Consultant - Victorian Detective 11 Chapter 11 - Cold Fire

The icy surface looked like a mirror - polished to perfect smoothness. The moon and starless sky were reflected in it; and a huge red hound standing on a steep bank that hung over the lake. The horses hoa.r.s.ely climbed the slope somehow. Brennon jumped to the ground and peered into the distance. A silvery cloud of icy dust lay low over the lake.

"d.a.m.n far," said the commissioner. "Horses will not go on ice."

"They don't need to," said Raiden. "We have a bait."

"What?"

"Why the h.e.l.l do you think you were invited here?"

Before the meaning of his words reached Brennon, the butler hit the horse with spurs. The animal neighed wildly, reared, and slipping, rushed off along the left bank of Weer. The hound lifted its head to the sky and let out a piercing howl, similar at the same time to the wolf howl and the groans of wind in a storm. The commissar staggered back; the hound jumped off a cliff and ran along the right bank.

Nathan stood over the lake in the midst of silence and calm. The icy haze in front rose smoothly toward the sky, covering the lake from edge to edge. So she stirred and slid forward to Brennon; in a rustle of ice on the ice, he dismantled the long, barely perceptible:

"Maaaa..."

Cold crawled up the legs, along the veins and vessels - to the heart. "Oh no!" The commissar thought, grabbed a revolver from a holster and jumped onto the ice. He slipped and fell, but then got up on his knee and shot right at the core of the veil swirling overhead. Utburd flinched - Nathan felt the fluctuation of ice and the faint movement of air. The veil fluttered like a living one, and a figure woven from ice dust slowly appeared in it - a tall, about eight feet, figure of a child pierced by cold light. Brennon was frozen, watching her hand approaching him, becoming both transparent and completely material. Ice.

Like a living sculpture, Nathan thought distantly. The hand was already above his head, when suddenly a huge fire comet burst out of the darkness and hung with a dull growl on the hand, clutching at it with its teeth. The commissar was so hot that the ice under his feet boiled. With a yell Brennon sprang to his feet and shot the utburd in the head. The undead also screamed, but the Commissar did not flatter himself - it spun on the spot, screaming wildly and trying to dump the dog.

"G-G-G.o.d ..." the Commissar panted: the hound was on fire. The hair disappeared, there were only flames that avidly licked the flesh of the utburd, leaving torn strips of emptiness in the ice crumb. Finally, the undead escaped, and a burning creature crashed onto the ice. The hound immediately rolled on the legs and stood between Brennon and the utburd. At first, the commissar caught a dull growl and a vibration originating underfoot, and then the hound roared like a fire roaring in a strong fire. Nathan's heart beat wildly on his ribs, his legs gave way in horror, and he sack fell on the ice. Brennon clasped his ears in his hands, but the roar sounded inside his head, yielding in his bones, in his veins, in his heart, incinerating without a trace ...

The hound is silent. The commissar somehow sc.r.a.ped himself from the ice, gathering the rest of his own dignity into a fist. He blinked and noted with satisfaction that the utburd, apparently, was also overwhelmed with panic horror: trembling with ragged edges, an icy veil rushed off to the center of the lake.

"Run away!" Brennon twitched, and the hound put a heavy paw on his shoulder. Nathan incredulously felt the thick, hard coat. St.u.r.dy was staring off to the sh.o.r.e. The Commissar followed its gaze. In the clear, crystal air, he distinctly saw a man. He raised his hands, clapped his hands and with a sharp gesture spread his hands to the sides. In front of him, a arc of fire opened, turned from his fingertips, and rushed across the utburd.

Brennon slumped helplessly onto the ice. The fire illuminated for a moment the face of a man on the sh.o.r.e. But this was not a consultant, but his butler.

***

The commissar ran after the dog, although he understood that his role here was unenviable - a something in between a snack and a bait. But he could not stop. The three of them chased the utburd from the coast towards the place around which the bodies were found. Brennon had no idea why they were doing this, all the more so since an icy suspension covered the view from the front. But suddenly the utburd froze. Nathan somehow stopped on the slippery ice. The beast was right in front of him - a fuzzy silhouette in a grayish dust haze. The monster swayed in the air, five to six feet above the lake; then he turned slowly. Nathan felt his gaze fumble around - on the left the dog, again flaming, on the right - Raiden, from which the heat emanated, like from a fire. Utburd rustled and swam to the commissar. Brennon grabbed the revolver, flicked the trigger, and raised his hand so that the barrel of a gun looked directly at the beast's head.

This toad hung over him, huge, the size of a house, and Nathan saw his eyes deep in the haze. He looked at him, long, piercingly cold, until he leaned back. Panting through his teeth, the commissar stepped forward. On the Morrigan's barrel, the Longsdale symbol shone — protection from the cold, the consultant said — and there were two bullets in the revolver cylinder.

"Turn around," a little audible rustled over the lake. Nathan heard a faint crackle. Utburd congealed into a dense figure, drawing in icy dust, and then the Commissar finally saw the consultant. He walked inaudibly on the ice, covering his eyes and holding out his hand sideways. His s.h.i.+rt was weakly frayed by the breeze, and the ice rose in small fragments after his hand, exposing the dark, gleaming surface of the water. The ice fraction followed Longsdale like a train; the consultant stopped in front of a burbot.

The words froze on Nathan's lips: bright blue eyes shone on Longsdale's pale face. Utburd hissed, and the consultant snapped his fingers. The ice shot rushed up and pierced the body of the beast through and through.

Judging by his wild cry, it hurt. Brennon nearly fall over in surprise. Utbourd was twisted into a corkscrew, but the Commissar did not have time to rejoice - something like a black spiky branch broke out of the corkscrew, pierced Longsdale's chest through and dug into the ice.

Nathan was struck with horror. The consultant's eyes widened, he sighed weakly, but his breath did not turn into vapor. Longsdale did not take his eyes off the utburd.

"It will not help," the consultant whispered indistinctly: a trickle of very dark, almost black blood flowed down his chin.

"Longsdale!" the Commissar finally woke up and rushed to the rescue, but the butler grabbed his arm and twisted it with unexpected force.

"Stay out!" He gasped hotly in the commissar's ear. "Freeze!"

The hound trotted to the owner.

"Come to me," Longsdale called softly. "Come to me, Ulv."

The hound stood next to him, and the consultant buried his hand in thick wool. Straight to the fire. Utburd hissed furiously. Longsdale laid his hand on the black branch and squeezed. A high-pitched screech came from above.

"What the h.e.l.l ..." hissed the commissar.

"Keep out!"

Brennon punched the butler with his elbow under his ribs, threw off the grab and threw he on the ice. Raiden rolled over and springy sprang up to his feet. The hound growled loudly. From under Longsdale's palm a hot reddish glow crept along a spiky branch. Nathan saw this in his father's forge - when the metal began to burn from the inside.

"Come to me, Ulv," Longdale repeated. "Go home."

Utburd grated and then howled. It was a long, heartrending cry, full of endless despair, rage and unbearable melancholy, from which Nathan's hair stood on end, and his soul was almost knocked out of his body. He listened to the howling of a living creature, parting with life now, this moment, this second, when it is torn out of the body, and how much you do not cling to it, it will leave. It flows drop by drop, and you feel every moment - and icy water tearing your lungs ...

Brennon dropped the revolver. The gray swirl melted above his head, and in howling, a shrill baby crying was heard more distinctly. It grew louder and louder, until at last the howl completely melted in it. Upstairs, at that end of the rapidly melting ice branch, there was only a pale silhouette of a baby.

"Come to me," Longsdale called softly. "We will go home."

The transparent shadow of the newborn slid into the consultant's waiting arms, and he gently pressed it to his chest.

"Go home," he whispered, rocking the baby. "Go home."

Crying subsided, gave way to a weak snoring. Longsdale knelt over a glade in ice.

"Go away," he said. "Sleep well," and lowered a shadow into the lake waters.

Brennon let out a stifled moan. Now he knew — he knew what turns a human into an undead. He felt every last moment of the human life of a utburd, and now he knew ... now he knew ...

"Feel for her?" Asked Raiden. "Are you sorry for the poor girl, hmm? Still?"

"G.o.d ..." the Commissar whispered. Longsdale cried out softly and fell facedown on the ice.

***

"Hurry!" Nathan growled, ripping off his coat. "Put him here! Three of us we drag him!"

Raiden picked up the master and dragged him onto the coat without the slightest effort. Nathan did not like the dark blood trail that remained on the ice.

"He needs to go to the hospital! The nearest is Saint Paul..."

"He doesn't need any hospital!" shouted Raiden in a rather high voice, pulled off his frock coat and threw it on the body. "He needs to get in the home, now!"

"And what will you do with him in home?! He needs a surgeon!"

"How do you explain this to the surgeon?"

Brennon stared at the consultant. For some reason, the blood from the through wound stopped flowing, and the commissar saw the lungs grow together inside.

"W-whut's h.e.l.l…" he wheezed, almost unclenching his hands; besides, he was sick.

"Home!" hissed Raiden. "He needs to go home!"

"W-well," Nathan said, a little stuttering. "So, and took him!"

They had to drag by the sleeves. The hound backed away, clutching its teeth into the collar of the coat, so the Commissar watched the direction. The cliff on the right pa.s.sed into a gentle sh.o.r.e; there they headed. At the same time, Nathan wondered what the butler would do if he were now alone with the hound and body.

"Do you often have this?"

"It happens," the guy muttered.

"Put on my scarf," the Commissar generously suggested, since the consultant was a hefty one, and Brennon was already soaking, and Raiden was left without a frock coat.

"I'm not cold," the butler answered, and Nathan shut up. Indeed, he had found something to offer. This tough probably never gets cold. The lanterns rushed around on the sh.o.r.e, and soon the Commissar made out the voices. Brennon was particularly relieved to hear Broyd's voice, confidently giving orders.

"What the h.e.l.l did he do?" The commissar asked, brus.h.i.+ng away sweat: without the powerful draft power in the face of the dog, they would have had a hard time.

"He killed the utburd," the butler answered.

"For good?"

"And will you be bored?"

"I do not want him to crawl out of the lake in search of his mommy in about a hundred years after he sleep off."

Raiden grunted.

"This one won't crawl. A properly killed undead does not rise."

"Can it be killed wrong?"

"There is only one sure way. The return of the undead at that moment, the last time it was human. When it died."

Nathan fell silent. The voice returned to him only near the sh.o.r.e, when policemen with stretchers ran towards them.

- And evil spirits?

"And evil spirits," replied Raiden, straightening up with pleasure, "cannot be killed."

***

Mrs. Van Allen was still in the department, but already with her eldest son, Victor. He met the commissar with a worried look, not releasing his mother's hands.

"It's all right," Brennon said, and gratefully received a huge cup of tea from the attendant. "Um, is this something new?"

"Mother's herbal tea," the young van Allen said. Valentina came closer to the Commissar and whispered:

"Is the monster defeated?"

"Yeah well," Brennon answered. "Forever and ever."

A wrinkle appeared between the widow's eyebrows.

"Forever and ever?"

"The main thing is to find a specialist who will do everything right."

"Your consultant?"

The commissar nodded. Mrs. Van Allen paused, thinking.

"So everything was thought out in advance? The girl in the empty department, this trip to the lake, the squad of police who followed you?"

"Yes."

"But why in an empty building?"

"That no one was hurt."

"But you were here alone! You and Mister Broyd!"

"Yeah."

"And you knew... You must have known..."

"Yeah well."

"And still remained," the widow whispered, but Brennon noticed that she was no longer speaking to him. Her gaze was turned deep into her own thoughts or memories; the younger van Allen squeezed her hand.

"Mother, let's go home."

"Yes," Mrs. Van Allen smiled wearily. "Sorry, it seems that I almost ruined your wonderful battle plan."

"Don't say that," Nathan politely stood up and handed her a coat. "Without your help, I would have to tinker with the interrogation. But you, why aren't you scared?"

"Me? What?"

"Utburd. You went out to him and tried to drive him away. Weren't you scared?"
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"No," Mrs. Van Allen answered with a strange smile, "after Meersand I never get scared."

Brennon escorted her to the porch and stayed there with his hands in his pockets. More than once he wondered what a woman had to survive in order not to be afraid of anything. And how does she live after that?

Looking after van Allens, the Commissar noticed that a familiar, strong guy was vacillating at the opposite side of the street. Brennon run from the porch and resolutely blocked the guy of road, just when he fearfully backed into the shadows.

"Did you forget something here, Mr. Murphy?"

The brewer's son licked his lips.

"Do you find her, right? I heard you took her from Missis Flynn's house? Is she safe?"

"And you knew all this time and were silent," the Commissar grunted. "Moms were afraid? Are you not afraid of prisons for perjury?"

Brian convulsively swallowed several times, as if trying to push hard something firm and p.r.i.c.kly into his throat.

"She is alright? Is Hildur alright? You ... you did nothing ... with her?"

Brennon stared at the young man for a second or two.

"She killed her child," the Commissar finally said. "She will be hanged. And even if not, if the jury will regret it, then she will spend the next twenty-five years in Saint Magdalen prison. You will not see her. Never.Э

Murphy quietly sniffed, wiped his sleeve, and, hunched over, wandered away.

21th November

Nathan knocked softly on the door. In the distance, the dawn was breaking above the lake, but here, in the depths of the gloomy garden at Longsdale's house, it had not yet reached. The door did not open immediately, but the butler let the Commissar inside without question, without even saying "Good morning, sir." Brennon found his coat on a hook in the hallway.

"Well?"

Raiden raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

"Is he alive?"

"Yes."

"Can I come up?"

"He's sleeping."

"I'm not going to wake him."

"Then why?"

"People do it," Brennon shrugged. "Worry. Visit."

"Ah, people," muttered Raiden, and stepped onto the stairs.

"His dog," said the commissar, while they overcame a steep climb. "Is it undead?"

"No."

"And what?"

The butler stopped and turned to the commissar.

"Why can't it be tamed undead?"

"I don't know where he got it from," Raiden answered after a short pause. "I heard that monks in one eastern country in the mountains begged their G.o.ds to give them protectors from evil spirits. This protectors dispel darkness with their fire, and their barking instills terror into enemies."

"I would not say it was barking," muttered Nathan. The butler grunted.

"I've been with him for five years. During this time, the hound never ate and never slept. And, in my opinion, he does not always breathe. Only when he needs to."

Brennon entered the bedroom. Longsdale was lying in bed, and the Commissar did not see any signs of wounds or blood. The hound was sitting next to him, laying his face on the blanket.

"Hi, St.u.r.dy," Nathan said quietly. The hound moved his tail. "However, this name is not right for you."

Longsdale sighed, moved, and put his hand on the dog's head. He was thin and pale, but did not look dying. No bandages, the commissar thought. After a couple of minutes, the consultant's eyelids lifted, and on the third attempt he looked around the room with a more or less meaningful look. Brennon stood above him, arms crossed.

"Wow," he said, "alive and well."

"Morning," Longsdale muttered, "what morning is it now? .."

"The twenty-first of November."

"Ah ..." the consultant rubbed his eyes, not releasing the scruff of the dog.

"Do you often have this?" inquired Nathan.

"What?"

"The undead nearly killed you."

"It happens," the consultant muttered, but Brennon despised his unwillingness to have a conversation:

"How did you do that?"

"What?"

"Huge p.r.i.c.kly c.r.a.p," the commissar hung over him, as if he were another suspect. "It unst.i.tched you through and through, like a saber - a rag. You should have dropped dead right there. But you are not going to."

The consultant leaned back on the pillows.

"A usual case for hunting."

"Usual?! What the h.e.l.l ... And unusual then that?!"

Longsdale closed his eyes tiredly.

"Don't worry like that. I can't be killed."

Brennon bounced off his bed two feet in amazement:

"What?! Why?!"

"Ah," muttered Longsdale, "I don't remember."

THE END

TO BE CONTINUED…