again!" Brennon shouted. "He cursed them again!"

Baobhan Sith made their way through the fire. Nathan grabbed Jen by the elbow.

"Come after me!" and dragged her into the very heart of Kintagel, where dilapidated houses still stood.

"We can't hide there!"

"But they, too, will not be able to attack from the rear!"

The commissar run between the ruins, sensitively listening to the stomping of dozens of feet and the screams of the crowd, saw a shop, half littered with the rubble of neighboring houses, and darted into it like a mouse into a hole. Jen followed him. Inside, she finally threw Farlan onto the floor, looked around and asked:

"What now?"

"Can you get in touch with Longsdale in some way?"

"I can, but what are we going to do now?"

"Maintain the defense."

"How?"

"Oh God, God," Farlan suddenly groaned, gave out a long, completely unprintable phrase and hissed: "What was that?!"

"I think even if we throw him out, it won't hold them back," Jen said.

"And what will hold?" Brannon listened as the crowd approached, flocking to the shop from all directions. The witch shifted uncertainly from foot to foot, bit her lip, and finally muttered:

"You won't let me."

"What? Why?" Brannon pulled out the revolver. This is enough for a couple of minutes of active assault, and then...

"I can… I can… I mean, I have to do already, but then…" she raised her black eyes at the commissar, in which fiery sparks danced: "If I start, I won't be able to stop."

"Start what?"

On the walls of the shop a hail of stones fell, through which the rollicking laughter of the vampires was heard.

"I have to go," Jen whispered and retreated to the door. "I mean, I can already... but I will kill them all."

"What?! Whom?!"

"Please don't go out and interfere. I won't be able to tell you apart..." the girl said. Her skin was filled with a transparent amber light, crimson lights fluttered in her hair; Jen turned on her heel and slipped out of the store to meet the crowd.