23

People arrived at night, or rather, wolves, obedient, zombified wolves, ideal for sending them to kill someone...

— Is everyone here?—Wentworth closed the notebook and put it in the safe.

Sometimes he memorized by ear, and sometimes copied from the books of the bloody witch, transferring information with a camera.

He often has a sharp knife in his mind the thought that everyone will be killed someday ...

Kara asked him off and went to the supermarket for groceries.

Of all his servants, she was the only one who knew Finnish more or less tolerably well.

Putting a knitted hat on her fiery red hair, the girl picked up the same gray, mouse-colored down jacket.

With the constant absence of at least a small fraction of cosmetics, she has now become a gray mouse in general.

When walking, my back was already very sore.

Kara tried her best to hide her own belly.

She knew that the king... her king... Wentworth...

He would never look at anyone like that Spanish redhead.

Kara knows Wentworth much more than he is on the throne, she would give her whole life for one kind look from him.

Very often she wanted to strangle Olga in her sleep.

Kara pulls up to the supermarket parking lot.

Busy! As if it was on purpose...

she found an empty place behind the house with great difficulty.

When getting out of the car, an ordinary construction hammer fell on her back.

The vertebrae broke and blood gushed out of his mouth.

Strong hands grabbed her ankles and dragged her with such force that they almost tore her off.

Kara is dragged into the garage. A few guys pumping blood out of a cow didn't even pay attention to it.

A strong blow pierces pain. With a huge boot, her captor hit Kara in the stomach.

When the garage door closes, the scarf flies off my face.

A face so much alike. Maria, it must be her.

— Call, — the vampire kicked the fallen phone with her foot.— tell your dogs to get out of this city! In Espoo, a deployment for vampires and Olga Valdez!—

— Dead bloodsucker! — Kara spits out blood.— I'm not going to obey the mistake of nature, which should lie in the ground!—

Kick, ribs crunch. My ribs and stomach hurt so much that I want to cry.

Well, tears are already treacherously rolling...

— Think before you say something.— such a disgusting, just inhuman smile lights up Maria's face.—My mother will kill the tyrant anyway... And all of you will creep under it...—

A wave of the silver knife. Too soon, Kara pulled out a weapon...

Maria grabbed her by the stomach and, piercing the belt, plunged long white claws into the flesh.

— A girl... Does he know? He won't know any more joys anyway...— the flesh is cracking.

— Noooo! Leave my Patty, I pray! Maria! If you are barren, spare my child! Spare my Patty!— Kara broke down after all.

— I don't think that your psychopathic king, the false king spared any of my brothers or sisters...—

An underdeveloped fetus burst out, Maria broke the child's neck in front of the crying Kara.

And the king's devoted servant, Kara-Patricia Robert, expired.

***

Wentworth gripped the back of his hand with his teeth, desperately trying to stifle a cry. His shoulders were shaking. Tears are begging to come out, these drops of weakness...

He was left alone! Now he was completely alone! No one else can help him! Never!

He is again commanding that more beautiful girls be chosen in the district. In this he sometimes finds solace... Maybe he'll find a new Punishment... Although... no... It's unlikely that it will be possible...

— You can't trust anyone!—someone's voice suddenly rang out. It rang in my head. It was like madness. Crazy nonsense that leads beyond the edge...

Pupils dilated. The blood began to pound in his temples with the speed of a giant pendulum of fate.

Now... Is Wentworth Karsten, the king named murder, afraid now?

It was as if the wind picked him up, and not he himself ran.

The snow crunches underfoot, the wind bends around the body, sometimes pushing gently in the back, like: "Run, run, run... The further away you are from everyone, the closer you are to your fear ..."

***

A strong fever rolled over the king.

He saw Olga raising her sword, saw Kara dead and torn. She was smiling with a blue mouth, blood was pouring profusely from her mouth.

The girl was holding a child with a broken neck in her arms.

— ... Your Majesty! Your Majesty! How are you?— a bowl is put to the lips.

Something hot is pouring into my mouth.

Wentworth stared around, startled. Residence...

Yes, this is his number one Finnish residence!

Sweat is pouring down his temples. His hair is wet, his pulse is pounding frantically in his brain, trying to tear his head apart.

The tear he missed rolled down and fell on the sheet. A strong cold emanates from her.

His shoulders are shaking.

— Your Majesty, you need to eat. Do you want something special?— the servant asks in an indifferent tone of duty. His voice as a recording was as if dead.

And Kara... Oh, Gods, how Wentworth misses that caring tone now!

—.. Venison. Have you found out who killed Kara yet?— the king says in a hoarse voice.

— Maria Valdez. She left a note.— a crumpled white sheet is handed into the hands.

"You're finished... You probably know that yourself. You take someone's potions, your whole environment smells of them. But against the blood curse, they won't be able to help you... Blood is our element..."

The hands crumpled the sheet.

— You little dead bastard!—The king growled angrily.

It was only when he threw the note into an ashtray and set it on fire that he saw on the other side the inscription in the same handwriting: "To the impostor King."

Again, anger was pounding hard in his head.

When the letter caught fire, he realized what he thought was strange in the note.

This letter was not written in ink, but in blood. With the blood of Kara.

Wentworth did not love her and would not have loved her, but her care was so pleasant. Maybe even without love, he could have lived with her.

Could! He could live with her!

Like a zombie, the king went down the corridor, up the stairs and down to the basement.

The footsteps now sounded like a funeral rhythm in my head, in my temples they, along with the pulse, were pounding the alarm.

— This is a war, Victor...—The tyrant turned to the portrait.— And we need this war... —