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.
Angel turned pale, his lips tightened tightly, his eyes narrowed.
"The Process," Ragnihotri repeated. "I know that the human turns into a consultant if he survives a certain process."
"But you are not one of the consultants?" Margaret asked.
"No, dear Fraulen, I was only able to catch one and do some research. Unfortunately, the specimen escaped from me, but I could not catch the second one. I am surprised that you, highly respected sir, do not know about this."
Angel was silent. "This is what the lack of communication between them and you leads to!" Miss Sheridan thought sadly. "You should have at least corresponded, then we would have pinned this bastard down much earlier than he did us! And you wouldn't be in such a... such.…"
"So, I want to hear from you, for a start, a brief description of all stages of the Process. Let's start with the characteristics of the candidates and their preparation."
Angel was silent.
"If you hint that you will not answer, then I advise you to think three times. As a matter of fact, I am asking you very little."
"But aren't you creating undead obedient to you?" Margaret exclaimed. "What do you need consultants for?"
"Fraulen," Ragnihotri laughed, "but you can produce not only improved human, but also improved... non-human."
Angel flinched almost imperceptibly.
"Oh my God, but why?!" Miss Sheridan cried in despair. Ragnihotri stroked the rosary gently.
"Opportunities," he purred. "Opportunity and power. Isn't that why you are doing magic?"
The girl froze in amazement. That thought had never crossed her mind.
"Power," Redfern said quietly. "You see, Margaret, all these brutes are the same."
"And you, undoubtedly, are fighting only for the idea," the master of the undead replied derisively. "You're so rich. However, you have received a large inheritance - after all your family in a single rush disappeared from the face of the earth. Enough, however." For the first time impatience sounded in Ragnihotri's voice. "We've wasted enough time. Answer."
"What do you know about my family?" Angel asked, giving him a hard look.
"The Process, Herr Redfern, let's get back to The Process. I answered your questions in great detail, now it's your turn."
"What do you know about my family?" Redfern repeated more slowly. His voice became lower with rage.
"Don't," Margaret whispered, in a vain attempt to calm him down.
"I will certainly share my knowledge with you, dear Herr, but only in exchange for yours. In essence, I am only interested in one question so far..."
"You know too little, wretch, about my family," Angel hissed deafly, "and about me too!"
Ragnihotri drummed his fingers on his knee.
"It seems to me that you are not quite aware of your position," he finally said. "Leidner, get on with Fraulen."
The blood drained from Margaret's face, and her heart sank and stopped.
"B-but..." the girl babbled; Leidner grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him. "Don't touch me! Angel!"
Three of them rushed to Redfern at once, and Margaret saw nothing more: the vile red snoot obscured everything. The sailor stank unbearably of sweat, tobacco and dirty clothes. From fear and disgust, the girl's legs gave way, she heard Angel's short fierce cry, someone else screamed in pain, and then Leidner pressed his mouth to hers. Margaret felt sick, especially when he shoved his tongue into her mouth. This sour, unbearable taste! She let out a strangled cry and bit the critter's tongue, blindly scratching the filthy snoot. Leidner let out a muffled scream, pushed Miss Sheridan away, and slapped her across the face. Margaret fell to the floor and hurriedly crawled away from the sailor.
Next to her lay a corpse with a crushed larynx, a sailor writhing and howling wildly near him, holding his eyes - blood was flowing thickly from under his fingers, four Dorgernians grabbed Angel, and the bearded Mazandranman calmly watched them from the height of his height. Leidner, spitting bloody saliva, lunged at Margaret and pulled up her skirts.
The girl's face was filled with a burning color of shame and anger. Leidner laughed, pointing to the breeches under her skirts, and pulled Margaret closer, wrapping her hem around his arm. She had never been so disgusted or humiliated, but when the sailor parted her legs with the toe of his boot, Margaret's fear instantly burned out in a blazing rage, and she kicked the critter in the groin with all her might, as Angel had taught her.
Leidner screamed, bent down in three deaths, hiding behind his hands, and staggered back. Margaret jumped up. Her mentor fought off three sailors, and the fourth suddenly rushed at her from behind and knocked her to the floor. The girl screamed, wriggling furiously, but he leaned on her with his whole body, tore at her blouse - buttons jumped across the floor - and squeezed her breast. As smelly and disgusting as Leidner! Even worse, because he pressed her to the floor with his whole body and crawled his fingers in her bodice. Margaret squirmed under him, hissing chokingly. Leidner barked something hoarsely from above, and the sailor jerked the girl to her knees.
Leidner hobbled closer and kicked her in the ribs. Margaret gasped in pain and hung in the sailor's arms, gasping for air. She was thrown to the floor again, someone grabbed her by the hair and pressed her head to the floor, someone's hand slipped between her legs and squeezed painfully. The switchblade clicked. Margaret gathered the rest of her strength, jerked violently, freed her hand, grabbed the sailor's finger and twisted it so that there was a crunch.
The Dorgernian screamed, and Leidner grabbed the girl's hair and jerked her head up. The knife flashed near her eye, and then there was a loud, imperious shout. Something orange flashed on the side, and the sailors suddenly released Margaret.
She raised on her elbows and lifted her head. Next to the first corpse, a second one was already lying, with its neck broke, and nearby, the Dorgnernian was still howling, crouched and covering his bloody face with his hands. The two remaining critters were barely able to hold Angel in place. The mentor struggled, but fainter and fainter, glowing orange patterns entangled him. Ragnihotri held out his hand to him - the patterns on it, exactly the same, also glowed and moved, rising above the skin.
"Well," the master of the undead said, and lowered his hand. The orange lace is gone; he gave a curt order to the sailors in Darginian, and they released Angel. He dropped to one knee and put his hand on the floor, breathing hard. With a faint groan, Margaret darted towards him, and the mentor pulled her to him. The girl cowered in his arms, trembling, and gave a little sob.
"Don't," Angel whispered. "Not here."
Margaret wiped her eyes with the palm of her hand and gingerly felt him. Thank God he seemed to be intact - no broken bones, only abrasions and bruises.
The sailor's howling died down; soft, almost noiseless footsteps and the rustle of long robes were heard. Ragnihotri stopped in front of Angel. A huge Mazandranman stood nearby.
"Is such vitality really," the master of the undead inquired insinuatingly, "is it also inherited?"
Angel was silent. Margaret also lost her desire to talk, and she only clung closer to her mentor.
"You killed two and ripped out the eyes of a third," Ragnihotri continued, "but fortunately, brahman magic can do a lot. And now you will be convinced of this the hard way."
***
Farlan tugged at the commissar's sleeve and whispered:
"Where is she go?" and, after thinking for a second, added: "Why is she a woman?!"
"Because," the commissar hissed, lay down by the window and carefully looked out. To his unpleasant surprise, the vampires showed the beginnings of tactical thinking and retreated into the rear of the crowd, hiding behind the backs of people. There were sixty or seventy of them in total. They surrounded the store with a dense ring and so far showered it with stones and bricks, which were plentiful in Kintagel.
"They'll kill her!" the director of the theater was indignant in a whisper. "How could you let her go!"
Jen stood in front of the entrance to their hideout, arms crossed over her chest and swaying in her heels. The stones and bricks did not harm her, as they deviated to the sides, as if they feared for their life. Although most likely Jen somehow deflected the blows with an effort of will. Well, Nathan thought, she must be capable of that.
Convinced that the shelling was ineffectual, the crowd roared indignantly and rushed to the attack like the damn Deir infantry - almost step for step. The vampires sat around the tops of the ruins and watched with curiosity. Or did the master pass his will to the damned people through them?
Jen raised her hand; the running people were met by a huge tongue of flame spreading around the house. Farlan gasped and crossed himself with his pistol. Screams of rage were instantly replaced by screams of pain; the first victims fell to the ground and began to roll on it, in vain attempts to bring down the inextinguishable flame.
"Jen!" Brennon snapped, leaping to his feet and rushing to the door. "Don't kill them!"
He burst out onto the sagging porch and immediately jumped back, covering his face with his hands: the air around him was so hot that it was impossible even to breathe. Recoiling behind a broken shop window, Nathan blinked, looked out and, dumbfounded, realized that Jen was slowly walking towards people. Golden tongues of transparent fire flowed to her feet from the burning people, poured into her body, and the girl became with each step higher, brighter and less and less like a human. A stream of flame poured from under her hand and spirals around the house, devouring people one by one. An inhuman howl was heard in the crackling fire, the hot air filled with the acrid smell of burnt meat.
"Jen!" Brennon breathed hoarsely. The shop was surrounded by a flaming funnel that rose above its roof. Baobhan Sith darted through the ruins, squealed, but now they were afraid to jump down and go through the fire. The golden-scarlet figure of the witch glided smoothly over the ground, and now the screams of the dying could not be heard: people in her flame flared up like matches and burned out in seconds.
The Commissar had to retreat into the depths of the shop - the air around the building burned like boiling water, the walls began to crackle from the heat, and the smell of burning came from above.
"This way!" Farlan shouted, Nathan turned around - the director crawled behind the miraculously survived counter and waved the pistol from there. The ground began to smoke in the street around the shop, the porch began to melt, and Brennon hurried to take cover behind the counter. The store was already unbearably hot, but it was still possible to breathe. The light of the flame flooded it, as if the house stood in the middle of a huge forge.
"What the hell is this?!" Farlan howled, barely Brennon had settled behind the counter. "Who did you bring here?!"
The crowd ended. The flaming edge of the fiery funnel came close to the Baobhan Sith. The vampires screeched to flee, but the funnel suddenly swayed and with a loud sigh was heard in breadth and sky. The red and gold flames consumed the undead, dyed the patterns on their bodies orange, then brown, then black, and finally squeezed in a hot embrace so that the vampires exploded into clouds of ash.
Brannon jumped to his feet and yelled at the top of his lungs.
"Jen, that's enough! Wake up already! Jen, can you hear me?!"
"She will fry us here!" Farlan shouted. Nathan tore off his coat, threw it over his head and rushed to the door.
"Jen! Stop it! Can you hear me, Jenny?!"
The clothes began to smolder, the commissar suffocated in the scorching air and backed away. There was nothing around but a a blinding scarlet fire funnel, and Nathan could no longer hear himself in the growing roar of the flame. An unbearable heat washed over him from head to toe. Gasping for breath, the commissar scrambled behind the counter and fell on all fours. Fire crept up to them from all sides, burning the air. But when Farlan was already hissing prayer for the dying, the flame suddenly stirred up and died away. The theater director redoubled his efforts in recitation, and Nathan hissed almost audibly:
"Jen?"
His eyes were watering, but it still seemed to him that in the scarlet veil he made out a transparent amber silhouette. The funnel suddenly stretched out to the heavens, shuddered and spilled around, flooding Kintagel with a red-orange wave. Heat hit Brennon's head like a cast-iron skillet, and darkness fell as hot as hell.
...a cool hand lay on Nathan's forehead, and the Commissar could hardly make out Valentina's voice, sounding as if from afar:
"He's already all right. Just a big heatstroke."
"And another?" the low baritone of the consultant came.
"Just fainting. Both are alive and well."
Brannon stirred, blinked, saw through the fog in his eyes Valentina, at a distance - Longsdale, and then a huge red muzzle went over his face with a hot, rough, wet and wide, like a towel, tongue. When the victim groaned and twitched, the hound sat down next to him with a satisfied look, "I did my best." Valentina took his place over Brannon.
"Nathan, how are you feeling? That is, I am sure that you are healthy, but..."
"Where is Jen?"
"Here," Longsdale said. "Don't be afraid for her, this is just an initiation."
"What does she have?" Brennon asked stupidly.
"Growing up. I took care of her when she was a child, and now she's finally grown up."
At the consultant's feet, Nathan finally made out the edge of an ash-strewn crater. The commissar jumped to his feet and rushed towards it, barely noticing that the air had somehow cooled down.
"Nathan!" Valentina shouted.
The hound ran after him. Brannon slid to the bottom of the crater. Jen lay in the middle, dusted with ash, naked, pale gold, with unusually crimson hair. So hot that Nathan burned himself when he barely tried to lift her. The hound grabbed his pant leg with its teeth and pulled him back, but the commissar threw off his coat, somehow wrapped the girl in it, and, hissing from the burns, grabbed her in his arms. Only when he got up did he realize that a fire alarm was ringing in the next street, and hooves and wheels rumbled on the pavement in the distance. Surely the fire brigade...
At the same moment he remembered that not a small part of this ashes around had recently been the townspeople of Blackwhit, and without a word he gave the witch to Longsdale when he, having descended, decided to take it.
"He saw everything," the consultant said.
"What else is he?"
"Master of the undead."
Brannon glanced back at Farlan, who was still unconscious, at the burned-out circle near the shop, and muttered angrily:
"Wonderful. Now I want to see him too. And hurry up!"
***
Ragnihotri extended his hand to the eyeless sailor. Orange patterns flowed down and wrapped around his head. The sailor let out such a cry that Margaret jerked all over. A minute later, the master of the undead retreated, and the blinded sailor fell silent and hesitantly rose to his feet. Orange lights flickered in his eye sockets. Angel let out a sigh.
"Impressive opportunities, right?" Ragnihotri grunted and nodded to Leidner. He grabbed Margaret and pulled her away from Angel. She screamed shrilly and rushed to her mentor. The Mazandranman grabbed Redfern like a rag doll, slung it over his shoulder, and strode into the back of the barn. Leidner dragged the girl after him. The sailors stomped behind them, and Ragnihotri stepped sedately in front of the whole procession. He also lit a fire in another bowl, and the light illuminated some strange device like an inclined bench with belts around the edges.
"My God..." Margaret cringed. This is what Angel saw in the dark, but... what is it?
The mentor suddenly stared into her eyes and did not take his dark, burning gaze from her, while the Mazandranman laid him down on the board, and the blinded sailor tightened the belts. Angel looked at the girl so piercingly, as if he wanted to inspire her with some idea, and Margaret leaned forward to him.
"Maybe cut his clothes," Leidner said. "It'll get dirty..."
"Nothing," Ragnihotri said. "We will limit ourselves to one leg for now. This one."
"What are you going to…" the girl screamed in dismay.
"Quiet!" Angel interrupted her imperiously. Miss Sheridan fell silent. The sailor rolled up Angel's right trouser leg just above the knee.
"I think you are familiar with this device," the master of the undead said; a mocking grin appeared on Redfern's lips. "You will save your Fraulein from an extremely unpleasant sight if you condescend to promise to behave decently, not to kill my employees without any reason, and finally - to a conversation on a topic of interest to me."
Angel stared at him in silence.
"Do you really think you'll endure it with dignity?" Ragnihotri asked mockingly. "You can't even imagine what awaits you."
"You too," Angel replied. The Mazandranman squeezed his leg between two planks and tightened the clamps. Margaret bit her lip nervously. God, let Angel say something!
"Come on, look, whore," Leidner hissed and added a few words that she didn't understand. Rangihotri stepped back and nodded to the Mazandranman. He took up a hammer and a long stake; Margaret lost her breath for a moment, and everything floated in front of her.
"My God, don't touch him!!"
"Silence!" Angel snapped. Then there was a thud, the sound of ripping flesh and the crack of bone, but there was no scream. The smell of blood filled Margaret's nose, she gasped and hung in Leidner's arms. He shook the girl, but it seemed to her that she was fainting, until she again heard a punch and crack. Margaret closed her eyes. She was trembling violently, and her teeth were chattering so hard that she almost bit through her tongue, when she wanted to shout, "Stop, please, please don't touch him!"
She moved her lips numb with fear. Oh Lord, these sounds again! And the smell of blood, so thick that she's going to vomit! Leidner hissed something in her ear, twisted her arms, but the pain reached her slowly, as if her body was far away, not here, and... she did not hear Angel's voice.
"Angel..." Margaret called barely audible, pleadingly, but he did not answer; Lord, why?! What's wrong with him, God, is he really... The girl opened her eyes. Everything blurred and trembled — the Mazandran, and Ragnihotri, and the sailors around, but in the silence that followed, she finally made out a heavy, hoarse breathing. Thank God! Alive!
Of course, alive, you fool, why should they torture a corpse!
But if he is alive and conscious... oh Lord, let him at least not be conscious!
"Come on, Herr Redfern," she heard, "say something already. Shout at least. Indeed, you will feel better!"
Everything went dark in front of Margaret. The feeling that flared in the very depths of her heart was too black for hatred: burning, all-consuming, transparent, like a glow over a fire. Stronger than pain, more than hatred - it burned her from the inside, dried her in an instant, burning everything that no longer mattered without a trace. No pain, no fear, no doubt, no tears - only a fierce, incinerating, wild rage.
"Come on!" Leidner hissed. "Yap it loud! He will answer you!"
There was another hammer banging on wood, a wet chomping sound, a crunch - but Angel was silent. And she also said nothing. She just stared at him, never taking her eyes off him, taking in the scent of blood, remembering the sight of split bones, torn flesh - and each of his tormentors.
"All right," Ragnihotri said after a pause. "Let's try it differently."
The Mazandranman threw the bloody stake to the floor. The blood glistened like varnish, and shards of bone whitened in it. The master of the undead reached out over Angel's shattered leg and hummed something melodiously in Mazandranian. Orange patterns dripped from his palm, entwined the remains of the leg. Redfern exhaled loudly and arched on the bench, pulling on the straps. He was still silent, all that was heard was the crunching of the bone growing together and the chomping of the converging muscles and skin. When it was over, Angel lay flat on the bench. Round bald spots remained in the hair on his leg.
"Not too pleasant without pain reliever, right?" The master of the undead asked. "Now we can do it all over again until you finally condescend to talk."
Angel didn't answer. Ragnihotri drummed his fingers on the bench and walked towards Margaret. She watched his approach from under her brows. He stopped in front of the girl, took her chin, lifted her head and twisted her a little.
"But perhaps young Fraulein will persuade you..."
Margaret stared at Ragnihotri for half a second, and then twisted and dug her teeth into his palm, closer to his thumb.
The master of the undead let out a high-pitched shriek and darted away, but Margaret gritted her teeth harder and harder with vengeful joy, swallowing the blood pouring into her mouth. It's finally hurting him too! It really hurts! She sank her teeth deeper, savoring the squeal of the "mighty teacher." The victim wriggled, Leidner tried to help, his grip loosened, and Margaret broke free. She darted towards Angel and froze behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. Blood was still filling her mouth and running down her chin.
Ragnihotri's screams turned into groans with yelps. He backed away from Leidner, cradling his bitten palm, and stared in disbelief at Miss Sheridan. Margaret spat his blood, wiped her lips and smiled.
"Schickse!" Ragnihotri shouted. Angel let out a short, weak laugh.
"What are you screaming like that?" He whispered hoarsely. "Just a small bite."
Margaret wiped sweat from his forehead with her sleeve. Noticing a Mazandranman out of the corner of her eye, she was surprised to find that he was grinning mockingly and contentedly.
Ragnihotri whispered over the bite, patterns wrapped around the wound, and it began to tighten.
"Let's see what you have to say when this fotze replaces you here!" He hissed. "You will become more talkative when in her leg..." he suddenly fell silent, staring into space over Margaret's head with an absent gaze. A confused, almost frightened expression appeared on his face. The owner of the undead shook his head, threw something briefly in Dorgernian and Mazandranian, turned and rushed away. The sailors followed him. Leidner was the last to leave, now and then looking back at Margaret.
"Mad bitch," he muttered goodbye. The girl snorted. The Mazandran giant watched her intently.
"Waju," suddenly he said with authority, looking at Margaret with approval. "Bahadu-ohr waju!*" and disappeared into the darkness of the barn.
* brave virgin
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