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85.18% Consultant. Redfern Tigers. Vol. 4 / Chapter 23: Chapter 23

章節 23: Chapter 23

15th September

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

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

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

"Is the investigation complete, sir?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

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

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

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

"Can you lie still at all?"

"I can, but ..."

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you have any medicines?"

"Why do you need it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

"What is it?"

Longsdale smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which bank?"

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

"Have you been to the castle?"

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

"Which city?"

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

"Where is that?"

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

"What the hell were you doing in Esmerana?"

"Before The Process or after?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snappish put his muzzle on the consultant's knee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Longsdale frowned and finally looked up at the Commissar.

"Can you find the Redferns?"

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

"Do you want to see them?"

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

"Yes. I want."

16th September

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Margaret..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it unpleasant for you?"

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then why are you angry?"

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

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

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

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

"Then?" Margaret pushed him.

"Then I'll give you a book."

"Which one?"

"Anatomical atlas."

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

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

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

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

"Then show me."

He covered his eyes with his palm and muttered:

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

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

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

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

Angel stared at her with piercing gaze and said slowly:

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

"How did you get here?"

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

Margaret was quiet. He looked at her expectantly.

"I have to tell Mom and Dad."

Angel frowned, looked away, and lowered his head.

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

"You did not force me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


next chapter

章節 24: Chapter 24

17th September

The last sailors from the Kaiserstern set out this morning. The case could be considered closed. Nathan, of course, did not like this result, but he could not do anything about it. Almost the entire department was still raking in the aftermath of the city revolt, which aroused nostalgia for revolutionary times and the bullet-in-place decree for criminal offenses. Besides, even if Brennan wasn't busy from morning to night, he still couldn't figure out what to do with Roismann. He has not yet seen, not only a way to bring this asshole to court, but even a way to take him to this very court.

"Sir, Mrs. Sheridan is here," the attendant reported, and Brannon nodded fatefully. She'll get to him anyway. She certainly has something to say, although the Commissar would prefer that she read out her opinion somewhere else.

"Good afternoon, Martha," he began with some wariness. "How's Peggy? Sorry I didn't come..."

"She's gone again," Martha said quietly. Nathan lowered the papers, which covered himself like a shield, got up and sat his sister on a chair. She squeezed Brennon's hand tightly.

"Why?" Mrs. Sheridan whispered. "What pulls her after him? Why, after all that had happened to her, did she go to him again?"

Nathan was silent. He didn't even try to pretend to be surprised - because he knew that Peggy would still stay with Redfern. The Commissar had not doubted this since he saw them on the ship.

"I've never even seen him," Martha finally looked into his eyes. "Tell me why she left us again? Do we really love her less than this... this her..."

"That's not the point," Brennon replied as gently as possible. "Not that she does not love you or thinks that you do not love her. It's just that she... she... Martha, you did the same when you met Joseph."

"Oh my God," the sister muttered, "why do they always do what we're trying to protect them from?"

Brannon hugged her carefully.

"I tried so hard," Martha said stifled, "I did everything so that no one would remember that her mother was from the village, so that she would be like a lady! So that what happened to us would never happen to her! Why, why doesn't she need all this?"

"She needs it," the commissar consoled her awkwardly. - She just, well ... probably heredity ...

"Joseph married me, but this one? He would never marry her! What will she do when she gets pregnant? Where can she go if..." Martha gasped convulsively. "What if! He will play enough and throw her out like a cat, and we don't even know where to look for her!"

"She will find us herself. Peggy can stand up for herself."

He taught her, Nathan thought: he was no longer sure that the pyromaniac would kick Peg out, even if he knocked her up. The look, full of agonizing anguish, with which Angel followed her when she left with her family, firmly engraved in the Commissar's memory. And the way he looked at her after he tore the Dorgern sailor to pieces...

"How is Joseph?" Brannon asked. Martha wiped her eyes with a glove.

"Good. Better than I feared. She said she would visit us, and Joe seemed resigned. He seemed to know that she would leave."

What an unexpected magnanimity on the part of the pyromaniac. Before that, this guy allowed two letters a month - one to her uncle, one to her mother, and he obviously read them.

"Maybe it's for the best," Martha said suddenly, sniffled and reached into her reticule for a handkerchief. Brannon handed her his. "Jesus, Nathan, she warmed up a cup of tea with a touch of her finger! She didn't even think about what she was doing, she just did it and that's it! She lit the fireplace just like that, with her hand! Nathan," the sister grabbed his elbow, "is she all right? This man, he didn't do anything to her? He didn't turn her into something… inhuman?"

"No," the commissar reassured her, although he felt cold inside. Such a thought had never occurred to him, but yet the pyromaniac is quite capable of it! After all, how could a stupid girl learn magic and spells just like that?

"How would you know? You'd think you'd know about it. Better ask a professional. Mister Longsdale, he knows about this, doesn't he?"

"Yes. I will ask, definitely."

There was another knock on the door, and the officer on duty coughed and announced that the Commissar was waiting in the interrogation room in the Hudson case. Martha got up, straightened her hat and returned the handkerchief to Nathan. Brannon decided to escort her to the porch and grabbed the file with the case of a family of robbers passing on the family business by inheritance.

When the Commissar and his sister went out onto the porch, Valentina, who was receiving boxes of tea from the vendors, waved her hand to Nathan and affably nodded to Mrs. Sheridan. Martha bowed slightly in response, looked thoughtfully from the widow to the commissar and said:

"Well, I'm clear about you. But what does she see in you?"

"Ghhhh..." Brannon backed away to the saving door. His sister glared at him like an eagle and asked dryly:

"I hope you've finally taken at least some steps?"

"Um... well... Missis van Allen started talking about it..."

"Missis van Allen!" Martha snorted. "Are you a man or a louse? The beautiful woman can't wait for you to finally drag her to church, and you? You don't even need to make children - there are already five ready-made!"

Brennon felt himself blushing like a brick during the firing, fumbled for the doorknob and hastily ducked under the department's saving canopy.

***

"I finally got the letter." Longsdale handed Brennon a rather plump envelope. "I was answered by one of my Dorgern colleagues, to whom I had written from Breswain. He was helping the consultant whom we now know was captured by Roismann. Then this disappearance was a mystery, and even for the victim herself. Roismann managed to completely hide both his face and the place of imprisonment from the caught consultant."

"Come on, come on!" the commissar perked up, put a cup of tea on the table by the fireplace and pulled out a letter from the envelope. The sheets of paper were filled with two different handwritings. - Here, as I understand it, is the report of the injured consultant attached?

"Yes. Read on."

"In Dorgernian?"

"Oh yeah, I'm sorry." Longsdale held his hand over the stack of sheets of paper and muttered an incantation. Incomprehensible words were transformed into Riadian, and Nathan eagerly plunged into reading. In the letter, Gerhard Bergmann told how one day his colleague appeared on the threshold of his house, who, as he believed, had left the country, since he had not heard anything about her for a long time.

"Regina Oettinger?! Who is it?!"

"The consultant who fell victim to Roismann."

"But she's a woman!"

Longsdale frowned, puzzled.

"Yes, and what?"

"But she's a consultant!" the commissar didn't calm down. "How can a woman be a consultant?!"

"At the same time," Longsdale said calmly. "There are thirty-eight women among my colleagues. Why does this make you so nervous?"

"Oh my God," Nathan muttered. It never occurred to him... He hardly concentrated on the letter, and then he like was hit by a magical current: what if the pyromaniac is making a future consultant out of Peggy?!

"Redfern! Lord, suddenly Roismann was not mistaken, but simply confused the person?!" Suddenly the pyromaniac changes Pegg to..."

"Miss Sheridan hasn't changed a bit. She is the same human she was."

"Why are you so sure?"

"I will always distinguish a normal person from someone who has undergone magical influence. So is Raiden."

"But she conjures..."

"This can be learned. Like playing the violin. It is difficult and not given to everyone, but it is possible. Will you read?"

The hound gave Brannon a mocking glare and spread blissfully across the carpet like a red puddle. The commissar again tried to delve into the neat lines. Where are all these timid, meek women who are afraid to stick their noses out of the house without a husband?

Miss Oettinger did not know the face of her captor, nor the place where he was holding her, but she tried to remember all the details of her imprisonment. Most of them gave Brennon a chill on his skin - you can't do such things with a woman, even if she is a consultant! You can't do this with anyone...

"Roismann tried to reconstruct the process based on its outcome, that is, the available consultant," Longsdale explained. "By that time, he had probably already tracked down Mr. Redfern, and when he had no success with Fraulen Oettinger, he decided to catch someone who knew the process itself."

It looks like Roismann loosened his guard for joy, and Miss Oettinger managed to escape. She got out of his laboratories along the bed of an underground river, which supplied Roismann with water.

"What is spectrum of distortion?" Brennon asked, reading to Miss Oettinger's conclusions, which he barely understood about a quarter. "What do you mean, "a wide spectrum of distortion includes a space of at least one square mile"?"

Longsdale thought for a long time, obviously choosing the simplest words to explain, and finally said:

"Roismann disguises his habitat. The spectrum of distortion is how much and in what aspects the masking enchantment affects reality in order to hide the object. In the center of this square is Roismann's laboratory. But no one will see it until they cross the border of distortion."

"But what prevented Miss Oettinger from looking back and remembering where she was?"

"You did not understand. This enchantments distorts visible reality so much that you don't even know where to look for this border. They form a "blind spot" - when you reach the border, you will involuntarily turn aside and do not even realize that you have turned. You will wander near the border for years and never cross it, because you will always turn off. As soon as Fraulen Oettinger crossed the border from the inside, she immediately ceased to understand where this border was. Do you understand a little?" Longsdale asked almost desperately.

"Yeah," the commissar said with detachment. This thing the grandmothers in the village called "wandering" - but who knew that it really existed?!

"As a matter of fact," Jen's voice sounded harshly over Brennon's shoulder, "even the consultants cannot overcome this obstacle, otherwise they would have disassembled his nest the stone by stone long ago. But I'm not a consultant. And not a human at all. You can't fool me with such a trick."

Brannon turned to her. The girl stood in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest, her chin lifted up proudly and she almost pleadingly looked the Commissar in the eyes. No matter what witch she was and no matter what she said, she perfectly understood what the death of sixty-two people meant. She desperately wanted to be useful - but she surely understood that nothing could be done about what she had done.

"So you can see this border?"

"Yes."

"Good," Brannon said, and the witch perked up happily. "The only problem is that it takes a long time to scour the whole of Dorgern. You need to know at least roughly in what area to look for."

"The Kaiserstern sailors mentioned that Roismann was sailing his ship to Dessenberg. This is the southeast of Dorgern, in the neighboring province, white talcum is mined, which Roismann used. With the help of the scales of the sea serpent, I managed to more or less trace its path. Here," Longsdale put the map on the table. He circled with a red pencil the area of the coast south of Dessenberg. "Approximate drop off site."

It will be good to get the pyromaniac to work! Brannon thought suddenly, and was immediately ashamed. He left Redfern in such a disassembled state that it would be simply inhumane to demand any help from him. Although Roismann squeezed Angel's painful places hard enough to inflame him with a thirst for revenge.

"Not bad," the commissar said in thought. The hound put its muzzle on his knee and stared heartfelt into his eyes. "I am sure that Roismann will try to dock so as to be as close to his home as possible."

"Not a fact," the consultant shook his head. "Don't forget about teleportation."

"If he is capable of it after the turbulence on the waves riding on a snake," Jen objected. "Although the lousy bastard could hide a couple of amulets, which he used, barely crawled out onto land."

"But then we can track their use. Even if Roismann has erased his tracks, I will be able to find them."

"We can't have to count on official support," Brannon said. "Tell me, can you involve at least one more consultant in the case?"

"And then there will be six of us!" Jen exclaimed in mocking enthusiasm. "Counting the animals."

Longsdale nodded, "I'll get in touch with the Dorgern consultants. Roismann is a serious danger, and I am sure that they will not refuse to help us."

"We will need ammunition, weapons and a map of the area, transport to the place and back. Stock of medicines for urgent care."

"Will you take him alive?" The witch interrupted the Commissar unexpectedly. He pressed his lips together, paused, and finally said through set teeth:

"No."

***

Broyd took an exasperated drag on his cigar, fumigated Nathan with the fragrant smoke, and asked:

"Why are you so sure that Roismann did not drown on the way home?"

"Because shit doesn't sink," the commissar muttered. "Even if he died by the grace of God, his lair must be cleaned, otherwise you never know what undead sticks out there, gnawing through the bars on the cages out of boredom."

"Four of you," the chief of police said menacingly.

"Maybe there will be more of us."

"Will you take Miss Sheridan to increase your combat capability?"

"No, but Longsdale will arrange for the help of Dorgern's consultants."

"In the form of another gentleman with a hound?"

Brannon was troubled by a vague thought of Miss Ettinger, but dismissed her as clearly stupid.

"I can't talk you out of it, can I?" Broyd said.

"Roismann will not stop there and wants to take revenge. And he is a stubborn, persistent guy, with a lot of opportunities to shit."

"Great argument," the chief muttered. "Well, go... but the vacation is at your expense!"

"Of course, sir," the Commissar answered meekly, and deducted from future expenses this month a new kitchen door. When he went down to his floor, on the way to his office, he was vigilantly intercepted by the attendant.

"Sir, you have a visitor there."

"Did you let a visitor into my office? What the heck?!"

"He himself! I... I didn't even have time to move! And he won't let me in! I have tried! The door won't open!"

"What does he look like?" The Commissar said through set teeth, already guessing who honored him with a visit.

"Tall, thin," the attendant swallowed. "Such with eyes..."

Brennon silently walked to the door, banged his fist into it, and it opened smoothly. Redfern shook his leg boredly as he sat in the Commissar's chair and leafed through the autopsy report of Mrs. Austin, the victim of arsenic poisoning.

"Free," Nathan muttered and slammed the door. Outside were heard the departing steps of the attendant, quickly turning into a run.

"Back on your feet, I see," Brannon inquired grimly. The pyromaniac was still thinner than usual, but he looked quite cheerful. He tossed the folder onto the table and snorted.

"You do this nonsense here from morning till night? Are you getting paid that much for it?"

This is the joy of recognition, the commissar thought sourly. Now the pyromaniac was behaving completely as usual.

"Where is Peggy?"

"At home, safe. At my place," Redfern repeated with pressure, got up and put a rather large suitcase on the table. "Everything we need is here."

"We?"

"Me, you, Longsdale with his hound and witch. You do not intend to forgive Roismann with truly Christian meekness?"

"And you, then, want to help us catch the asshole."

"No," Redfern said through set teeth, "I want to skin him alive, but I need assistants."

Brannon chuckled. Apparently, a personal meeting with Roismann somewhat diminished the pyromaniac's confidence in his abilities.

"We are already dealing with this issue."

"As successful as in the case of Arandhati?" Redfern raised an eyebrow, snapped the locks on the suitcase, opened it and turned it to the Commissar. Nathan gazed silently at the contents for a while, and then cautiously asked:

"What the hell is this?"

"Some of the equipment that I designed for humans. It is designed to protect and increase the combat capability of the average human. Take, for example, a means of communication." Redfern fished a sinuous object out of his suitcase. "Put it on, fasten it around the ear and mouth..."

"Right on the head, or what?" Nathan asked warily. He still wore the amulet. But not on the head!

"It won't prevent you from thinking," the pyromaniac assured him sarcastically. "It is absolutely harmless," Angel threw his hat on the arm of the chair, put on a silvery gyrus and poked it with his finger: "Here you have to talk, from here - listen."

Nathan studied two bumps closely, a red one for talking, a green one for listening.

"How does it work?"

The pyromaniac gazed at the commissar with big eyes, like a cat at a mouse, paused and answered almost meekly:

"It takes a long time to explain."

"Try like for the dumb and shorter."

"I can't explain in short everything about the development of science and magic over the past one hundred and fifty years. Do you know what radio waves are and how magical currents affect them?"

"Well, it won't fry the brains when it blows?"

"It won't explode!" Redfern was indignant. "Excellent, repeatedly tested thing!"

"Uh-huh, I hope at least the last tester survived? And what's that?"

The pyromaniac snatched a more familiar object from under the Commissar's nose - wide handcuffs on a short chain. Dark blue signs flickered from beneath the varnish covering the metal.

"This is for Roismann. An analogue of the handcuffs in which he held us."

Brannon perked up. He liked the handcuffs - they were fastened with an outlandish lock, which almost completely merged with the surface. Redfern added reluctantly:

"Although I don't know how effective they will be against Roismann, who is covered in bloody mehndi like moldy cheese. Margaret and I have rummaged through quite a few books about Mazandran magic, but it's too complicated and, um... unfamiliar. Quite different principles."

"What exactly?"

"Everything."

Brannon scraped the sideburns and rolled his trial balloon.

"It's better not to do this here. I propose to meet at Longsdale's tomorrow and discuss everything. Do you understand that he will bring Dorgern consultants to the case, and they will see you if you go with us?"

"Yes," Redfern said through clenched teeth and put everything back into the suitcase. "Miss Sheridan gave me some arguments for... for some change in my relationship with them. In the end, if I knew right away that one of the consultants had been kidnapped, it remains to be seen how our first meeting would have ended for Roismann."

"Why don't you love them so much? You have one matter in common, you are engaged in the production of a damn heap of their amulets, weapons and other toys, so what's the reason?"

Redfern clicked the locks on the suitcase and placed it under Brennon's desk.

"This is for you. Consider it a gift for saving my skin. When will we meet?"

"Tomorrow at nine in the morning."

Redfern took up his hat and cane. The cane, Brennon noticed, was the same one the pyromaniac had worn before. A thin, barely visible ring on the finger - too. How did he get them from the sunken Arandhati?

"How are you?" The Commissar asked. "How does Peggy feel?"

"Not bad," Angel replied with the same restraint. "She's still tired and doesn't sleep very well, but she's much better."

"And you?"

"Why are you asking?" Redfern inquired suspiciously. "Do you think I'm going to faint from exhaustion?"

"Because people do that. Because I don't want you to waste all my efforts to get you out of the ass. This is called taking care."

"But..."

"You also practice that with Margaret. Is not it?"

Angel did not answer, turned away and left without saying goodbye.


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