Chapter 10 - the Roaring Lion

Night of 6th January

Margaret fidgeted in the chair. She had to wait without light, so as not to attract attention, and therefore she dozed away. She even moved the chair to the window so that the cold would not let her fall asleep. But all the same, when a knock suddenly came from the dressing room at the door, the girl soared from her place like a frightened bird, and such a rapid stream of thoughts swept through in her head (from a bogy in the closet to night robbers) that it almost burst.

"My God," Margaret whispered, opening wide the door to the dressing room, "where did you come from here?!"

Her gaze fell on the tall mirror. The girl remembered that she laced a corset here, and burst into paint: "Shame on you!"

"I walk through the mirrors and not peek through them," the night visitor said calmly and sat down on the edge of the dressing table. "Especially at the innocent girls I meet at night."

Margaret felt a blush about to burn her face.

"You have ten minutes," Redfern said.

"For what?"

"Questions."

The girl sank down on the pouf. In the darkness, she somehow saw a holster fastened to his thigh and bottles in the cells of the belt. Redfern had no cane, coat, or hat.

"What is it?" Margaret reached her hand for the flasks, but pulled down herself in time. It's indecent!

"Potions, powders and tinctures."

"Why do you need them?"

"I need to protect myself. Haven't you seen... Oh yes," he muttered,"you don't remember, and I forget about it all the time. "

Suspicion aroused again in Miss Sheridan.

"What should I call you?"

"As you wish," the guest said indifferently.

"Mister Redfern, sir?" Margaret requested venomously. Something suddenly changed in the expression of his dark eyes.

"Angel. It is shorter."

The dryness of his tone confused the girl. As if she hurt him, but did not have time to understand what.

"Sorry," Margaret said. "I attacked you so much because of the Farrels, but I..." she bit her lip. "Actually, I thought you fainted somewhere on the street because you overdid it because of... It's terribly stupid, right?"

Redfern leaned forward and ran his fingers over her arm. His eyes softened.

"Worried," he whispered. "Farrels were inevitable victims. Even if I drove off the ifrit from their home, evil spirit would get to the next. Or until the next. Until I ran out of strength."

"Then why did you let him out?" Miss Sheridan aske, uncertainly clutching his warm, dry fingers, as if she let go, he would not answer her.

"Let him out," Angel frowned. "I did not let him out - I put a spell-lock on the door of the church. In this way, I hoped to lure the other half of the Hilkarn Strangler out of the hole."

"Did you kill Father Grace before he told you everything?"

"And you have no doubt that I pulled everything out of him," Angel remarked with a grin. "But Grace knew neither his name nor his real face."

"How it is?" it burst out of Margaret. "How can you not know the face?"

"Potions. Charms. Amulets. A lot of opportunities for an intelligent person, and number two is by no means a fool."

"So you locked up the ifrit in the church," the girl frowned. "Then why is he wandering around here?"

Angel sighed and stood up.

"I did not take into account the infinity of human idiocy. Actually, that's why I am here. Come on."

"But you did not answer!"

"Ten minutes."

"It's not fair!"

He went into the dressing room and stood in front of the mirror.

"You know the answer, Margaret. Well, strain your memory. Where were the doors of the church?"

"They were removed by firefighters, they were lying... Wait! Have you painted your spell on the doors of a burning church?" Cried the girl. "Well, you are the besom-head! The firefighters broke down them first!"

"I say, the infinity of human idiocy," Angel muttered, but Miss Sheridan did not quite understand whose idiocy he had in mind.

"And you brought the ifrit to the Longsdale's house so that the uncle's consultant could see the enemy in the face," Margaret concluded. "Are you not afraid that they will ever beat you for such help?"

"Oh, I try not to meet those I helped," Angel assured her, took off his frock coat and threw it on the girl's shoulders.

"You would," she muttered, "they can thank them after all..."

Suddenly he tightly wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to him. Margaret screeched shrilly and darted away, kicking him with her knee.

"For God's sake, girl!" Redfern shouted in a voice that jumped an octave higher. "Nobody have not yet encroached on you, but you are already kicking!"

"Sorry," Miss Sheridan cheeped. "I didn't want... Does it hurt?"

"Shhh!" He clamped his hand over her mouth, and Margaret froze. Footsteps were heard outside the bedroom door, a streak of light flashed below. Angel muttered something quickly and pushed the dressing room's door. It slammed, but at the same time the bedroom door was opened. Margaret squeaked a little and snuggled up against Redfern - she recognized her mother's steps. A blade of light slid into the gap at the threshold.

"Oh my God!"

"It seems to be sleeping," mother muttered and quietly shut the door. Margaret felt the guest's breathing slip over her temple, his chest rising and falling, warmly of his palm pressed to her face. Mother's steps went away down the corridor.

"Now he will leave and will not return again," the girl thought bitterly. Well, you have to be such a dumb chicken! The palm disappeared, and a short cheerful laugh rang out over Margaret's ear.

"Almost like in my youth," Angel remarked gratifiedly. "But let's not waste time," he opened the door again, and silver moonlight poured into the dressing room. Miss Sheridan flinched.

"Is it me in bed?"

"Yeah. Focus on the mirror."

Margaret hardly looked away from the bed and looked in the mirror. The look of her reflection was completely stunned.

"A few of your hairs on the pillow and an illusion according to the principle of similarity, otherwise you will not calm down until you find out," said Angel impatiently. "Look in the mirror and imagine the road that starts at our feet. Do not scream or break free. I'll guide you."

He hugged her again with both hands. Margaret focused on the road. In her imagination, a path densely trodden in snow appeared, sparkling in the moonlight. Diamond sparkle flashed here and there, and the road went into the dark depths of mirror reflection, to the same place where the band of moonlight was lost. Angel whispered a little audibly over her ear in a language that the girl did not know, and the surface of the mirror was roused faintly. A whisper hotly tickled Margaret's neck and ear, and she closed her eyes so as not to be distracted. A second later, Angel nudged her toward the mirror. Miss Sheridan opened her eyes.

The mirror became completely transparent, and from it the radiance of the moon and cold air flowed. At Margaret's feet lay her path, extending beyond the mirror frame, and in front of them, instead of reflection, was a dark nightly blue without stars. Angel stepped to the crystal surface, and the girl had to step with him, although she immediately pressed into his side - the mirror seemed to be so solid.

"Stay on the road," he whispered. The road went into the mirror, as if it should; Margaret, not taking her spellbound gaze from her, stepped over the frame, and the mirror-like surface suddenly rang out to the sides with flickering waves. Her ears rang immediately, and the road quickly rushed down. Out of the corner of her eye, Margaret noticed that on the sides flashed a lot of mirror edges, and clung tightly to the hands of her companion. Although they did not take a single step more, the road itself rushed down to the place where Cafe "Shell" stood out from the blue, like a flat picture. The steeper the descent, the stronger the building rose from the plane. It became both closer and more voluminous, as if its reality depended on distance.

"Watch out," said Angel quietly, and the road suddenly leapt forward. Margaret was struck in her face by a flat glass, scattered by splashes, and the support underfoot immediately disappeared. The girl hung in the arms of Redfern for a moment, and then both fell into the densely trampled snow at the cafe. Angel managed to dodge like a cat in a short flight, and fell on his back, and Miss Sheridan closely acquainted the corset with his ribs. But she turned out to be on top, and judging by the whistling sigh that escaped from her guide, the snow was not inferior in hardness to the oak floor.

"The way out is not always predictable," said Angel in a slightly choked voice, looking at Margaret from the bottom up. The girl raised herself on her slightly trembling hands. Breathing turned into a cloud of steam, the night cold eagerly dug into the skin and climbed under the skirt. Miss Sheridan hurriedly slipped from Angel, trying not to chatter her teeth, and wrapped herself tightly in his frock coat. Redfern jumped to his feet, grabbed her hand, and they crossed the street, hiding in the shadow of the police department. Margaret looked back at the cafe. Its shop window glittered in the moonlight, like the mirror, and she remembered the same glittering facets beyond it, along the road.

"Other doors," Margaret realized. For a moment, it seemed to her that a white figure flickered in the window above the sign, but Angel decisively carried her along with him, and the girl did not have time to examine anything. In addition, she froze more and more and would prefer to study the windows of the cafe from the warm department.

The policeman on duty moved slightly behind the counter and snored when Angel closed the door behind himself. A lone candle barely illuminated the patch in front of the counter, and they lurked in deep shadow at the entrance.

"Uncle's office is on the third floor," Margaret whispered a little audibly. She was still trembling even in a frock coat, but Angel, although his hands were cold, did not notice either heat or frost. His fingers tingled Margaret's palm like needles, as if the spell with which he had opened the door left a mark on them.

"I can take you without light. Just be careful with the stairs. It creaks."

Angel nodded, looking around the spacious square reception room, several doors and the narrow corridor, which, as Margaret knew, ended with a short staircase to the basement, which housed the laboratory and the morgue.

"We will not pass by the duty officer," Miss Sheridan whispered. "There is only one staircase upstairs."

Redfern ran his fingers along the row of vials in his belt and pushed one out.

"Pinch your nose with a handkerchief," he ordered quietly. The girl found a handkerchief in her coat pocket.

"And you?"

Angel snapped the bottle cap off and splashed some silvery liquid on the floor at the counter. The blotch blurred at the edge of the circle illuminated by a candle, hissed softly and began to evaporate. Margaret caught a faint metallic smell. The snoring of the policeman on duty gave way to a peaceful whistle.

"Let's go," Angel decided. They crossed the reception room, and Miss Sheridan put her foot on the first step. It gave a little squeal. The whistle at the desk ceased for a moment and sounded again, with even greater pacification.

"Why couldn't we get here right away?" the girl asked, overcoming the passage after passage.

"There are no such large mirror surfaces."

"Do you often wander between mirrors?"

"No. This requires a lot of concentration, accurate knowledge of entry and exit points and complex mathematical calculations. How are you doing with math, Margaret?"

"Well, I'll count to ten," the girl replied mockingly. "Using my fingers."

"And on the abacus?" He asked with a smile.

"Probably up to a hundred, but it's terrible how difficult, sir. I will just die from such an effort. Let's better look in my uncle's office... By the way, what do you want to find there?"

"When I'll see - I understand," Angel reached for the doorknob and hissed his fingers away.

"What?" worried Margaret.

"This consultant of yours,' Redfern said through clenched teeth, 'has enchanted everything from the touch of strangers. Give your hand."

Miss Sheridan handed him the required and asked "Why?" when he was already mumbling something over her hand. She felt a tingling sensation and a chill, mingling with the warmth of his breath. Covering her palm with his, Angel put it on the doorknob and gently squeezed the girl's fingers around it. The doorknob suddenly warmed up, sneezed of a sheaf of sparks, and Margaret gasped in surprise. The lock clicked and opened.

"What are you going to look for here?" The girl asked skeptically, looking at the stacks of papers and folders that were whitening in the darkness. Angel opened the curtains and let in the moonlight.

"You put so much effort and mathematical calculations to get into my winter garden. Is it really just to open my uncle's office with my hand?"

"And in order to search it with your hands. Although you could show a little gratitude for the salvation from the witcher."

"To reproach with good deed is not worthy of a gentleman, fie," Margaret sat in her uncle's chair. "But what am I looking for here?"

"Something from Grace's house. There must be at least something here that both parts of the Strangler had previously touched."

"Eight years have passed," Margaret recalled. "Any prints will be erased a hundred times."

"It depends how deep you dig," Angel groped for a flask cell on his belt, and Margaret wondered if he was afraid to blow himself up once, blindly grope for the wrong bottle. In the flask some powder radiated all the colours of the rainbow. Redfern emptied it on the windowsill, leveled into a wide strip and began to draw some signs in it. The girl crept up from the side, fearing to breathe - the powder at the edges of the strip curled like mist in the morning. Angel breathed out a long melodious phrase. Margaret froze in anticipation.

Nothing happened.

He frowned, extended his hand over the sand, repeated more slowly and completely in a chant. Then again, in such a gentle half-whisper that Margaret turned pink. For the fourth time, his voice was lower and more muffled, with imperative notes. The sand rustled in response and suddenly shot from the windowsill with a long flexible lash, which immediately broke up into many tails. The girl gasped in admiration: the whole office was suddenly strewn with multicolored sparkling pollen. However, it lay down only on things and papers, leaving the floor, walls and furniture clean.

"So," said Angel a little hoarsely: his forehead glistened with a light sweat, "all the orange traces are the touch of your uncle. Green marks is a consultant. Shades of blue are department employees. Yellow - random touches. Red traces mark two halves of Hilkarn Strangler. The more intense the color and glow, the deeper the prints. Search."

Miss Sheridan looked around the office for a long moment. Against a flickering orange background there were a lot of blue and yellow lights, in some places flashing green. But red was missing. The girl walked along the cabinets and desk, sometimes lifting folders or documents. She was surprised that there was nothing in the office but papers. Where are all the other evidence like knives, pistols, or what else do the killers leave at the crime scene?

"And this dust can get into boxes?"

"Of course. Otherwise, what good would it be?"

Margaret pulled out one by one all three drawers in the Commissar's desk. The fourth, long and narrow, was located under the countertop and was locked.

"Angel, open, please," Miss Sheridan called, carefully turning the contents of the three drawers. Redfern took the girl's hand and whispered over her finger.

"Someday I'll find out from him that he mutters all the time and how it works at all," Margaret decided. He pressed her finger to the keyhole, the lock clicked, and the girl quickly pulled out a drawer. Amid the scattering of orange lights on papers and the writing materials, she immediately saw red sparks and grabbed a small notebook. Angel cried out impatiently, dragged Margaret to the window and demanded:

"Leaf!"

The notebook was empty. The second time, he put on his glasses and nearly drove his nose through the pages, but the only inscription they found made no sense. For Margaret, at least it was just a bunch of badges. But Angel greedily glared at the squiggles with a burning excitement gaze.

"Give me paper and pencil."

While Redfern was busy with the transcription, the girl, holding a book in her hand (he refused to touch it), once again looked around the office and found that red pollen was flickering slightly under the door.

"Angel!"

He inaudibly grumbled, biting his pencil.

"Look, there's still red. They probably took all the evidence to another room, there should be a lot of them, and if we look for... Hey!" Margaret slapped his hand with the book. With obvious effort, Angel tore his gaze from the puzzle and transferred it first to the girl, then to the door. With round glasses with greenish glasses, he looked so funny and distracted that Miss Sheridan could not help laughing.

"Go," Angel commanded dryly, "I'll tidy up here."

Faint moonlight could barely make its way into the dark corridor from a window on the landing. The doors were almost indistinguishable against the background of the walls, and Miss Sheridan walked several times along the corridor before she examined red grains on one of the doorknobs. The room was locked, and Margaret had to wait for Angel. He cranked the trick again, opening the door with her hand. Redfern did not want to touch anything, and the girl had already thought two or three caustic remarks about touching her feet on the floor.

It turned out to be not so much an office as a small meeting room. The chairs were shifted to the corners, in the middle of the room two rows of tables stretched out, maps, diagrams and portraits were hung on the walls. Red pollen abundantly strewn all objects on the tables. Margaret went to the first one. On it the things of the child were laid - from underwear to boots and hats; on the left sleeve of the jacket on a scarf lay three marble balls, a set of cards "Famous Strongmen" and a stick of candy. Margaret hesitantly touched the boyish treasures and noticed a sheet with the inscription "Francis van Holden" near the cap.

The paper trembled in her hands; Margaret looked up at the fourteen portraits on the opposite wall. She did not distinguish faces in the dark, stepped to the wall and brushed against the second table. Another piece of paper fluttered from it, the girl bent to catch it, saw the inscription "Robert Lynch" - and suddenly something stopped inside. Margaret froze for a moment, and then slowly got up and looked around the room for a long moment.

Here was all that was left of them. Of all fourteen.

Margaret turned her eyes from one table to another, noted sheets of paper and cardboard with numbers whitening in the dark, there was nothing but a copy of a trace or a scrap of fabric. She turned to the portraits: under each portrait is a card with the names of the parents and the address. The girl read them one by one, and her temples was again squeezed by a hot hoop, almost the same as the red-hot crown that squeezed her head when she gave free rein fury against the ifrit. There, in the temple, for eight years the bodies of eleven children lay, of which only portraits, a card and a number in the police file remained.

And no one could find their killers. No one would even know if it weren't for the fire, if it weren't for the ifrit, if... and now nothing could be fixed. But how can one live feeling such powerlessness?!

She turned away. Angel stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, resting his shoulder on the jamb, and looked at her. His eyes were dark as a whirlpool, but they contained something as burning as the anger of Margaret herself, and she sharply asked:

"For what?"

"For the power," he said after a moment. "For the strength, wealth, eternal youth... There will always be a reason."

"No more than," the girl said muffledly. He did not take his deep, burning eyes from her. "And Farrells?"

"Collateral damage. The ifrit must be fed."

"He wanted to get his power from ifrit? He killed fourteen children..."

"Five by mistake," added Angel. "He needed nine."

Margaret sighed frantically. Her heart suddenly squeezed something unbearably burning - a feeling she had never known before: so strong, hot, too deep and sharp to understand what it was: rage, pain or grief.

"When did you kill Grace... did he suffer?" Margaret asked abruptly.

"The ifrit burned him alive."

"And this second one?"

"While breathing."

"Will you find him?"

Angel bowed his head.

"And what will you do? Not ifrit, but you. What will you do?"

"I'll kill him," said Angel.

"Good," Margaret whispered. He went to her and took her hand. In the bewitching dark depths of his eyes, the girl saw the same tormenting fire and whispered:

"Promise?"

"I give my word," he touched her hand with his lips. "He will die in agony."

"Yes," Margaret answered quietly. "Whoever he is."

***

Finishing up with covering of footprints, they descended the stairs. Margaret glanced briefly through the window of the stairwell and cried out softly:

"Angel, look!"

On the contrary, in the shadow of Cafe "Shell", some kind of person was hiding. Miss Sheridan noticed him only because he briefly stepped out of the shadows and brought binoculars to his eyes, looking into the windows of the department.

"It's him!" Redfern's eyes flashed wolfish, and he rushed down, grabbing a revolver from a holster on the go.

"How do you..." the girl stopped short, discovering that she was crying out for emptiness. She turned back to the window and recoiled: now it seemed to her that the man below was looking right at her. Margaret picked up her skirts and rushed after Angel. Fortunately, he had not yet jumped out into the street - he stood still by the narrow window to the left of the doors and looked into the shadows through his glasses. By the movement of his eyes, Miss Sheridan was clear that he sees this man and follows his actions.

"Who is he?" Margaret whispered.

"I don't know."

"He saw me."

"Sure?"

The girl did not answer. How could he distinguish her outside a window in a completely dark building, and even from such a distance?

"Well, now get to know you," Angel muttered through his teeth and flew out with a bullet. Margaret heard his furious cry and pressed herself against the window: Redfern jumped off the porch, ran out into the middle of the street and raised his hand with a revolver. He aimed at a clear dark silhouette, which immediately disappeared behind a bright flash. A clot of ghostly orange fire flew at Angel. Margaret tore through the heavy doors, rushed out into the street and pushed Redfern in the side the second he shot. A transparent, flaming clot flied past, pouring over the girl in a strange heat, and dissipated at the end of Rocksville Street.

"Holy shit, girl!" Angel snapped. "Are you crazy?"

"I'm sorry," Margaret stammered out. He raised his hand to her face - a ring of silver or white gold glanced sparkling on his ring finger, so thin that the girl did not immediately see it in the dark.

"Do you really think that I don't care about my defense?"

"Sorry," Miss Sheridan repeated in a fallen voice. She finally felt cold, and she wrapped herself tightly in his coat. Angel's eyes softened.

"Sorry," he said. "You didn't know that."

"You missed because of me."

Redfern looked thoughtfully after the disappeared man.

"And you could die and did not think about it. This is worse, Margaret."

"That I could die?" the girl asked timidly.

"That did not think."

The moon lit up the hard-trampled snow. Even an elephant would not have made footprint here, not to mention a man who, as Margaret seemed, was rather thin. She thought with annoyance that her stupidity was clearly incurable. Angel took her by the shoulders and turned her to the window.

"That's it, girl, home. Enough for you today."

"And you?"

"I'll try to track him down."

"Is that a witcher?"

"No, it's a human. Witchers do not use such spells."

"But why?" Margaret asked in surprise. "What is the difference?"

"Witchers and witches," answered Angel, "are not human at all. They don't need crutches in the form of spells. Magic flows in their veins with blood."