Chapter 3
Night of 8th September
It was already midnight when the train pulled out of the last station before Blackwhit and plunged into the forest darkness, picking up speed. Nathan drank tea and looked out the window, Broyd rustled the newspaper. There was no one else in their little second-class compartment.
And that's good, the Commissar thought: there was still not enough idle chatter with fellow travelers after what happened. In the RSD, Buckley interrogated both of them, and then they were told to get out and keep stum. Broyd managed to sneak into a meeting where a captain was reporting on the state of the Kaiserstern - but he didn't get anything out of it. They were already leaving, and the remains of the ship were still brought to the port - boards, pieces of skin, fragments of masts and some miraculously survived things. Neither the crew nor the passengers survived.
"That's it eighty people down," the commissar said quietly.
"Be quiet," Broyd muttered. "We are still being drawn to the proceedings, you will see - when they collect all the debris and begin to catch the corpses."
"Why?"
"Why-why," the chief grumbled, looking with hostility at the crossword puzzle, "because Dorgernians themselves expressed a desire to visit Blackwhit, that's why. Until you confess to a secret affair with the Kaiser intelligence, or the opposition, or the devil in a mortar..."
"Come on, sir," Brennon said not very confidently: he had little understanding of politics. "Well, what kind of intelligence? Maybe this Straub or Eisler simply poked a finger at the map. At random - they say, take us there."
"Secretary of the Minister," Broyd creaked in pencil through the cells. "Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police! Just think about it. They need to assign someone to blame."
"The weather, sir. Storm. Or an inexperienced captain."
"Dorgern will not accept the idea of the Kaiser captain's fault, who ran the Kaiser frigate, carrying invaluable Kaiser subjects. Do you know the twelve-letter Mazandran goddess of fertility?"
"Personally, no."
"Then do not interfere."
Nathan's thoughts drifted to another goddess he knew; Broyd puffed over the crossword puzzle, trying to distract himself from bad thoughts. Would Valentina have been able to calm the storm? and save these poor people? Maybe she could have... what exactly - Brannon didn't know, but who knows, if the Metropolitan police had a friendly vivene - they probably wouldn't have had to dig eighty empty graves in Dorgern.
The tea is over; the train rocked steadily; Brannon thought about Valentina (fondly) and the usefulness of some magic (carefully). The main thing is not to get carried away - neither one nor the other. You'll be crazy like a goddamn pyromaniac.
During the four weeks of his vacation, the Commissar managed to do a lot, including a trip to Farenza, the Ilarian city, almost all of which consists of canals. There was little earthly ground, and the one that was there was covered with a slimy green film of rotted algae, which is not surprising given such humidity. There were many more or less small islets off the coast of Farenza, which the inhabitants reached by boat.
However, Nathan did not find a single person who would undertake to take him to Liganta. The boatmen crossed themselves, muttered prayers, sometimes shied away at once. Brennon did not know Ilarian, so he used the services of the guide-translators who swarmed around every hotel like fleas. One of them, using a mixture of Imperial, Riadian and sign language, explained to Nathan that no one travels to Plague Island:
"La peste! Many die, burn everyone there! Many, many thousands, fire to the sky, wow! Both the living and the dead. Bad island! Bad air, evil air! No one to swim there. Never at all!"
With the help of this man, Nathan was able to do some research in the city archives. In the winter of 1630-31, Farenza was seized by a powerful outbreak of plague. The city authorities, united with the church, took out all the sick to Liganta, one of the most remote islets of the Farenziani Bay. The bodies of the unfortunate were burned there. According to conservative estimates, at least ten thousand people were burned on the island.
Having made the guide happy with a substantial tip, Brennon returned to the Riada in deep thought. If the pyromaniac was not lying, then it turned out that he had lived at least two hundred and thirty-three years - and some more ordinary life before... he was irradiated with the magic of the portal (God forgive me!) and... and...
So he's not related to Longsdale, the Commissar thought, feeling his common sense crying desperately inside, he's his ancestor! Or one of them. So, for two hundred and thirty years, he's been studying such creatures, creating all sorts of spells, contacting these consultants, trying to win...
Then Brennon's thought came to a dead end. How did Redfern come up with such a thing?! How can one person even think about defeating all these creatures...
What other properties did this portal endow him with?! After all, Peggy - she is still with him, every day, and who knows what he does with her! Maybe he drinks her blood like a vampire! Although, receiving in an unknown way short letters from his niece, Nathan tried in vain to read between the lines that she was unhappy and wanted to go home. Seeing the first letter on the bedside table in the morning, the Commissar rushed like a madman to Longsdale, and the consultant did a lot of things with the piece of paper – but he could not catch the trail...
Brannon sighed bitterly. Peggy wrote that she was healthy, studied a lot (what?!), studied Ilarian, went horseback, she was all right, hello to mom, dad and brothers. She had already written six such letters to him, but in none of them did she even mention the name of this bastard! The damn asshole dragged an innocent girl to his place and did not even bother to attribute at least a couple of words of apology to her letters!
Something fell noisily on the roof of the compartment; Nathan jerked and woke up from his thoughts.
"What's this?" He asked sharply. Broyd glanced at him absently over his pince-nez.
"Where?"
"Something fell on the roof of the compartment."
"Branch of a tree."
"This is something heavy."
"At that speed? Don't make me laugh, Brannon. Go to bed, we arrive at half past five in the morning. Get some sleep."
"And you?"
"I have insomnia on the trains. Missis Broyd always gives me some kind of balm to calm the nerves. It never helped me. Want to?"
The train rushed through the night so fast that Brannon was about to agree to the balm - in fact, who can stay on the roof of the car at this speed - when suddenly the train flew out into a long clearing in the forest. On a bright moonlit night, the train's shadow fell distinctly on the grass, and the Commissar saw several other, thin and flexible shadows sliding across the roof.
"You saw?" Nathan stood up and grabbed a shoulder holster with revolvers. Broyd sighed patiently, fenced himself off with the newspaper and muttered:
"Well, go for a walk, just do not shoot at everything that moves."
Brannon leaned to the window, but the train plunged into the woods again, and the Commissar could not see anything. He put on a holster, pulled out one revolver and left the compartment.
There was no one in the long narrow corridor: the few passengers had long gone to bed. The light flickered only in the conductor's compartment. There was a handrail under the windows of the corridor, and Nathan, holding on to it, went in the same direction as the shadows on the roof moved. There were three or four of them, and they were hardly human. Brannon checked to see if the akram Longsdale had given him, which he now wore on a belt at the back, would come easily out of its scabbard.
The commissar had already reached the end of the carriage when a shadow finally flashed through the window. He froze, pressed against the wall between the doors of two compartments. Something hit the carriage, and immediately after that Nathan made out the strained grinding of metal through the sound of wheels. A draft went through the car.
The door, Brannon realized, and went cold without a draft. They tore the door!
As if in response, something rumbled on the embankment outside. Moonlight, wheels clatter, whistles and wind poured into the carriage. The door to the conductor's compartment creaked - Nathan looked back, saw his cheeky face and conductor's eyes slowly glazed over. The commissar turned abruptly and fired at the long, thin, lithe creature. The bullet threw her back to the door that had been torn out by the roots - and then there was the sound of broken glass, and the conductor screeched like a pig. Brennon only had time to notice how graceful white arms wrapped around the conductor's chest, a dark-haired head buried in his shoulder, blood spattered on the gray uniform - and then the creature raised its head, flashed its crimson eyes at the commissar and jumped out the window with the unfortunate man, who screeched incessantly.
"Damn it!" Nathan growled and rushed to the window. Doors slammed; passengers began to protrude from the rest of the compartments.
"What the hell is going on?!" Broyd shouted, also leaning out like an owl from a hollow.
"Police!" Brannon announced loudly. "Everyone, keep calm and return to their places! Close the compartment doors and lock them from the inside!"
"What is going on here, for God's sake?!" some skinny matron shrieked.
"Detaining a criminal," the police chief said calmly and slammed the door to the compartment. "Please, ma'am, return to your seat."
Leaving his superiors to charm the audience, Brannon returned to the back of the car. The door was uprooted, and the commissar almost flew out into the trees when the train tilted sharply. In the green paint around the doorway there were long, deep claw scratches. Grabbing the handrail, Nathan quickly leaned out, lifted his head and instantly dived back. He pressed his back against the wall and wiped away the sweat.
On the roof, several dark, graceful creatures tore the poor conductor's body to pieces.
"And if these creatures are smart enough to disconnect the car from the train?"
Nathan stepped back into the corridor. It was empty, with only Broyd guarding the second entrance to the car.
"What's there?"
"Vampireous, sir."
"Who?"
"Undead."
"So," the chief said after a pause. "What is it doing now?"
"They. They eat the conductor. I've seen three or four. What are we going to do, sir?"
Broyd considered. Nathan saw two ways out - to take passengers to other cars, and then return and kill the undead, or immediately give battle to the scum. The only question was, how to finish them off, having only one charmed dagger at hand?
"Sir, if I may..."
A narrow shadow flashed across the vestibule; the train flew out of the forest onto the plain, the carriage was flooded with moonlight, and a tall, slender woman with white skin, huge violet-wine eyes and a mane of jet-black hair stepped into the silver strip. There was not a single thread on it, but Nathan felt neither delight nor embarrassment. He and Broyd took a back-to-back position; the chief of police flicked the trigger of his revolver.
"Let's dance, handsome," the undead suggested melodiously. She had long, tenacious claws on her hands and feet, like the ones Longsdale had found in the theater. But Blackwhit is so damn far away!
"And if by fire, Nathan?" Broyd whispered.
"Will fit."
The vampiress approached gracefully, playfully scratching the doors of the compartment. The commissar slipped the revolver into his belt; the chief handed him a flask of whiskey and a lighted cigar.
"Let's drink to the acquaintance?" Brannon asked. The vampiress stopped and smiled enchantingly. Nathan rolled off the cork, splashed whiskey in her face, and aptly tossed the cigar. It blazed not weakly: the fire instantly engulfed the entire vampire's face, set the hair on fire and spread to the chest and shoulders. The blood-sucking rubbish with a wild scream jumped away, hit the wall and darted into the vestibule, from it to the roof and continued to flame from there, illuminating the night and the forest. A loud hysterical prayer rang out from behind the door of the next compartment.
"Do you remember Pater Noster?" Broyd asked on reflection.
"No. I rely on you in this regard."
"We have to get people out. What if they figure out to unhook the cars?"
"Dangerous. Damn bastards like to throw on top of human heads."
"Goddamn!" Broyd roared and fired twice from the revolver. Nathan quickly looked around - two vampiresses were already rising from the floor.
"Let's dance!" They chanted. "We'll dance all night!"
A soft sound of jump came from the vestibule, and Brennon turned towards the sound. Two other ladies (one was not at all as beautiful as before, lost her eyes and groped into the corridor by touch) approached him. The second specimen licked its plump lips sweetly. Broyd fired twice more; the vampires hissed derisively.
"There's still a fifth! In the window!" the chief shouted and fired at her.
"We'll take you with us," the one who was approaching Brennon purred. "We will dance under..." She suddenly fell silent, stopped and sniffed in bewilderment. Her long, pointed ears turned almost in a circle. Nathan had already pulled an akram from its scabbard, when suddenly both vampiresses in front of him blazed like torches. Three others from behind screeched and ran.
"Water, damn it!" Broyd jerked toward the fire, and Brannon barely held his superiors by the hand. The flames fell, leaving a pile of ash, blackened bones, and a wide charred streak on the walls, ceiling, and floor. And Nathan with indescribable relief saw the witch who was standing in the vestibule. Behind her, doors slammed to a clutch with a nearby carriage.
"Praise to the Foremother!" She said. "Well, I finally found!"
***
"Where are you from here?" Brennon asked curtly, girdling himself with the revolver holster Jen had given him.
"Mister Longsdale sent me for you. The idiot at the box office sold me a ticket for the wrong car. Why did you leave so quickly?"
"Incident in the port," the Commissar said through set teeth, cocking the hammers. "The delegation sank before reaching..."
"Shush," Broyd said, popping out the cylinder and checking the bullets. "Is it effective against these creatures?"
"Loaded with archangels, so..."
"What?!" the chief howled.
"Archangels," Jen repeated bewildered. "This is a class of bullets designed for hunting undead."
"Oh my God," Broyd muttered. "I really thought the feathers from the wings were plucking..."
The witch snorted. Nathan glanced thoughtfully at the compartment. In fact, for vampires, all of them are boxes with dessert. But where can you take people in the train so that the undead do not get to them and so that everyone is in sight?
"What are these creatures?"
"Baobhan Sith. A species of vampireous. They prefer to drink the blood of men, although..." Jen tilted her head to one side, listening to the wild female screeching in one of the compartments. "Sometimes they do not disdain women."
Broyd yanked on the door with such force that a stopper crunched inside. The witch touched it with her finger, and after a second it was left with only embers. In the compartment, Nathan saw the vampiress pulling a long and awkward man through the broken window. The unfortunate one barely audibly hissed, resting all his limbs against the wall and the table, and his companion screeched, not taking her breath, and beat the undead with her handbag (and at the same time beat her prey). The police chief was numb at the sight, and the commissar barked with all the power he could muster:
"Scram!!"
Broyd shied away, the Baobhan Sith froze and stared at Brannon, the woman staggered back, and Nathan shot the undead in the head. The bullet hit the creature exactly in the forehead and blew its head to shreds. The unsuccessful supper of the vampiress fell senseless on the table, broke it and prostrated at the feet of the winners.
"Oh my God!" The woman babbled and slid down the wall onto the seat. Broyd loosened his tie with an unsteady hand and whispered:
"And it's like this every night!"
"Well, not exactly every one," Jen said. "Half the time. Sir, this carrion won't come near you while I'm around, but they'll probably try to lure you out of the carriage, away from me."
"Great," Nathan said. "I'll be glad to be lured. How many more are there?"
"Two," the witch reported after thinking.
"Were they in the theater?" checking himself, the Commissar asked suspiciously: "Why did Longsdale send you for me?"
Jen paused, looking at him as if she was wondering if he could bear the awful truth, and then Broyd growled:
"They unhook the car!" and shot towards the vestibule. Nathan rushed there: a pair of gray shadows fluttered on the roof of the carriage, not having time to finish what he had begun. However, the car began to wobble noticeably more from side to side.
"Where to?!" The witch hissed, clutching at the Commissar. "They'll rip you with the claws and devour!"
"Poisoned," Brannon snapped. He moved to the vestibule, holding onto the compartment doors and keeping an eye out for the windows. The train raced through the night, and if the Baobhan Sith had dragged the commissar to the roof, he would still have little chance of surviving. However, why do these creatures hang around here when they have a full train of prey at their service?
"Listen," Nathan said quietly to the witch, stalking him in his wake; Broyd loomed behind her, "I have a thought..."
"Kill everyone?" Jen started up happily.
"Nearly..."
The moon was shining cheerfully through the hole in the door, and the wind was whistling. The train burst out of the dense forests onto the emerald plain, and now the shadows of the Baobhan Sith were clearly visible against the background of the grass. Nathan stood near the vestibule. It was the most dangerous place - either of the two reptiles could jump from the roof in an instant.
"But why?" the Commissar thought again. "The whole train is at their disposal, why are they sticking out here?"
"Go ahead," Broyd said quietly. Nathan jumped into the vestibule, and the chief immediately opened fire. The bullets flew into the hole, and the commissar, heart pounding, pressed his back against the wall in the narrow corridor a couple of feet away from the slamming doors. Behind them there was something like a platform made of metal lattice. One of the vampiresses curled up snugly on the clutch and sang a song at the top of her lungs. Nathan swallowed (undead all the same! What if she jumped before he fires?) and sideways approached the door.
"Hey!"
Baobhan Sith stopped chanting and stared at him with huge wine-colored eyes with friendly curiosity. She literally clung to the clutch with her hair - black curls tightly braided around the mechanism.
"Come to us!" She called melodiously, holding out her hands to Brennon. "We will dance with you during the moon!"
"Where is the second?" The commissar muttered gloomily. Overhead, something flashed: another vampire jumped from the roof of one car to the roof of another. She stood to her full height, swaying slightly in time with the movement of the train.
"Come with us," she said. "We will take you to visit!"
"Oh, come to me!" the first, below, purred. "Go with me! Dance with me!"
Her eyes flickered like amethysts, and Nathan felt himself being pulled into the bottomless wine-violet depths.
"Come with us," the second called in a deep chest voice. "And we will not take anyone away to dance."
"We want you!" the vampiress breathed out below, and the Commissar found that his legs somehow by themselves carried him close to the lattice fence. "Come with us!"
Their voices became very bewitching, and Brennon could already hear them right in his head, so loud that they drowned out the sound of the wheels. Even the wind blowing in the face was not sobering.
"Why me?" the commissar shouted. Baobhan Sith chuckled in unison.
"We need you!" They said melodiously. "It's good, it doesn't hurt, look, we'll fly straight to the moon! Come to us! Dance with us!"
"Yeah," Nathan muttered. "I'll start right now," and fell to one knee, almost twisting off the platform under the wheels.
"Peek-a-boo," Jen said ominously. The undead blazed with two fires. But one vampiress managed to dash forward on the roof of the car before crumbled to coals, and Brennon thought that he had done the right thing, not starting to shoot. While he was shooting at one, the second would have bitten...
The witch's hot hands dragged him into the carriage. Jen slammed the doors, and Broyd sternly attacked the subordinate.
"Why don't you fucking wear the protective medallion Longsdale got you?! Your whole department wears, and you are special? Well, how would you jump to this parasite - and that was the last that was ever seen!"
Brannon wiped cold perspiration from his forehead. His legs were still shaking.
"Okay," he said hoarsely, "what's the matter with the theater, and why did Longsdale send you after me?"
"Nothing," Jen said nonchalantly. "The vampires ate some actor right on the eve of the premiere with him in the lead role."
The Commissar choked.
"And to hell with him, he's not the problem," the witch snorted. "The undead hovered around your house and tracked you to the platform on the day of your departure."
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