Chapter 5

The mirror went out, but Angel was still staring into it. Margaret was silent - there was still an eerie vision in front of her: a man who woke up after a long sleep in a hound - and saw his body, in which someone else now lives. And you can't go back...

"Now I understand," the girl said, "why you do not want to communicate with them. After all, sooner or later they would have guessed to ask."

The mentor gave a weak start and gripped the armrests of the chair.

"I remember all the time," he muttered. "All the time - but when I see them... it becomes unbearable."

"Do they remember? People who are inside familiars?"

"No. It would be too mercilessly."

Margaret frowned. It seemed to her that the hound remembered - at least Angel. But why did he throw at the mentor so much?

"Then why was Mister Longsdale's hound trying to bite you?"

Redfern closed his eyes. A spasm ran across his face as if in pain. Miss Sheridan stared at him. After all, he never once told her how he met with the consultants - and how he began to do all this.

"Did you take part in this?" She asked coldly. Angel's lips parted as if he wanted to answer, but...

"It is no longer being carried out," the mentor finally said. "The last time it was after the death of one of the consultants in Deir. Forty-five years ago."

"But you took part in these disgusting transformations?"

"I should have…" Angel covered his face with his hand. "I tried to get them back. But I didn't succeed. Never."

"You tried?" Margaret asked in a trembling voice and took his hand. The mentor finally looked up at her. "But why didn't it work out for you?"

"I do not know. Maybe the fact is that the soul that has already been extracted cannot be returned, you can only let it go. But then a soul will depart, and death will come. Or maybe I just didn't find the right way. I stopped experimenting with this... a long time ago."

"But if you try again?"

Redfern shook his head and suddenly pressed the girl's hand to his lips. Margaret ran her hand through his hair.

"I stopped it," Angel whispered indistinctly. "No more processes. Never. I won't let anyone..."

"Who invented this? Who could have thought of such... such..."

"I don't know."

"But how did you find out about it? How did you even get to know the consultants and start making tools, weapons and everything else for them?"

Redfern leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He looked at the girl from under half-lowered eyelashes and did not let go of her hand.

"I don't remember very well. When the Rift opened on the Liganta, I was near death. I didn't even see the moment of the split itself, because..." he raised his hand to his eyes, but did not touch them. "Then it was as if lightning flashed through me. It was hurt so intensely, as if every particle of the body was being torn to shreds. And when I opened my eyes again and saw..." He swallowed. "I looked into the funnel of the Rift, and then it seemed to me that I was looking straight into hell. I jumped up and rushed away, into the sea, and then... I was probably pulled out of the water into the boat - I remember that I was lying on a wet wood and heard the splash of oars. Until I seems to have passed out."

"Oh my God..." the girl gasped. "You shouldn't remember that!"

"Nobody should remember that."

"Have you never tried to find out who invented the process? Have you seen him?"

"No. I received instructions, but he did not leave a return address or signature on them."

"So it was you," Margaret pulled her hand out of his and stepped back. "You turned Mister Longsdale into a consultant. Him and other people!"

"Yes," Angel said quietly. Margaret's heart sank. He lied to her! To all of them! All this time he knew why the hound was rushing at him so, he knew how many people he had turned into monsters, he knew - and was silent. He did not give himself away with a single word or gesture! And before that - how many times he carried out the Process, how many people he deprived of everything... everything that can be imagined!

"And you didn't tell me..."

"But you didn't ask."

Margaret turned away. She was scratched by a clawed paw of pain, which she so far did not know about. How could he be so silent, so lie to them - and to her!

"And how do you like it?" The girl said through set teeth. "An exciting activity, huh?"

"You know why I did it. I didn't see any other way out until..."

"Oh yes, you have a noble goal, the hunt for monsters, you buzzed my ears! You don't have to repeat yourself; I already know how you always justify yourself. Can't you imagine what it would be like to just wake up and realize that someone has robbed you of absolutely everything, and now you are not even a human being?"

"Oh, Margaret," he sighed barely audible, "but I can imagine."

The girl turned around. Angel stood by the mirror and looked at her. If he had been angry, or pathetic, or apologetic, it would have been so easy for her to stab him with reproaches, but he was just very sad.

"Sometimes you understand what you have done only when you see the result of your efforts. I can never forget it, and every time I see them, they remind me..."

"Remind you of what you turned them into, and that's why you hate them so? For what you did with them?" Margaret asked bitterly.

"I can't hate them," Angel muttered. "I... however, when looking from the side, the difference is not visible, so what's the point of saying something."

But the girl guessed what he wanted to say. But now she could not understand him either, no matter what he felt.

"I'll visit my family," Miss Sheridan said dryly. "They are waiting for me to celebrate my birthday. Then I'll take my uncle's suitcase."

Anxiety flashed in Redfern's eyes.

"Do you want to leave? Now?"

"Now," Margaret repeated with pressure, "I need to stay away from you."

12th October

Brannon glanced worriedly at his watch. Almost four in the morning! Previously, the undead attacked almost immediately after dark. Longsdale and the witch should have returned long ago. Had something happened? He went to the window - there was a fine rain falling more like dust.

"There's the Rift," Valentina said apologetically. "It makes it harder to manage the weather."

Nathan was wary:

"So, something is leaking out from under the dome after all?"

"Rather, it is radiated. There are no evil spirits here, if you are talking about it, but the influence of other side is very noticeable. Farenza has quite a lot of undead and not the healthiest climate. People and animals get sick more often, age earlier and live shorter lives."

"A tidbit for a warlock. Jason Moore killed fourteen children to scratch out the ifrit on the other side. And then there is such a temptation right at your side..."

"Do you really think," Valentina asked in surprise, "that someone wants to get under the dome? Even if we don't talk about the city, it's deadly for someone who tries!"

"People," Brannon said with a sigh, "are capable of anything. Especially if they think they will get the benefit. I mean, we focused too early on only one version. Maybe there really is some kind of consultant hunter like Roismann operating here. Or maybe Paolo Urquiola just intervened in someone's magical plans, in no way connected with the capture of consultants. For which he paid."

Valentina bowed her head and frowned slightly.

"But how then do we find this warlock?" We don't even know what he wants to do.

"That's usually the problem," the Commissar grunted. "There is a corpse - there is no killer. And there are too few of us. If I had at least two or three more here! I never thought I'd say this, but if the pyromaniac could come here, things would have gone much faster."

"And what about Cardinal Savarelli with his inquisitors?"

Brannon hesitated. Not that he was against the cardinal personally, but the rest of the crowd of hollyrollies did not inspire confidence.

"I don't think they're that good at magic. His Cardinality showed a couple of tricks, but something more solid is needed here."

"And what about me?" suddenly Valentina asked. "Although I don't know spells, I can also help. After all," she added with a smile, "why don't I act as your assistant for a week or two?"

Nathan choked. This thought turned out to be too revolutionary for him. He means, she's a vivene, of course, but... but... normal police officers don't allow wives to investigate murders! Wives usually bake pies and wait for their husband, holding a hot dinner ready, and do not climb into the devil's mouth.

"You don't mind that Jen helps the consultant, and she was just a child recently."

Brannon coughed.

"That's not quite the point. I will worry about you and your safety."

Valentina raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"But you know who I am!"

"So what? I still worry, even when you go out in the evening on the street alone. I can't just stop, just because you are vivene."

"Oh," his wife said with tenderness, took his hand and pulled him to her. The kiss was long, and Nathan was even considering whether they should go to the bedroom, since the consultant was lost somewhere in hell, but then he heard the splash of oars outside. Reluctantly, Brannon pulled away from his wife and looked out the window. A boat with Longsdale, the hound and the witch came to the house. Behind her, something invisible was moving, jerkily cutting through the waters of the canal.

"Looks like they caught it."

"I won't go down," Valentina said. "My presence is deadly to the undead. I would not want to spoil everything for you."

"Okay," Nathan sighed and hurried downstairs, trying not to think about how well they would have had their time.

Longsdale looked as pleased as if he had won a million in the lottery. While Brannon went down, the consultant and the witch had already dragged the cage into the house and removed the invisibility from it. The Commissar examined the unconscious undead lying inside. The Commissar examined the undead lying unconscious inside. The appearance was very unsightly: in the slightly open mouth there were rows of small teeth going into the throat, there were claws on the hands and feet, and the flesh passed into grayish bones.

"Marabbekka," Longsdale introduced the prisoner. "We have eliminated the last two."

"Great. Now the warlock has a reason to make new ones. So let's not delay."

"Let's do this downstairs, there is an equipped room," Longsdale nodded to Jen, and the girl, easily lifting the cage, carried it to the stairs leading to the basement. The hound looked back at the commissar, and Nathan followed. The idea to hunt down the warlock through the undead belonged to him - after all, somehow this guy gives the orders to them; however, Brannon did not like Longsdale choosing to do it in the house. What if the warlock track them down the same way?

"Did you find out where Urquiola was kidnapped - in the house or on the street?"

"There are no traces of someone else's magic in the house," Jen said, "but that doesn't mean anything. They could have been erased or just hit him on the head with a baton. It works perfectly even with consultants."

Behind them, Longsdale huffed indignantly.

"Didn't you think Urquiola was not the warlock's target at all? Your colleague could get involved in his plans related to something completely different."

"But with what?"

"I do not know. For example, the warlock wants to climb under the dome and get some magic from the other side. Or a lot."

"No!" Longsdale exclaimed worriedly. "No man would take such a risk! Imagine what would become of the city if you split the dome. What will gush from the hole..."

"He probably doesn't care about the city," the witch chuckled. "Imagine what a temptation - the hole to the other side just at arm's length! You people are capable of many things when you want to shit to your neighbor."

"Uh-huh. Moore did not disdain fourteen murders for the sake of one ifrit."

"Jesus," the consultant muttered, "I hope that the warlock will not come up with this idea."

The Commissar was not optimistic about this and asked:

"Can you plug the puncture in the dome?"

"On my own? Of course not! I don't even know how many of us are needed for this. But this has never happened before," Longsdale added worriedly. "I mean, there were some encroachments, but Paolo Urquiola coped with them. Before the intruders got to the dome."

The witch put the cage on the floor to open the lock on the door. Brannon turned to the consultant.

"How does it all work? I understand that the dome completely covers the island with the Rift. And what is the thing around it doing? Scares away?"

"Mmm, not really. If someone tries to cross the perimeter around the dome, no matter moving towards Liganta or from Liganta, it will simply incinerate him."

Nathan whistled. The pyromaniac, as always, acted ferociously, but for sure. He wonders how many innocent people were killed on this perimeter?

"And if you open it?"

The consultant pondered, and judging from his face, these thoughts did not please him.

"No one has done it yet," he muttered, and dragged the cage into a dark, vaulted room, illuminated by the circular balls on the walls. The witch walked around the room, turning on the light. Longsdale set the cage down in the middle of the drawing on the floor. The Commissar examined it with interest. The drawing looked like an orchid flower, decorated with all sorts of inscriptions.

"Wake up the undead," Longsdale told the witch, unrolling a map of the city.

"Won't the warlock understand that you've found him?"

"No," the consultant replied dryly. "I'm a professional, not a village medicine man."

"Okay, okay," Brannon muttered, and walked away so as not to interfere. This was the kind of magic he liked - practical, convenient and without sacrifice.

Jen threw a fireball at the marabbekka. The undead twitched, howled, and grabbed the bars of the cage. The former orphan shook them with such force that the commissar stepped back even further. Jen took the amulet - an oblong stone on a chain and stood over the map. Longsdale lit a round lamp, threw a bunch of herbs into it, a whisper of powder, and began chanting a spell, swinging the lamp around the cage of undead.

Something like glowing pollen fell from the lamp - it glided smoothly through the air, intertwining into mysterious (for the commissar) symbols, which, like snowflakes, fell on the marabbekka. The undead didn't care about them — it were gnawing at the grate fiercely, drooling and flashing purple eyes at Brennon.

The signs enveloped the undead in a thick web. The witch dipped the amulet into the lamp and held out her hand over the map. The signs sparkled, and the stone on the chain began to unwind, dropping golden flakes on Farenza. They flocked on the map in a thin shimmering line that stretched from Urquiola's house somewhere deep into the city blocks. Suddenly the stone twitched, pecked down, the chain slipped between the witch's fingers, and the amulet fell on a house. Brannon grabbed a notebook and hastily jotted down the address.

"It's done!" Longsdale announced. His eyes lit up with anticipation. "The warlock is here!"

"I hope your colleague is there too."

"I don't think so. This is Condimezzo - the quarter of wealthy merchants, it is unlikely that the warlock will dare to arrange his lair there. I think we found the place where he lives."

"Not bad too. When are we going?"

"Tonight. I need to get some sleep," Longsdale said somewhat apologetically.

"Okay. What about it?" Brannon nodded at the marabbekka.

"I'll take care of it. At least," the consultant sighed, "we got rid of nine marabbekki."

"Uh-huh. Unless this guy makes new ones. While you are resting, I will walk around the block and interview the locals. Maybe someone noticed something on the day Urquiola disappeared."

***

The day was pleasant, sunny - thanks to Valentina's efforts. Vivene stood next to her husband and looked at him expectantly, but with curiosity. Nathan was enjoying the local gelatto - he could not resist the temptation. Does he have a vacation, after all, or not?!

"So," finally the commissar said, destroying the crispy cone, "the idea is this: we go around the local residents from house to house and ask three questions: do they know the signor who lives in this house, noticed anything suspicious over the past week, saw some new people on the block."

"And if they noticed?"

"Then gradually ask leading questions. However, the witnesses may well blurt out everything, especially to you. You have a good-looking appearance."

"Oh thanks!" Valentina laughed and suddenly, with a change in her face, rushed to Brennon, like a vulture. With one hand she grabbed his shoulder, with the other she waved in front of his face and turned sharply to the neighboring house, blocking Nathan with herself. The commissar closed his eyes - she literally radiated a radiance of rage, like from the sun in the desert, so strong that it dazzled the eyes. If she hadn't gripped his elbow like a tick, Nathan would probably have tried to run away.

"What?" He wheezed, opening one eye.

Valentina silently gazed at the roof of the neighboring house. Vivene grew taller than Brennon, and the water in the canal nearby was rippling like a gale.

"Someone gave him a sound-dampening spell," Valentina rumbled. She turned to her husband and opened her hand. There was a bullet in it. "You were shot from the roof. From there."

"Oh God," Brannon muttered. For some reason, the warlock appointed him as the number one enemy and tried to destroy him with enviable persistence... wait a minute!

"I understood!" The commissar wiped his watery eyes and looked around the neighboring rooftops with a tenacious glance from under his arm. "Do you remember Margaret telling how she and the pyromaniac were shot with potion needles? And what if Urquiola was shot same way? We need to inspect the roofs and..."

"You need to get back to the house," Valentina said adamantly. "I'll catch the shooter and then examine the rooftops.

"You… what? God, he ran away as soon as he saw you."

"No," Vivene's eyes darkened, "he can't run away from me. But first, please come back to the house." She gently squeezed Brennon's hand, and he reluctantly walked back to Urquiola's mansion. Not that the Commissar liked it - but he understood that he himself would not be able to catch up with the shooter, and hanging out in the middle of the street, pretending to be a target, was not the most reasonable thing to do. Besides, he didn't want to make Valentina nervous – she had already refused a vacation because of him... a normal vacation, in a decent place!

Brennon closed the door and looked out the window: a pale gold flash flickered in the place where his wife stood, and then disappeared. The Commissar went up to his room - Longsdale was still asleep, and there was something interesting in the documents that Savarelli had sent.

Mother Agnes behaved suspiciously during interrogation, but the Commissar doubted that she could arrange an invasion of evil spirits in the orphanage. In addition, the consultant did not find traces of the call of evil spirits inside the building, and the abbess would not have had time to get out of the monastery, arrange a ritual with a call and return: the nuns lost sight of her for no more than an hour.

Brennon pushed boxes of archival records of all the children in the orphanage to the table. If a girl after the age of eighteen left for a nun and remained in a monastery, then a corresponding note was made in the records. The archive was in complete disarray, as if it was deliberately maintained so that an outsider would not find anything there, but Nathan was patient and persistent. He began to sort the papers yesterday, and today he pounced on them with redoubled efforts.

The Commissar was already up to his ears in bureaucracy when Longsdale and the hound looked in on him. Familiar immediately sneezed demonstratively and lay down with his muzzle to the window.

"What are you doing?" The consultant asked in surprise. "You were going to interview the neighbors."

"Yeah, but there was a slight kurtosis, and I decided to look for something about Mother Agnes in the papers of the monastery."

"What kurtosis?"

Brennon snorted and reluctantly admitted:

"I was shot this morning. Val…"

"What?!" Longsdale roared; the hound jumped up and bared his fangs. "Who dared?!"

"I believe that this same warlock. Who else needs it?"

The hound growled dully; Longsdale, more like the other than himself, with a flourish, he overshadowed the Commissar with some kind of magical sign and muttered an incantation.

"What is it?" Nathan asked discontentedly.

"Magic armor. It protects you from people who intend to harm you."

"Great. Now think, what jackpot is your warlock counting on if he attacks so violently? And not on you, so obviously he doesn't consider consultants a threat. Are you sure you should track him down?"

Longsdale considered. Suddenly, a somewhat strained voice of Valentina sounded in the room:

"Nathan, would you mind coming down to the living room? I found the shooter."

The hound ran out of the room first, and the commissar hurried after him - firstly, so that the impetuous beast would not bite the witness's head off, and secondly, because his wife's voice alarmed him.

The shooter was lying in the middle of the living room, and the Commissar immediately realized that he was dead. Valentina, who was standing nearby, looked up at Brannon and said:

"It's not me. I didn't kill him. He was dead when I found him."

Longsdale knelt by the corpse, held his hand over his head, whispered, and concluded:

"Instant mortem. He didn't stand a chance."

"What is it?"

"A spell that kills from a distance. Apparently, the killer was enchanted when take the order. When the time came, the spell worked. I'm afraid he won't tell anyone anything, and even necromancy won't help here - Instant mortem destroys the brain and heart."

"Heck!"

"I'll take the body to the laboratory. Maybe I can get something out of him."

Nathan turned to his wife. She frowned tensely.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes. And you?"

"Well, this isn't the first time a suspect has tried to finish me off," Brennon chuckled and took Valentina's hand. "You can leave."

"And leave you here? No!"

"But our journey..."

"It doesn't matter anymore," Vivene said; the Commissar choked. How is it - it doesn't matter?! "Oh Nathan, I didn't mean to offend you. I mean, we cannot leave everything as it is, and without my help you will not catch this warlock. Even the consultant is in danger, to say nothing of the others."

"Okay," Brannon grumbled. "By the way, do any poisons work on consultants? Maybe the warlock lured Urquiola out of the house and shot a poisoned arrow from some roof?"

"Maybe," Longsdale nodded. "Three or four lethal doses of arsenic or cyanide can put us to sleep. That would explain why we did not find any traces of magic after Urquiola's abduction."

"That's why I categorically do not recommend that you go alone into his lair. Even with Jen. Can you call at least two or three consultants for help?"

"I'll try. But they will not be able to come here immediately, and I do not want to waste time."

"Better to start by trying to sneak into his house. I will speak to the cardinal today, after I have finished with the papers."

"But Jen will come with you," Longsdale said sternly. "And don't even argue!"

***

The cardinal kindly offered Brennon coffee, cakes, fruit, and stared inquiringly at the Commissar. Nathan put the folder on the table.

"It's amazing how quickly you knocked out all the documents from the monastery. I thought that Mother Agnes would cling to every piece of paper with a death grip."

"She tried, but, unfortunately, she is obliged to obey the orders of the Inquisition, especially when it comes to, as you say, interventions from the other side," Savarelli said; he kept glancing furtively at the witch, who had taken up a position at the door, away from the crucifix and the stand with the sumptuous Bible.

"I have studied the archival records of the nuns. They kept records of all the girls who came to them, especially noting those who later took the veil as a nun."

"Did you find something about the victims?"

"No, I found records that are thirty-eight years old," Nathan took out several documents from the folder. "In the twenty-sixth year, two children were left at the gates of the orphanage - a boy of about seven and a four-year-old girl. The boy was handed over by the nuns to their colleagues, and the girl remained in the orphanage, and is now known to us as the Mother Agnes."

The cardinal snatched the paper from him and began to turn fiercely purple. Brannon didn't delicately ask why no one had checked the shelter staff, and continued:

"She switched nuns on the night of the murder, sending a feeble-minded woman on duty whom no one would believe. However, the abbess herself could not leave the orphanage for a long time - I reread all the testimonies, and it turns out that the nuns did not see her for about an hour. This is too little to get out, to summon the evil spirits, then remove they from the orphanage so that they does not arrange a massacre there, and return back."

Savarelli made a low sound in his throat. Jen snorted loudly from her corner.

"Longsdale says there are no signs of rituals inside the orphanage. So someone from outside..."

"They handed him over to the Dominican orphanage! Damn it!"

"Why?"

His Eminence goggled at Brennon and asked incredulously:

"Don't you know which order the Inquisition belongs to? This pezzo di merda, cazzo di caccare, figlio di puttana, brutte come la merda de gatto," the brooch-translator could not cope with the flow of words, "this asshile could be one of us!"

"And this is not very good."

"Not very?!" the cardinal blurted out half a dozen more epithets, the meaning of which the Commissar guessed himself. "I'll interrogate every bastard in this building myself!"

"In general, the idea is not bad, but what will you ask them about? This boy could well become a peaceful baker or shoemaker after leaving the orphanage."

"And he might not have!"

Brannon sighed.

"Of course, if we were in Blackwhit, I would definitely check all the relatives of Mother Agnes to the seventh generation, but there I have a staff of detectives and policemen, and here we are simply too few to do everything."

His Eminence frowned in bewilderment.

"How is it - too little? Is there something you don't like my inquisitors?"

"Uh... well..." the Commissar hesitated. What could be the use of church rats, who have never seen anything worse than a hardened drunkard?

"It seems to me," the cardinal said dryly, "you have something against our cooperation. We worked with Urquiola, and I, and my predecessor, and his predecessor, and his, and his, and so on. The Inquisition has accumulated information for centuries, and I assure you, none of my people will faint at the sight of a corpse."

"And at the sight of real undead? Or, worse, evil spirits on the other side? I cannot demand that they risk their lives, because none of them is a soldier or a policeman."

"But I can," said Savarelli calmly. "Moreover, conducting a small investigation into Mother Agnes is not dangerous at all, and behind the scenes we carry out such investigations quite often."

"Um… I wouldn't be so sure about not dangerous. They have already tried to kill me twice just because I approached the orphanage," the Commissar briefly told the cardinal about recent events, including about the found lair of the warlock and his fears in this regard. Savarelli pondered, stroking the cross on his chest - so massive that it could knock out the eye of a stubborn sinner.

"I don't even know where to start," His Eminence said at last. "Maybe your wife..."

"It's not up for debate," Nathan interrupted him coldly.

"You took the risk to marry such a woman," the cardinal muttered. - So you are sure that it was not she who nailed the shooter in a fit of anger?"

"Yes. Longsdale confirmed."

"I agree with you about the warlock's house. However, here I can help you. Condimezzo is a wealthy neighborhood where respected townspeople, merchants and heads of trade guilds live. If you want to enter someone's home without attracting attention, then the ministers of the church are exactly the ones you need.

Here Brannon was forced to agree. In Farenza, the clergy were more influential than the police. It is unlikely that even the warlock would attack priests in broad daylight.

"Okay, but we'd better hurry. Longsdale and his assistant," the Commissar nodded at the witch, "killed all the marabbekki. If the warlock needs undead, he will soon start creating a new one."

"We'll leave today. I'll have everything ready by two o'clock. Think four people will be enough?"

"Even three. We don't want too much attention, and Longsdale, his assistant, and myself will be with you."

The cardinal looked at Brannon with some skepticism, but did not argue.