The Chess

The room was quite dark because of the tightly drawn black curtains. The silence of the locked room was broken only by the ticking of the clock and the muffled sobs of a girl hiding her face behind a black veil. The thin fabric was soaked through with tears, and thickly applied mascara and eyeliner spread across her cheeks. Sam didn't even try to wipe the dirt off her face, just wiping her reddened nose from time to time. She started crying while talking to her best friend Danny and didn't even notice it right away. Just continuing to listen to the guy who needed support, she noticed at some point that her nose was stuffy, which caused her voice to become nasal. It didn't go unnoticed at the other end, and Danny asked if she was okay, if she was sick? But Sam waved her off, saying that she probably just had a slight runny nose and continued the dialogue. Only after hanging up the phone and blowing her nose did Gotessa finally look at herself in the mirror. Tears were pouring out of her dark purple eyes in a continuous stream, the reason for which she did not understand. The eyelids under the thick layer of black pigment were inflamed from salt and visibly swollen. The tears flowed for so long that they rolled down her face and got under the collar of her mourning dress, which was already completely soaked in front. For the situation in which his best friend and a young vampire found themselves, caught in the hot hand of a ghost hunter, it was insulting to the point of tears, but not literally. But Sam couldn't stop tears. What was happening to her eyes looked like some very exaggerated allergy symptoms, but with a pretty significant difference - Sam didn't feel bad. The physical sensations, apart from the stuffy nose, were indistinguishable from her usual daily state until she looked in the mirror. Moreover, after talking to Danny, she even felt some kind of spiritual uplift. The eternal mourning, which she so diligently adhered to, seemed to have acquired new meanings. Black has become not just black, but has acquired many shades of hopeless darkness, which absorbs all the colors of the world. Anyone would surely find such a state incredibly self-destructive and depressing, but she... She saw something infinitely beautiful in him. The gothessa just continued to sit in front of the mirror, throwing back her translucent veil and watching the tears continue to flow down the cheeks of the reflection. She listened to herself, trying to figure out what else had changed. Maybe it was actually a dormant allergy to something for a long time, and then some other symptoms should appear: cough, itching, rash, shortness of breath, something. But no, her body just kept tearing tears out of eyes, and that was it. Except for an abnormally large loss of fluid, there was nothing else. "I wonder where does so much moisture fit in my eyes?" — Sam asked herself, sniffling again. — "My mother will probably get angry, she'll say that I'm just trying to manipulate her and put pressure on her," — thought Gotessa, watching as the streams of tears become smaller. The process was slow and unhurried, but eventually the unreasonable strange crying stopped. Manson sat in front of the mirror for a while longer, peering intently at her reflection, as if searching for a trick. She wiped her face dry, smearing the kayal and mascara even more on her cheeks. She touched her skin with fingertips, but didn't find any new traces of moisture. — That's weird, ― she muttered, getting up from the black ottoman and pulling off her shawl. She needed to wash her face. To bring herself into a human form at least a little, so that the mother would have a little less cause for scandal. Pamela had already given her a hard time after returning home. Although while Masters was in sight, she behaved differently: she was kind to her, hugged her shoulders, cooed and talked only about how worried she was. It was unlikely that this farce was capable of deceiving someone like Nosferatu, who could easily get into other people's heads, but the woman continued to play the comedy until Vlad finally retreated. Then Pam switched to a much more familiar mode of operation: scandal and locking the room with a key. The lock was not a problem for gothic girl. Nor was this mother's behavior a problem. All she felt for a long time after contacting her was fatigue. The kind that makes you wake up exhausted even after a full eight hours of sleep. But after this sudden fit of crying, even the eternal malaise and weakness seemed to disappear, along with all these seemingly endless tears. There was a pleasant semi-darkness in head, and lightness in her body. Opening the door of her own room with a small lock pick, Sam headed for the bathroom, grabbing a change of clothes and underwear. She really wanted to get herself in order and enjoy the usual warm shower, and not the sanitary treatment like last night. She probably had fewer germs on her body than ever before in her life, but the sanitizer that was poured over her from head to toe couldn't compare to ordinary warm water.

***

— Grandma, are you sure? — Pauline looked doubtfully at the facade of the rich house on Ritchie Street. Classic red and white brick masonry, tall windows, a couple of which were covered with thick black curtains, a neat garden behind a small fence and luxuriantly blooming bushes of dwarf roses at the entrance. Nothing about this average rich house gave away what Grandma was talking about this morning. ― I mean, it doesn't look like someone lived here who devoted his time and energy to mourning the dead in his youth. — You don't look like someone who could afford to go up against an embittered poltergeist either, — the old woman smiled with a sly squint. On the wrinkled face, the emotions seemed twice as vivid and expressive. ― Not everything is what it seems. You should know that, dear. Pauline jumped out of the taxi, hurried to pay the driver and, running around the car, opened the door for her grandmother, helping her out of the cabin. Leaning on her cane and the strong hand of her granddaughter, the woman somehow got to her feet, straightening the folds of her colorful skirt. As the taxi drove away, she allowed herself to straighten her back as much as possible at her age, and adjusted the thick gray braid that lay on her shoulder. — Besides, it's been a while since we've discussed anything but boring life, — she said, walking slowly up the steps to the front door of the house, which was painted a perfect white. ― It will be useful for her to occupy her old brain with something other than poker. Pauline only shook her head with a slight degree of disapproval, continuing to smile. Her grandmother's passion for gambling with her friends on Saturdays was completely incomprehensible to her. Just the fact that they weren't playing for money was a little reassuring. Until that day, the girl had never met her grandmother's longtime friend in person and had only heard about her. Women usually gathered at the house of their third friend and preferred not to visit often, more because of their age and difficulties with movement than because they did not want to sharpen their tongues for an extra couple of hours. After the doorbell rang, the door was not opened immediately. It's understandable, the old lady in the electronic wheelchair definitely needed extra time to move around. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, a pink oversized sweatshirt with a white shirt collar sticking out from under it and a long plaid skirt covering her thin, dystrophic ankles covered with pigment spots in white socks and slippers. A typical rich old lady didn't look like someone who could help Pauline solve the problem, but since her grandmother was sure of it, it was worth a try. ― Isabella! ― the hostess of the house exclaimed in a raspy voice. — I didn't think a turtle like you would get to me in less than an hour. — You should have, Ida. Unlike you, I still walk, — the elderly Mexican woman replied sarcastically. In response, Ida just laughed in her raspy voice, sliding back in her chair a little and letting the guests into the house. ― And this, as I understand it, is your granddaughter? — Ida's pale, faded eyes were surprisingly lively and tenacious. Focusing on the guest's face, the woman looked directly into her eyes, and in that brief moment, Pauline noticed how wet her gaze was. It seemed as if the old lady had an allergy or she had recently been crying over some dramatic movie or TV series. — I'm Pauline, missus... ― introducing herself, the girl stammered, not quite understanding how to address the lady. ― Oh, just Ida, darling! ― the woman responded quite cheerfully, gesturing the guests into the next room. On the main staircase, Pauline did not notice anything that could help a woman in a wheelchair climb to the second floor. No special elevator, no platform. "Did no one in this house equip anything for her stroller for her grandmother and mother," — Sanchez thought, looking around the rich living room. — "They can obviously afford it." — They can, ― Ida replied, as if reading the girl's mind. Passing through a couple of rooms, to an emergency staircase equipped with everything necessary for lifting a wheelchair, away from the central hall and the entrance. ― But my daughter-in-law really didn't want to spoil the view of the living room with additional add-ons. You know, these platforms are practical, but they don't look very nice, and it's important for Pamela to make a good impression right away. Pauline remained silent, deciding to leave someone else's approach to the arrangement of living space without comment. But some unpleasant feeling towards the younger inhabitants of the house nevertheless stirred somewhere in the depths of the chest. Although the emergency staircase was also quite wide, it was obviously intended in the distant past of this house for servants, and not for the owners. Now it was reserved for a man whose special needs could not be integrated into the idyllic and rich interior. The nagging thought, "Did they really try?" — Pauline diligently pushed it out of her mind, trying to focus on something more pleasant instead. For example, in a dialogue between two old friends who were climbing together on a wheelchair platform, discussing the latest poker game and spicy tea for Ashe, their third friend, at whose house they usually all gathered. ― Almost everything for tea has already been prepared in my office. Pauline, dear, I hope you will help two old ladies to handle the burner for the tea siphon, — Ida turned to the girl, sliding down the carpet of the corridor on the second floor. ― Do you still use this antiquity? — Pauline asked, looking around the overly perfect interior of the house. Everything here seemed unreal. Not in the sense that these were fake elements of a rich life, not at all. It was about something deeper and beyond logical reasoning or description. Unlike Ida, who was alive and smiling, with her clothes creased and her white shirt collar slightly askew, not buttoned up to the end, everything around her seemed to be part of some kind of museum exhibition: perfect, neat, placed strictly symmetrically on both sides of the corridor between the doors of the rooms. ― Oh, my dear, only after tasting tea made on a real fire will you realize that tinkering with this antiquity is worth it, — Ida's voice, despite its hoarseness and creakiness, sounded incredibly pleasant. Surely in her youth she could have become some kind of singer or actress. ― But it's so steamy and long, ― the girl sighed, already imagining how long it would take to put the leaves in a glass teapot, shaking them off before using a special spoon to get rid of small tea leaves that could seep through a sieve. How long will the tea be heated, watching as it enters the second container through a siphon, already thoroughly steamed on fire. How they will pour into cups and add thick honey instead of sugar, which will drain off the spindle for a long time. ― Cooking has its own special charm, ― Isabella jokingly nudged her granddaughter in the side. ― This is also a kind of ritual that is neglected by everyone living in this ever-hurrying world. Trust the old ladies, simplification and acceleration are not always a blessing in ordinary life, and all this fashionable fuss is doing terrible harm to our art. You know that yourself. ― I understand, ― Pauline sighed, opening the heavy oak door of Ida's office for the women and marveling at how tight it was. "And how does this granny handle it on her own?" ― the girl thought to herself as she followed the women inside. She had already prepared herself for the fact that she would have to strain again to cope with the tight hinges, which had not been lubricated for a long time, as the door easily closed by itself before her eyes. Although there was no visible mechanism or auto door closer visible. ― Don't stand at the entrance, dear, ― Ida called Pauline over. ― She won't answer your questions. The interior of the room was subtly different from the rest of the house. It was just as classic and austere, clean and tidy, but the traces of a living being were much more noticeable. Petals of scarlet roses fell on the table next to an obviously very expensive porcelain vase with a gilded neck. A moist light brown droplet from Ida's last cup of tea on a saucer that stood next to where the mistress of the room was sitting. The broken and battered spines of books that were read and opened most often. Small traces of the chaos of life that did not try to destroy and make the living space so sterile and ideal that it eventually lost its realism. However, with all this, there was no way to blame Ida for being untidy. Her office seemed to have materialized out of some historical English detective novel. Neat, but lively. Vintage, not dusty. Ida, with her silver hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and her perfectly white shirt collar, even if it wasn't buttoned up to the end and slightly askew, seemed really in place here. ― So, ladies, what kind of business brings you to me? ― Ida adjusted the cuffs, which were slightly peeking out from under the elastic bands of the sleeves of a soft pink jumper. Her dry and sinewy hands slowly opened a tin can of tea. ― I think you heard what happened to my brother―in―law's store last night, ― Isabella began the conversation, gesturing to her granddaughter and handing her a box of matches. Pauline gingerly took hold of the rough cardboard box. She was afraid of an open fire for a number of reasons, but mostly because she had once knocked over a candle and almost set the house on fire. Fire was required for many rituals, and she tried to avoid it whenever possible, but if she had to work with it, she did everything to make it safe. ― That scream was probably heard even on the other side of the city, ― Ida looked more displeased than alarmed, shaking dried leaves in a teaspoon and pouring them into the upper container of a glass siphon. ― However, I still don't understand who made this noise. It doesn't look like a Banshee, although one might think so unknowingly. And it's too unfashionable for Serena. And the second one was more like an animal howl, I hadn't heard such a "concert" in a long time. Pauline carefully struck a match, igniting the sulfur tip as close to the burner as possible to minimize contact with the fire. The flame of the oiled wick flared up too quickly and the girl almost dropped the still smoldering match, pulling her hand away from the flame. ― Darling, you don't have to be so nervous, ― Ida smiled. ― The fire definitely won't bite you. Sanchez felt terribly uncomfortable. A slight heat rose in her chest as she hurriedly blew out the match, putting it on a special copper saucer, along with other used and burnt-out brethren. Slightly turning down the flame of the burner by turning a small knob, the girl involuntarily stared at the dangerous flame, which looked like a closed flower bud. It was still too early to put the burner under a vessel with water, she had to wait for her grandmothers to ask her about it. To be patient, listening to their unhurried conversation and watching Ida's dry, pigmented, pale hands slowly shake tea leaves on a miniature analogue of a slotted spoon. How very tiny leaves and tea dust fall back into the tin can. ― I won't say about the second one, I also heard it for the first time. And believe me, I've seen a lot of undead in my life. ― Pauline didn't quite understand which "second" she was talking about, but she didn't dare to get into a leisurely conversation. Slow-moving old ladies will probably get distracted by the explanation and completely lose their way, forgetting about the original topic of conversation. ― But the first one was definitely the Undead. Judging by the description from my granddaughter, he clearly did not die a natural death, and he was in someone's service for a long time, and when he was free, he raised such a howl that not a single whole showcase, window or mirror remained in his son-in-law's store. ― Poor soul, ― sighed Ida, pouring the last spoonful into the upper flask and finally putting the spoon aside, returning it to a special recess in the tea jar. ― I hope no one got hurt. ― No one, ― Isabella closed the lid of the upper vessel and motioned for Pauline to place the burner under the lower flask of water. ― Only property. My granddaughter was the one who freed this spirit from someone else's control, but we didn't expect it to make a fuss. Now she would like to know how to let go of such souls if she has to deal with something similar again, and you understand this better than me. Ida leaned back wearily in her chair, watching as the first bubbles began to form in the warm water. Her moist eyes stared thoughtfully at the steady flame of the burner. Pauline was surprised to notice how it became a little more active due to the fact that the handle itself turned slightly, barely noticeably. ― That's an interesting question, ― the old woman finally said. ― Mourning the soul is the first thing that comes to my mind, but unfortunately no one but a real Mourner can do it. Only they can let go of a suffering soul forever. The actions of the mourners have their flaws and weaknesses, but nevertheless their tears are the most reliable way to relieve the soul of someone who is no longer able to mourn himself. There are alternative ways, but in this case the soul can return from another world again to try to complete the task that is gnawing at it so much that it does not allow it to rest. ― It's a temporary measure, too, ― Pauline said softly, with uncharacteristic modesty. ― It will be better than inaction in any case. ― The main thing is that actions should not be hasty and only make things worse, ― Isabella smiled, looking up from the vessel that began to boil. The boiling water slowly rose up the glass tube like a geyser and began to slowly pour tea leaves. The tart aroma of fresh black tea with bergamot began to spread through the office. ― I need to think a little, dear, ― Ida carefully watched the tea leaves give their color and aroma to the hot water. ― Do me a favor, for now, go to the greenhouse for fresh tea rose flowers, three buds are enough. The greenhouse occupies almost the entire third floor. You'll go up the same stairs that we came up here, and there's only one door at the top, so you won't get lost. Do you know what a tea rose looks like? Pauline nodded silently and went to carry out the instructions of the elders. A little disappointed, she walked down the corridor to a small hidden door leading to a staircase with a ramp, dimly lit by the warm glow of sconces made in the form of old cast-iron street lamps. She wanted to be present at the conversation between the two old ladies, even if it was terribly unhurried, much more than tinkering with plants. But his upbringing did not allow him to disobey his elders and go against their polite request. At school, she could afford to be practically a different person only for the reason that not every adult there actually deserved at least a grain of the same respect that she had for her own aged grandmother and her friend. At school, teachers did not shy away from swearing, unfair and hasty punishments for students, disrespect towards those whom they obviously considered inferior to themselves: the students. Why politely address those who only do what they themselves are rude, hiding behind a status that is completely unsupported by anything other than a banal formality? No, of course not all teachers were like that. The headmistress, for example, has always been a woman with special dignity, which can be seen in her behavior, manners, and calm but firm tone of voice. Or the biology teacher, Mr. Pibbet, who looked like a typical nerd who gets kicked around in silly teen TV shows. In reality, his students didn't even make any noise in his lessons, so as not to interrupt his clear and well-modulated voice. The somewhat overweight teacher also had something that prevented students from making fun of him as Mr. Lancer and still being a good person. Something subtly pleasant, like real gentlemen from the past, who seem to have almost completely disappeared after politeness began to be called harassment and flirtation, and help ― humiliation of honor and dignity. The closed greenhouse was really quite easy to find. At the entrance, next to a small and well-hidden cabinet with, most likely, gardening tools, there was a pair of boots with thick soles. The glass door framed by decorative columns, copying the look of the ancient temples of Greece, caught the eye immediately. And the abundance of greenery inside gave no reason to doubt. Belatedly, Pauline thought that it would probably be worthwhile to ask Ida where exactly the tea rose grows in order to speed up the search. "Still, they're right, haste clearly gets in the way even in everyday life," the girl thought, looking around at the spacious greenhouse full of green sprawling plants, whose branches were so dense that in some places they almost completely covered the glass roof. It was incredibly stuffy and humid inside, and the girl's neck and face began to break out in sticky perspiration. Walking a little deeper along the granite path, Pauline saw that Sam was tinkering with fresh vegetables in small beds, loosening the black earth with a garden rake. The hem of her long dark denim skirt was tucked into her belt so as not to interfere with her work, and the sleeves of her loose black T-shirt were rolled up to her shoulders. The sole of his rubber boots sank into the loose earth almost to the middle of his foot, and his face was covered with drops of sweat and tears. Judging by her red eyes and wet eyelashes, Gotessa was definitely crying, although it was completely unnoticeable from her absolutely calm and even peaceful expression. ― Pauline? ― Sam muttered in surprise, finally noticing the stranger. ― What are you doing here? ― Grandma needed to visit an old friend, ― Pauline replied somewhat evasively. ― They're making tea in Ida's office right now, and they sent me to get a tea rose. Can you tell me where it grows here? ― Of course,― Sam sighed, putting the rake aside and getting out of the garden beds to escort the guest to the right place. The greenhouse really turned out to be much bigger than Sanchez had imagined. ― Are you okay? ― Pauline decided to start from afar. ― Yes, ― Sam's voice sounded dull and despondent. ― Then why are you crying? ― Pauline watched Sam, completely unafraid of getting dirty, make his way to a small tea rose bush, motioning for her to wait on the path. ― I'm not crying, ― Sam plucked exactly three buds, obviously well aware of her own grandmother's preferences, and returned to the path, handing the delicate flowers to Sanchez. ― Not on purpose, at least, ― the swollen eyelids inflamed due to tears and the reddened tip of the nose stood out strongly on the pale face. ― Samantha! ― A loud scream on the verge of screeching rang through the greenhouse from the entrance. ― How did you get out again? You were told to sit in your room and think about your behavior! And you're digging in the dirt here again, playing gardener. If I see even a drop of dirt on the carpet after that, I'll...! The owner of the voice turned out to be a petite woman in a neat dress. So neat that the starched collar and pressed folds of the skirt seemed unreal, and the varnished hairstyle looked like plastic. Everything about her was so neat and idealized that the woman could easily have been mistaken for some kind of robot from a retro futuristic movie. Her embittered face instantly softened, and the friendliest and most doll-like smile of all possible appeared on her lips as soon as she saw Pauline. ― Oh, I didn't know we had guests, ― the woman almost sang. Her abrupt change of behavior was a little confusing. But Sam, who was obviously used to such sudden mood swings, only sighed wearily. ― Dear, forgive my daughter for her terrible appearance. She managed to drag you into this swamp. I hope you didn't get dirty. The way this living doll abruptly began to babble with "her" guest and very clearly hinted at how much she was not happy with her daughter's behavior and appearance suggested quite definite thoughts. The obsession with aesthetics and appearance, the desire to maintain some kind of very abstract ideal purity in spite of everything, the thirst to show herself in front of outsiders better than she really is ― apparently this is the Pamela that Ida mentioned. ― It's all right, ma'am, ― Pauline finally managed to pull herself together after the woman's sudden change of mood. ― Ida sent us to get a tea rose. She and my grandmother, Isabella, want to spend some time together, and over tea, as they say, the conversation goes better. We asked for them in exchange for help with the cooking. You know how difficult it can be for old ladies to perform simple actions, ― the young witch had no idea what she was saying, this lie was obvious to both her and Sam. But Pauline couldn't find any other way to calm down an overly anxious woman on the spot. I wanted to escape from this plastic doll, and preferably as soon as possible, taking the gothess with me, who was clearly not expecting anything good in the company of a living robot. ― Well, then I won't distract you girls, ― the lips painted with scarlet lipstick with the clearest contour continued to depict the most fake of all the fake smiles that Pauline had seen in her entire life. ― Before leaving the greenhouse, be sure to clean your shoes properly, dear, so as not to inherit. And you, Sam, take off your shoes. You are welcome. And then change into something nicer and cleaner. ― Okay, ― Sam said on an exhale, looking tiredly at her mother with eyes wet with tears, which this woman obviously didn't care at all until her daughter's shoes and clothes were clean enough.

***

― Are you sure you're okay? ― Danny watched with some apprehension as his mother, with trembling hands, opened the refrigerator and took a small can of beer from the door. He rarely saw Maddie in the company of even mild alcohol. The last time was literally a year ago, after the parents had a big fight and in an attempt to take a break from the suffocating routine for a while, the woman went to her sister in Arkansas. Even on holidays, she didn't allow herself what she was doing right now. Perhaps Vlad was right that it was worth giving her all this information a little more carefully and carefully. Or maybe never at all. Opening the jar with the characteristic zilch, Maddie took several large sips, slowly sinking into a chair, propping her head on her hand. Her short red hair was tousled with restless fingers, and his overall appearance was somehow incredibly pathetic. ― I'm okay, ― Maddy took another sip of beer, straightening up and setting aside the half―finished can. ― I need to process all this. There has been too much new information over the past few hours, ― the woman motioned for her son to sit next to her instead of standing in the aisle. Danny felt his heart thudding, echoing in his head, but instead of the expected fear, he felt more like shame, which burned not only the tips of his ears, but his entire face. The sudden rush of blood seemed to raise his temperature, which the Ghost did not even try to bring down, as he usually did, although the tips of his fingers were incredibly cold, which made the nails with dark roots turn blue, becoming even more cadaverous. ― I should worry about you more, ― slightly shaking fingers touched the teenager's forehead, pushing his short bangs back. ― You're all red. ― It's nothing, ― Danny waved off, unconsciously starting to twist the loose thread of the bandage on his arm between his fingers. ― And how I didn't pay attention before, ― Maddy intercepted his hand, examining the cold bluish nails, pale skin with bluish veins on the wrist. ― When I was younger, I came across a Chinese superstition that a supernatural being can be distinguished from an ordinary person by inflamed cuticles or black nails, ― she gently released her son's hand and lightly smoothed his unruly black hair. ― Who would have thought that it would be true. The teenager did not quite understand how to react to such a statement. He had expected something completely different from this conversation. I didn't fully understand what exactly, but certainly not the stories about Chinese superstitions. Not an open can of beer and not such a calm, broken tone of voice. ― I've often imagined lately how this conversation might go, ― Danny confessed, without looking up at his mother. He focused all his attention on the already badly stained, broken thread of the bandage, which had long since lost its sterile white color. ― I imagined how you and your father would fuss and rush to collect samples, trying to figure out what I am. That you put me under surveillance and put a ton of equipment and sensors on me. And the first thing you did was reach for the fridge for a beer. ― You have a very rich imagination, dear. ― Maddie put her arm around her son's shoulders, pulling him to her and leaving a short kiss on the top of his head. ― Tell me..Does anyone else know? ― She asked the question haltingly and without unnecessary elaboration. ― Well..., ― the teenager hesitated slightly, not knowing what to expect anymore. Without imagining the further reaction of the person whom, as it seemed to him, he managed to study down to the smallest detail, knowing by heart how her steps sounded, which he could distinguish from hundreds of others. But just five minutes ago, everything he seemed to know about his mother literally crumbled. Disintegrated into atoms. ― Danny, I'm not going to swear or anything, ― Maddie interrupted the long silence. ― I just want to have a more complete picture of what is happening. He slowly raised his gaze, looking into his mother's eyes. They've always had a very unusual color. Most of the time, the iris seemed to be a deep purple, like some kind of gemstone. Maddy waited for him to respond. Honest and direct. But not expecting this from himself, the first thing he did was not mention the names of his best friends, nor did he indicate the members of the club he was a member of. ― Uncle Vlad, ― he blurted out at the edge of hearing. ― I can't believe it, ― Maddie squeezed the bridge of her nose with her free hand in a tired gesture, closing her eyes, as she usually did when studying small details for too long or after staring into a microscope for a long time. ― He can't disclose the details for legal reasons, ― she said through gritted teeth, obviously partially quoting part of what Vlad had told her. ― I asked him not to tell you, ― Danny began to justify himself, not really understanding why. ― Were you afraid of my reaction with my father? ― Maddy sounded so sad that the teenager himself felt this bitterness on the tip of his tongue. ― Dad's more, ― the guy knew out of the corner of his mind that he probably should have shut up, but the words poured out of his mouth by themselves. ― When he found out that I had been sleepwalking as a child, he began to exorcise demons from me. And if he found out about it... ― Frost glistened on the tips of the guy's nails. ― You don't have to worry about that, ― the woman hugged her son's shoulders tighter again. ― No one is going to experiment on anyone, dear. I promise.

***

No one else came into the room for quite a long time. Time passed endlessly slowly in this silence, and every ten minutes felt literally like one hour had passed. Jack tried to fill that time with sleep, but he couldn't doze off forever. He tried to get up and at least stretch a little, but my head was terribly dizzy from the height change. Apparently, the vestibular apparatus suffered as much as the hearing due to these damned ghosts. Moreover, his wife and children were apparently not allowed to see him for some unknown reason. "I hope they're at least okay," ― Jack thought in his head, replaying over and over the terrifying scream of the monster that had taken the form of a teenage boy. The man remembered well that he had hit one of those who pretended to be children. Just as well as the fact that there was an adult monster with these two green unclean. And it could only mean one thing ― these creatures were breeding somewhere in the Amiti Park, right under his nose they built their vile nest to breed their own kind. There was simply no other option, because they couldn't have gotten to them through a ghost portal, bypassing all their sensors and security system without being noticed. His back and buttocks were already starting to hurt from constantly lying in bed in one position. One situation became completely unbearable at some point, and when Jack thought that he still had to spend a couple of days in this terrifying locked room in complete ignorance of the fate of his family, the lock on the door to the ward clicked open. Two policemen entered, introducing themselves as Officer Kadmi and Officer Stevens. Jack remembered the first one especially well because of the completely covered head. They said they wanted to ask a few questions. ― Jack Fenton is always at your service, ― the man cheerfully blurted out, to which the cops reacted with some strange glances among themselves. ― You don't even want to call a lawyer? ― Stevens asked, reaching for the notebook and pen he kept in the inside pocket of his windbreaker. ― The city can provide you with a lawyer to protect your rights if you don't have a family lawyer you know. ― Why? I didn't do anything illegal, ― Jack replied with a big smile and probably louder than he should have. It's a pity that with only one fully functioning ear, it was difficult to assess the volume of your own voice. The policemen looked at each other strangely again. It seemed as if Jack's behavior did not fit at all, not only into their plans and assumptions, but into all previous experience in general. They were literally playing peek-a-boo with each other, using some kind of conditional signals from their partners instead of words, which somewhat puzzled Jack, who was already poorly thinking after the attack of the ghost. ― I told you, he's weird, ― Kadmi said at the edge of hearing, leaning close to her partner's ear. Jack might not have heard her words, but he was quite capable of understanding what she was saying by the movement of her lips. ― Tell me, Mr. Fenton, do you understand why my partner and I came to you? ― Stevens decided to clarify, flipping through a couple of pages of a notebook and starting to make some notes. ― Do you remember well what happened last night and what brought you here? ― Of course! ― the man answered cheerfully, rising on his elbows to settle higher on the pillows. ― Last night, my wife and I encountered a manifestation of an anomaly. One of the ones I've been studying for over twenty years. I call them all "ghosts" for simplicity, but they can be very diverse in their properties and manifestations. Last night I managed to neutralize one of these anomalies, but then something happened that is difficult for me to describe at the moment, I did not refer to the readings of the equipment. The police listened to his somewhat confused story with obvious skepticism, periodically exchanging glances with each other. At some point, Stevens even stopped taking notes. A simple ballpoint pen froze over the lined pages of the notebook, without making a single stroke. The police just stared at him, it seems that at some point they even stopped moving. ― I warned you, ― Kadmi turned away from her partner, who turned his questioning gaze on her. ― Request a psychiatric evaluation and stop looking at me like that. ― I don't need a shrink, ― Jack protested. ― I'm quite healthy! Such hints from the representatives of the law were something out of the ordinary. The terrible display of incompetence almost robbed Jack of his composure, and only years of experience dealing with such structures did not allow him to be seriously offended. They probably have a protocol that they follow in normal situations, but this was something completely out of the ordinary. Just like last year during Halloween, when he was stopped by officers after he accidentally hit Vlad. Everything worked out that time, they agreed that it was a common misunderstanding, but for some reason they decided that the foam gun was not a weapon, but part of a festive costume. However, it was still a holiday then, and the officers were already running off their feet, catching minor hooligans and drunkards all night. But it's not Halloween right now. ―Tell me, Mr. Fenton, do you really think that exactly what you described happened last night? ― Officer Kadmi clarified, ― You claim that you 'neutralized a ghost' last night. Is right? ― Yes, absolutely! ― Jack answered without hesitation, looking at Kadmi handing his partner something that looked like a medical record. ―That's weird, ― Stevens muttered. ― According to the tests, everything is clear. Although it would seem... ― The doctors didn't find anything, of course, ― Jack sat up straight in bed, his back no longer touching the pillows at all. This sudden movement made his head spin slightly, but the man practically did not pay any attention to such a trifle. ― Traces of otherworldly activity are not so easy to notice. But, I can help with that. My wife and I have been doing this for quite a long time, and last year we literally had a breakthrough. Maybe you read the article in the Lancet... ― I think that's enough paranormal stories for today,― Officer Kadmi interrupted him. ― I've had enough of these fairy tales. ― Ashe, ― Stevens put his hand on his partner's shoulder, as if trying to restrain or restrain her with this gesture. The woman was somehow too nervous and because of this seemed terribly unprofessional to Jack. ― Read him his rights, Stevens, ― the woman stared at Jack. Dark eyes, wide, low-set eyebrows and a large nose with a very noticeable bump made her face stern and almost deprived of femininity in the usual sense for men. She rubbed her eyes tiredly before continuing. ― Let's file charges and get this circus over with for today. Jack listened, but he didn't understand why these people were saying all these things. The formal part of reading out the rights was not particularly postponed in my head. He already knew his rights and was sure that he would not allow them to be violated either by officers or dirty ghosts. ― You are charged with attempted murder of a minor, grievous bodily harm to a minor, and carrying an unlicensed weapon, ― Jack couldn't believe what he was hearing. How could he be accused of something like that?! Okay, weapons, he admits that, but everything else... He was sure that he had fallen into an undead that wasn't human last night. Into a ghost, a manifestation of the otherworldly, an inhabitant of the Ghost Zone, into the fact that a person can only pretend to be, but not be, simply because the manifestations of all human beings are alien to these creatures. ― There's some mistake here, ― the man muttered, looking at the serious uniformed officers. ― No mistake, Mr. Fenton, ― Stevens shook his head slightly. ― From this day on, you are under arrest. I advise you to contact a lawyer anyway. After the departure of the representatives of the law, Jack was once again left alone in the company of only his own hectic thoughts. The hands of the wall clock were ticking deafeningly loudly, and apart from them, not a single sound could be heard. ― This can't be happening, ― Jack put his head in his hands, ― It can't be happening. This is a mistake.

***

The thin thread almost became completely entangled when Charlotte pulled on the free end too hard, not noticing another loop in the semi-darkness of her dungeon. Sighing noisily, she began to untie the knot that had almost completely tightened, with fingers roughened from constant work. The thin thread kept trying to get under the broken tip of the thumbnail and either break itself or break the unfortunate nail, which had already suffered enough. When the noose was finished, the demoness stretched tiredly, stretching her back and massaging her neck, which was stiff from excessive tension and concentration. Voices could be heard outside, muffled by the walls of the cell. Charlotte settled herself comfortably on the floor among the ready-made skeins of soft yarn and closed her eyes to look at the outside world through the eyes of one of the faithful spiders. The awakened animal cautiously poked its head out of its cocoon hole, which was located directly under a tightly sealed dungeon vessel. At first glance, nothing remarkable was happening outside. The Fenton boy was going somewhere, lazily stuffing the necessary things into his pockets. He looked beaten up and not very lively as in the morning, but the same gloomy energy did not radiate from him. There was no destructive anger, no bitter despair. At the moment, he just seemed very, very tired, but relatively calm. The boy spent some time getting ready, exchanging words with his sister, who at first, as a little girl, refused to leave her room, contrary to the words of her mother and brother. And when the red-haired princess was finally lured out of the den, all the remaining family members left the house. A small spider leaked through the glass of the terrarium and saw them get into the car and drive away, finally disappearing from the insect's field of vision. But Charlotte was in no hurry to recall the spider. A vague, strange premonition tormented her, but she could not find the source of the vague alarm until she heard a soft metallic sound. It was a new thermos flask, similar to the one in which Charlotte herself was locked, but with one very significant difference: its lid was not welded and now, with every knock on the table surface, it slowly turned away. Whoever was trapped inside turned out to be extremely persistent in his desire to get out. The lid of the thermos continued to slowly unscrew, millimeter by millimeter, until finally, after another impact of the bottom on the table, it fell to the floor with a ringing thud. Spidey watched from the windowsill as a ghost in a red dress materialized in the teenager's room from a cloud of red mist that escaped from a vessel. The creature looked disgusting, rope marks on his wrists, dark blue, almost black, swollen veins on his neck and face. The black eyes scanned the unfamiliar room without any interest before the creature went to the window and disappeared into thin air, going through the glass. This creature was clearly not going to wait for Danny, preferring to take the initiative to organize a meeting with him. "This is bad",― Charlotte sighed, continuing to look at the landscape outside the window of the ghost boy's room through the eyes of a spider, remembering what variations of the future she saw, twisting a thin thread on a Norn spindle. ― "But maybe there's a benefit for me in this situation."

***

The woman behind the transparent airtight glass looked much better than yesterday. Having received a set of more or less decent clothes from trouser pajamas, food and rest, Lydia settled down in the space allocated to her with the maximum comfort available at the moment. After sleeping, she carefully made the bed again, helped those who were in a much more serious condition to get comfortable in their seats. Masters also caught her doing stretching exercises, which she was doing right on the floor of the ward. ― You really seem to feel much better, ― Vlad remarked, approaching the thin transparent partition. ― I feel better, ― Lydia replied shortly, rolling up the right sleeve of her pajamas and exposing her forearm with a pair of inflamed greenish ulcers that were still closed. She might not know the language well, but she was quite capable of making it clear with such nonverbal signals that she most likely considered feeling good to be a temporary phenomenon. ― The food was good. ― I'm glad to hear that, ― Masters carefully watched as Lydia cheerfully got up from her stretcher to her feet and moved closer to the partition, presumably so as not to disturb the others in the room. ― You wanted to tell me something. The woman's eyes lit up with a bright scarlet light. She completely opened her mind to Masters, showing him a rather non-trivial thought image. A pale, familiar woman in a horned escoffion, but lying in a crystal coffin. There was a gaping wound in her chest, which she covered with her arms crossed according to the old funeral tradition. In a pile of broken bones, meat, and black blood, there was a round ball with a scarlet vortex inside. The one who decorated the cane of the master of ceremonies of the Gothic circus. Even the forged bat was still visible in the black blood clots. The image was obviously not random. Lydia clearly understood what she wanted to show and what to focus his attention on, for some reason being confident that it was Masters who would be able to solve this peculiar riddle. But the man was in no hurry to make assumptions, carefully analyzing what he saw. For some reason unknown to him, the woman preferred fairy-tale images for her explanations. But not the harmless modern fairy tales that are read to children. No. In the entire composition shown, it was the crystal ball in the split chest of the deceased that attracted the most attention. The scarlet vortex shone so brightly in the glass and this picture was so spectacular. ― Did you understand anything? ― the assistant clarified in a whisper. But Vlad motioned for her to stay out. The girl immediately bit her tongue and took a step back. Even without seeing Lee, Vlad could tell that she was clutching the patients' medical records tighter. ― Why is the artifact in this woman's chest? ― Masters tried to formulate his thoughts more simply so that the foreigner could understand him. ― This is the heart, ― Lydia pointed to the center of her own chest, covering her solar plexus with her palm. ― The ghost's heart. Vlad had an idea. Lydia tried to say with similar mental images that the artifact used by frick contained a ghostly core ― the basis of most otherworldly creatures, the center of their power and a repository of memories. Tiny glowing balls of energy, which in ancient times were called "Will-o'-the-Wisps", which overgrown with an ectoplasmic body over time and received new life instead of the lost one. Vampires, on the other hand, do not become ghosts after death, but simply disappear into oblivion, dissolving into eternity, leaving behind nothing but flesh and bones, which in themselves are also not eternal. Vlad had never heard of vampires possessing such a quality in his entire life. A sign of so much vivid individuality that would simply prevent them from living in hives and having a collective consciousness. People like him differ in that they do not have such an element, which could be called a "soul", albeit with a big stretch. There is no time at the moment. But if he continue to develop this idea, then the woman in the shown mental image of Lydia was obviously from another era. At least five hundred years have passed since her repose, if not more, judging by her dress and headdress. She probably managed to personally catch the times of the great European plague. ― What's in her crystal ball right now? ― Vlad drowned out, concentrating his attention in Lydia's image on the woman's face: white, thin, devoid of eyebrows, and at the same time beautiful in its own way. ― Is this her core? Lydia nodded slowly several times in response, without taking her burning red eyes off Masters. The light pouring through the eyeballs was so bright that it illuminated the structure of the facial bones of the skull and the cartilage of the nose of the woman from the inside. ― But vampires don't have a core of power, ― Lee interjected again. Her voice was quiet, but quite distinguishable to Masters' delicate ears. She said what was on his mind. ― The servants don't have, ― The bright flame in Lydia's skull illuminated even her throat. Scarlet rays seeped out every time she opened her mouth. She slowly raised her hand, pointing her finger at Masters. ― But you have. This woman was giving out strange information that went against all currently known data. But she spoke confidently. Her mental images were clear and full of detail, and it was impossible to achieve this if her mind was in turmoil or if she was delirious, having lost her mind from a long captivity in the clutches of a psychopath. However, the more interesting question was something else. Lydia looked to be no more than forty, maybe forty-five, but such a visual old age would rather intuitively be attributed to the terrible living conditions for many years. But the deliberately aged image of a woman in a crystal coffin led Vlad to some counter-intuitive thoughts. Some people like to associate the first and bloodiest version of the fairy-tale Snow White with bloodsuckers. Perhaps Lydia chose him as the most vivid association with the creatures that vampires are stereotypically represented in the mass consciousness. But what if we assume that this is not just a fabulous image and metaphor? What if such a detailed and clear portrait is not what it seems at first glance? ― Lydia, how did you end up in the circus? ― Mastrers didn't want to ask risky questions directly. I'm just not used to doing this, coming from afar every time. ― I'm from his mother, ― the blurred answer in broken English was difficult to understand without any clarifications. ― Before that, from his father. Before that, from my grandfather. Before that, from his father. ― Were you inherited along with the artifact? ― Masters clarified, feeling a slight chill creep under the white collar of his shirt, after Lydia's confident nod. ― How old are you? The scarlet fire in the woman's eyes subsided. She was silent for a long time, thoughtfully, as if trying to calculate. She looked down at her hands, bending her fingers one at a time on each hand, and then unbending them. She stopped at about thirty and thought for a long time. Either she couldn't remember the exact number of years, or she didn't know which number went next or how to say it in English. Or maybe she wasn't counting the years at all, but the number of her own "owners"? ― Lydia? ― Vlad cautiously called out to the woman, pulling her out of her thoughts, which were obviously too hard for her in every sense of the word. The woman's eyes lit up again. Looking up at Masters, she reopened her mind completely, literally trying to drag the man into the depths of her memories by force. Whatever was in her head, whatever memories she kept there, Lydia considered them incredibly important. Which, for some unfathomable reason, she only wanted to entrust to him.

***

Her skin is as white as the first snow. The lips are red like drops of blood. Her mistress was an incredible beauty, and the birth of her first child had tired her out, but it seemed to make her even more beautiful. The thin skin with streaks of bluish veins seemed to glow from within when the mistress took the child in her arms, looking at him with some kind of inexpressible longing. ― You know, Lydia, ― she began softly, while the maid carefully cleaned the baby's cradle from dust. ― I think this man will soon find a way to get rid of me. ― What are you saying, my lady? ― Lydia almost dropped the white feather bed from her hands at such a statement. ― Your husband would never do anything wrong to you. In response, the woman laughed, and the sound was like the trill of a small bird. Long, sharp fangs flashed between her beautiful red lips for just a moment. She stroked the pale, almost bluish cheeks of the baby, who, gaily agitating, bit her finger with sharp teeth, licking off drops of blood. ― You know that's a lie. He sees a demon in me, and a freak of that demon in my son. The saddest thing is that he is right, but no matter how many bastards he personally has, I will still be more guilty of this sin, ― the woman wearily sank into a chair, continuing to rock the child in her arms. ― I wouldn't have had the strength to maintain the illusion of my own normalcy in his head anyway. Besides, I'm surrounded not only by him and the people at court, but by the whole kingdom. I can build illusions. I can play on people, but this lie has lasted so long, acquired so many add-ons that it is about to collapse under its own weight. The oppressive silence was interrupted only by the groaning of a child. Both women understood that nothing could end well for someone like their mistress. Already, most of the court began to whisper that Her Highness was a witch, since she hadn't aged for so long. She was able to carry it once, having already changed my fifth decade. And the favorites and the maids had been whispering behind her back for a long time, they still could not come to terms with the departure of their own beauty. Everyone around her began to say that the comfortable, familiar life for the baroness was coming to an end. Lydia must have been the only one who didn't dislike her mistress, having been by her side since childhood. ― Mistress... ― Lydia hugged the feather bed tighter, trying to muffle the unnecessarily loud beating of her own heart and not disturb the already sensitive ears of the hostess. ― Is there anything I can help you with? The woman sighed softly, looking at her child's face as if for the last time. Obeying a barely noticeable gesture from her slender fingers with long and neat nails, a gold jewelry box rose from a small dressing table without a mirror and fell directly into Lydia's hands, who dropped the burden in surprise. After laying the child on her lap, the woman made a small incision on her wrist with a sharp claw. ― Please come here, ― she asked politely, holding out her injured hand to the maid. ― I want to invite you to become a part of my family. Not a titled man, but a member of the hive. By drinking my blood, you'll be one of the few people I could trust with my child if anything happened to me. I don't promise you eternal life, it won't happen away from me. But I can give you the power to protect him and yourself. The jewelry in the casket should be enough for the clan members to buy a place for themselves on the ship that is now waiting in the port. To escape before the hunter arrives. ― What about you? ― Lydia suddenly felt like a jeweled box was pulling her towards the ground with its weight. ― I'm afraid it will be more difficult to escape from me, ― the mistress smiled the same as always, as if she was talking about the weather or what she wanted for tea, and not about her own possible death. ― Besides, I can't say exactly what's on my husband's mind. He's not my man anymore. Lydia took her mistress's fragile wrist in her palm. It seemed like a crime to damage such beautiful skin, especially with my own hands. The hand felt incredibly hot, as if the mistress's body was constantly burning from the inside, fueled by a small sun somewhere in the depths of her soul. She stared at the ink-black blood on the lady's wrist, thinking back to the first day they met. When she herself was a little girl, thrown out in the churchyard along with those who died of the infection. She was considered dead, but already in the wasteland, the remnants of her strength returned to her for a short time, allowing her not to end her life under a mountain of decaying dead. To see the sky for the last time. Take a deep breath. It was the first time she had seen the lady there, in the churchyard. When it was already deep into the night, and the stars were burning in the sky. Then she seemed like an angel to her. The horned prophet of the Lord, who promised her healing. Since then, she followed her mistress, learning herbalism, literature, mathematics, and etiquette from her as hard as she could. Touching her mistress's wrist with her lips, she took the first bitter sip of her mistress's black blood, cutting off her loyalty for the rest of her days. Not knowing yet that he would never find the strength to leave her.

***

Vlad came back to reality abruptly, as if with a jolt. Behind the thin transparent wall, Lydia was on one knee, her head bowed low. If everything he saw in that woman's head was true, then it meant that he was now standing in front of a being who had actually survived more than five centuries. A being who once swore allegiance to his mistress and her clan. Who was now kneeling before him. ― Mister Masters? ― Lee gently touched his shoulder. There was anxiety in her feelings and a complete lack of understanding of what had just happened and was happening. ― It's okay. Please, Lydia, stand up. ― the woman obediently got to her feet, at Vlad's request. Her eyes no longer glowed scarlet from within, only a thin trickle of black blood flowed from her nose from overexertion. ― A doctor will come to you now and examine you. You're overworked. In response to his words, the woman nodded slightly and returned to what she had been doing before the arrival of Masters: she sank down next to her bed on the floor and continued stretching. It was as if nothing had happened. It was as if she hadn't shown him anything unusual right now. ― Lee, the plan for studying the artifact needs to be radically changed, ― Vlad adjusted his glasses, which had slid down again under the weight of the lenses closer to the tip of his nose. There was another important detail in Lydia's memory that was now firmly embedded in Masters' mind. The image of a horned healer at a medieval churchyard, whose core of power was imprisoned in glass. ― And preferably as soon as possible.

***

They left him in the interrogation room with a completely tasteless-looking lunch of salad, a couple of sandwiches, thin soup and a paper cup of coffee without milk. An incredible abomination compared to what he used to eat normally. Frederick sipped his coffee without interest, glancing from time to time at the one-way window that occupied the entire wall of the room and had the appearance of a giant mirror on his side of the wall. The devil knows why they put him here instead of transferring him to a cell, but he wasn't particularly interested in it. From time to time, the man scolded Liu, who had not returned from the mission. It was as if the useless boy had run away, even though it was completely impossible. Such loyal dogs like him do not run away and do not betray their owners. He was sure that he had trained the boy well enough so that he would not have a single personal thought. Not a single spark of will. "White hair and glowing green eyes. If it wasn't for that freak, I wouldn't be here," ― Frederick muttered to himself, casually blurring the white makeup on his cheeks. His appearance now left much to be desired, but he was in no hurry to completely wash off his makeup, citing a violation of the right to look as he pleased. ― "The cops think they can dress me up in an orange robe. Make him the same as everyone else," ― the Freak finished the outrageously bitter and strong coffee in one big gulp. ― "Damn it, they can do it!". His thoughts kept returning to the blond monster who had knocked on his dressing room window late at night. Who could have known that because of this creature, he would not only lose the artifact and the troupe, but also end up in jail. The undead couldn't have been more than sixteen years old. A skinny and puny kid in a black jumpsuit that looked more like a sack on his angular body. A gray, unremarkable mouse not only resisted his will, but also attacked him. "The local animals allow themselves too much," ― Frederick halfheartedly stirred the cooled soup with a plastic spoon. ― "They imagined themselves to be equal to people. They attack those who are higher in the hierarchy." Frick reluctantly scooped up the soup and, holding his breath, brought this abomination to his mouth when out of the corner of his eye he noticed a blurred figure in red in the reflection of the one-way window. ― Finally back! ― Frederick exclaimed, turning towards the boy in the red dress. ― I already thought that you had abandoned me, my little one. Now, be a good little dog and get me out of here, Liu.

***

There was a commotion at the main police station of the Amity Park, which was atypical for a quiet and sleepy coastal town, almost completely separated from the rest of the country by a chain of low mountains. They have already managed to get out of the habit of emergency situations here. The high-profile crimes ended with the departure of the last gang of gangsters, who killed each other by staging a shootout in the oldest hotel in the city sometime in the middle of the last century. Local departments became havens for seasoned lawmen who were tired and often begged to be transferred to quieter and quieter places. Even though the Amity Park cops were known among the neighboring towns as representatives of the old school, they had a special love for bureaucracy and digging down to commas in any minor speeding ticket, they were still mentally unprepared for work of this magnitude. ― Lord, it's only three o'clock, and I'm already falling off my feet, ― Stevens complained, wearily plopping down at the table and mercilessly rubbing his eyes. Yawning, he didn't even try to cover his mouth. Tears stood out on his pale eyelashes. ― Maybe because you and I haven't slept with this commotion since the night patrol? ― Kadmi was pouring water into an old coffee machine to make herself and her partner one drink each. To cheer up one last time, to fill out the paperwork as carefully as possible and finally finish this monstrously long shift. ― Or is it because we've been shuttling almost the entire city in the last few hours? ― Stevens dropped his head on the table. ― Hey, don't you dare to sleep here! ― Kadmi shoved him in the shoulder, setting a cup of coffee right in front of her partner. The ridiculous mug with a crooked pattern that his daughter made for him on father's day was his favorite. Everyone in the precinct could tell who she belonged to by those scribbles. ― We still have things to finish. ― Thank you for not talking to the detainee all this time, ― said a man who entered the dining room, accompanied by a man in a formal suit who introduced himself as Owens. ― Is everything that bad? ― Kadmi clarified, picking up a cup of coffee for herself, setting the maximum strength on the machine. ― Your suspect even annoyed me, even though I'm kind of his lawyer and I have no right to say that about my future clients, ― the man loosened his tie slightly and unbuttoned his shirt collar. ― At first, according to your colleagues, he refused to talk without a lawyer, and as soon as I appeared in the interrogation room, he started attacking me with some strange claims, saying that, ― the gray mouse would not be able to defend him. ― He refused to talk to the officers or to me one-on-one. And at the end of this long and most meaningless conversation in my life, I demanded lunch and left him alone, ― Owens took a small thermos out of his briefcase and poured himself tea, sitting down at the table and staring blankly in front of him. ― You can still refuse to work with him, but we can't do that, ― Stevens grinned, taking a sip of hot coffee and closing his eyes with pleasure. ― Relax. He's probably just in denial right now. Give him a day to get used to his new position, sit down, and think about how he got into this position while we're working. He might even cooperate with the investigation. ― You're too optimistic, Joe, ― Kadmi grinned, sipping her cup of coffee and ushering another colleague to the machine. ― There are victims from different countries in the hospital. In order to take the testimony fully, we need to find an interpreter who knows Romanian, German and Polish. The feds will come to us soon, we will need to work with embassies, and if the journalists make too much fuss, then also with the public, which can behave very unpredictably. Do you remember what happened last Halloween? ― Don't remind me. I don't want to hear anything more about Fenton today. Especially from you, ― Stevens rolled his eyes to the restrained laughter of his colleagues. ― I've already heard enough while we were driving away from him. For a while there was silence in the kitchen of the police station, broken only by the noise of commotion behind the closed door. Under the wall-mounted TV, which was showing the weather forecast for the evening, there was another one, divided into four sections, each of which had a view of several interrogation rooms. The old management measure was aimed at ensuring that even during a snack, police officers had the opportunity to monitor detainees and come to the aid of colleagues if they did something. No one openly objected, although many people were upset that even during lunch they could no longer be distracted from work. ― Is that my ward? ― Owens asked, glancing at the camera images. ― On the third. ― That's the one, ― confirmed the officer with whom Owens was trying to talk to the detained freak from Circus Gothic. ― What's he doing? The police drew attention to the third camera, which showed a man in a gloomy smudged makeup. He got up from the table, casually pushing the almost untouched lunch tray away from him and headed to an empty corner of the room. Judging by the movements of his red, pomaded lips, he seemed to be talking to someone, although there was obviously no one else in the room besides him. He was talking to an invisible interlocutor, sometimes blowing kisses, sometimes beckoning as one usually calls a dog. There was a ripple of static in the image as Frederick jerked his head back. It was as if he had been slapped in the face. Taking a couple of steps back, the man bumped into the table, knocking over a bowl of soup. He was pinching his nose, as if he had really been injured. He acted incredibly believable. The police did not even have time to understand what was happening when even more ripples passed across the screen, and the detainee, turning sharply, hit his head on the tabletop with all his might. So the thick wooden surface cracked, knocking over all the remaining food on the tray. ― He's mutilating himself! ― Kadmi exclaimed, taking off with her partners and the lawyer. Rushing to the interrogation room, where another weirdo decided to play the victim of violent cops, injuring himself. The lock on the door to the interrogation room was opened immediately, but for some reason the door wouldn't budge. It was as if she was being held from the inside or propped up with something. Muffled screams and the sound of crashing furniture could be heard from inside. It looked like the prisoner got into a rage and decided to have a good time at the last, knowing full well what was waiting for him. He gave his last performance. Quite a few police officers had already run to the noise, who had already seen a lot of such artists in their service, and understood that the matter might not be limited to self-harm alone. When the door was finally kicked down, the noise in the room abruptly subsided. Frederick was lying in a corner, trying to hold the bleeding wound on his neck. Thick trickles of dark blood flowed from his broken nose, smearing the makeup on his face completely. His clothes were torn and smeared with leftover food. The one-way window was broken, and one particularly large bloody fragment lay next to the man. No one really doubted that on this piece of glass there would be prints of the artist of the burnt circus. ― Fuck... Need ambulance! We have a suicide attempt! ― Stevens shouted, grabbing the handkerchief his partner held out and began to pinch the wound of the arrested freak. For sure, the doctors will do everything possible on their part to ensure that this man survives and is brought to justice, but, frankly, with such an injury, even Frick's chance of surviving until tomorrow morning was not very great. He had obviously overdone his portrayal of the victim. Or maybe he really decided to end it like this, just giving the cops and lawyers a little more work to do.

***

The legend of the mourners has been retold in detail, and thanks for that. After the conversation turned to a certain "second cry," the dialogue completely went aside and for some reason turned into a kind of "Dialogues about Nature," during which wolves, deer, bears, and some mythical wolfmen were discussed, and at some point both girls completely they stopped catching at least something understandable in it. For this obvious reason, two old friends decided to save the youth from "boring" gatherings by sending them to spend time together and, as Ida put it, "Learn something new." ― I can't believe someone like you is into the occult, ― Sam said, somewhat lazily brushing the remnants of earth from under her fingernails, which had clogged there during gardening. ― Who exactly is "like me"? ― Pauline clarified, looking with interest at the gloomy interior of the gotessa's room, posters of punk rock bands, among which there was one obviously too vintage in a frame under glass, which showed a girl with blue hair arranged in a mohawk in the form of flames. ―You know, ― Sam threw the nail file back onto the dressing table with a too―sharp movement, which caused it to bounce off the countertop and land on the floor next to the trash can, which gothic girl didn't even notice. ― You are the local beauty queen, and the most normal of all normal people. A stereotypical girl who likes stereotypically girly things. Magic and the otherworldly were clearly not among your interests. Tarot cards and horoscopes are the ceiling for people like you. ― Looks can be deceiving, ― Pauline chuckled slightly, coming closer to Sam and picking up a fallen nail file from the floor to slightly adjust the shape of one of her nails. ― Isn't that what you told your boyfriend when he decided to ask me to the dance last year? ― looking at the gotessa's surprised face, Pauline rolled her eyes. ― Don't do this pantomime right now. You often say something like that. You might think this is your favorite saying, but you're using it completely wrong. There was a soft knock outside the window with the black curtains drawn. Pauline calmly put her nail file on the table in front of Sam and went to pull down the curtains. The knock was familiar to her, and she already knew who she would see behind the glass. Two magpies were scurrying around on the ledge outside and chattered excitedly when they saw their mistress. ― Do you mind if I let my friends in? ― Sanchez asked, looking back at her classmate. ― Or does your mother hate animals in the house as much as dirt? ― I don't mind, ― Sam replied, sounding particularly flat. Pauline opened the window, allowing the fussy magpies to sit on her hands. The birds quickly climbed onto her shoulders, clutching the fabric of her pink tank top with their sharp claws and snuggling as close to her neck as possible. They kept looking around, as if they were looking for something in a new room. Although, it was more likely that they were just considering a new room for themselves. They look for interesting places and things. ― How was your visit to the circus yesterday? ― Sanchez asked, returning to the vintage poster of the blue―haired singer, taking a closer look at the already barely noticeable performance program. The list of songs seemed completely unfamiliar, as did the name of the singer and the name of the band. She was probably one of those whose work was not interesting to anyone and eventually got lost in the information noise. ― Nothing worthwhile, ― muttered Gotessa, plopping down on the bed. ― Did you know that the circus owner was arrested this morning? ― I heard something like that, but I wasn't interested in the details, ― Pauline scratched the head of one of the forty, turning away from the old poster. ― You're lying, ― Sam snorted, casually brushing the last of the dirt off the hem of her skirt. ― Only partially, ― Pauline replied evasively, sitting down on the bed next to ghot. Curious magpies turned their little eyes to the girl, examining her shiny rivets on bracelets. It would be worth asking why exactly in this form she went to dig in the ground, if only for the sake of having an excuse to continue the conversation. But in fact, someone else's appearance is just an interesting five―minute gossip, which in fact no one will care about after five minutes. ― They're cute, ― Sam gently scratched the magpie closest to her under the beak, which caused the bird to shut its eyes in satisfaction, stretching its neck forward. ― What are their names? ― This is a Button, ― Pauline introduced the first magpie, who was now fawning over the goth, ― And this is a Pin, ― she said, taking the bird off her other shoulder and bringing it closer to her classmate for acquaintance. ― I prefer to call them my friends, although Grandma says that they should be called fernals and not "reinvent the wheel". To everyone else, they're probably just my pets, even though that's not entirely correct. ― I had a friend like that once, ― Sam said, not taking her eyes off the magpie, who was loudly pecking at the rivets on her bracelet, examining a new toy. ― A little spider. From the context, it wasn't hard to guess what had happened to this very spider. Such animals usually do not have a long life span, and given the character of Mrs. Manson, a wild fanatic of cleanliness and an opponent of everything unpresentable, perhaps the insect's life was greatly artificially shortened. Tears welled up in Gotessa's already inflamed eyes, although her lips were still smiling quite sincerely. ― If you don't like talking about it, we can change the subject, ― Pauline suggested, putting her hand on her classmate's shoulder. One of the earrings with a black stone swung and poured heat on Pauline's neck. ― Don't like? ― Sam looked genuinely surprised, even though tears were already starting to roll down her cheeks. ― What makes you think that? ― You're crying, ― Sanchez said after a pause, touching her red―hot earring with her fingers and looking around the room, while Manson jumped out of bed and clung to the mirror, hastily wiping tears from her face. ― I'm sorry, ― she muttered, trying unsuccessfully to get rid of the moisture on her eyelashes. ― I don't understand what's been happening to me lately. The magpies flapped their wings restlessly, fussing around Pauline. They hissed into the void, imitating snakes, as if trying to scare away an invisible predator. They spread their wings wide and ruffled their feathers, instinctively making their rather small bodies visually larger. But the young witch couldn't say exactly what exactly they were reacting to. ― What's the matter with them? ― Sam asked, still crying. It seemed like the tears were really pouring out of her eyes against her will more and more. ― I don't... Pauline didn't have time to finish her sentence. She was knocked off the bed by a sharp blow, which caused the cheerleader's lip to split. A couple of drops of blood fell on the dark carpet of the gotessa's room. An invisible something grabbed Sanchez by the hair and slammed her head against the floor, smashing her forehead. Sam barely had time to understand what was going on behind the noisy and alarmed chirping of magpies fussing around the hostess and pecking at the air. She grabbed onto what she thought the birds were attacking. The fabric of her red dress cracked under her fingers. She tore off the sleeve of the ghost's clothes, thereby forcing him to reveal himself. The boy in the red dress. The familiar spirit that had been so submissive and obedient at the opening ceremony of the Gothic Circus was now raging. He growled like an animal, baring his long-rotted teeth. He just waved his hand, knocking Sam to the other side of the room. The girl barely stifled a scream, hitting the wall painfully. The glass of one of the frames with a vintage poster inside crunched under her back. ― When Danny talked about spirits taking revenge on everyone, I didn't think he meant EVERYONE, ― Sam groaned as she got to her feet. My head was buzzing terribly, and the incessantly pouring tears became so strong that they began to drip onto the floor. The ghost abruptly turned Pauline around to face him. With such ease, it's like a cheerleader's body is no fun. He grabbed her throat with bluish hands with rope marks and began to strangle her. Goth girl made another attempt to pull the undead away from her classmate. Leaning on the demon from behind, she tried to unclench his fingers, which were clutching Pauline's throat with a death grip. Sam's tears fell onto Ghost's bare shoulder and trickled down his arm. Under the sleeve torn from the dress. For a moment, the ghost froze. His expression remained unreadable. He looked from his hands, which were squeezing Pauline's neck weaker and weaker, allowing her to finally take a breath, to her frightened face with a split and swollen lip and a bruise on her forehead. He succumbed to Sam's hands, completely unclenching the girl's throat and allowing her to crawl away, coughing dryly. Instead, he turned all his attention to the Gothic girl, smearing her tears on the bluish skin covered with cadaverous spots. His body and clothes began to smoke from contact with the salty liquid, as if acid had got on them. However, the ghost did not show the slightest sign of agony, as if he was enjoying the way other people's tears were hissing on him, corroding him to the very bones. He caught new tears falling from the girl's chin, as if mesmerized by watching them dissolve his palms and muttered something in his native language. ― What's he doing? ― Goth said, barely moving her tongue. ― Mourners mourn those who are unable to mourn themselves, ― Pauline replied, wheezing and clutching her injured, bruised neck, quoting Ida's words almost word for word before coughing again. Sam stared at the ghost, who, muttering incoherently, continued to stare at the light haze rising from the surface of the skin. He looked younger than them, just a kid. He was dying far from his family and friends, in an old house with an earthen floor. A long and painful death, slowly suffocating, swinging from a beam near the ceiling and cursing all life on this planet just because no one came to help. Going crazy from his own pain and rushing at anyone who caught his eye at the wrong time. Dying in the company of a maniac who wanted to make his ghost his ideal slave for the next many years. A tool for doing even more dirty things that you wouldn't have to get your hands dirty about. A maniac who was never caught by the finger of justice at the time. Taking the ghost's cold palms in her hands, Sam closed her eyes and saw the life that had been taken away from the boy. Full of friends, even in a strict closed school with strict army regulations, to which he was sent for bad behavior and petty hooliganism, stealing peaches from a neighboring garden. A member of a large and noisy family in which he spends his free time on vacation babysitting younger children and helping his ever-working parents with household chores. An ordinary life, in general, with its own small joys and sorrows. Goth bent over the ghost's cropped head. Her tears, pouring from her eyes, fell on top of his head, flowing down his head, leaving wet tracks on his forehead. Getting into the ghost's eyes and running down his cheeks from them. Giving the impression that he has the opportunity to cry again. The spirit's body began to slowly dissolve into thin air, leaving behind reddish sparks that looked like sequins falling off a dress. But soon there weren't even any left. The restless soul went into oblivion, washed by tears. ― How are you? ― Sam wiped the last drops of moisture from her eyelashes with the back of her hand and walked over to Pauline, helping her up. ― It could have been worse, ― Sanchez finally cleared her throat. There were traces of thin children's fingers on the neck. It would obviously take a very long time to get off her delicate skin. ― It was cool. At that moment, Mrs. Manson unceremoniously opened the door of the room, almost shouting the standard: "What's going on here?". The magpies took off from their seats, obeying Pauline's gesture and starting to fly haphazardly around the room, dropping small objects from the desktop and bookshelves. One of the birds clung to the perfectly varnished hair of a woman with its paws, noticeably starting to ruffle them, flapping its wings across her face, feigning panic. The girls fussily began to catch birds, simultaneously apologizing to the screaming hostess of the house. When the last of the forty flew out the still-open window, there was nothing left of the immaculate plastic styling of the woman. Eye shadow, brown mascara, and bright red lipstick were daubed over her face with the wings of a bird. The perfect dress was wrinkled, covered with bird's down, and the starched collar was askew. Mrs. Manson froze in horror, looking at herself and the slight chaos in her daughter's room, which had so successfully covered up the traces of the recent scuffle. ― It seems you've lost an earring, ― Pauline said hoarsely, covering her injured neck with her hair and pulling the narrow collar of her tank top higher. The woman felt both of her ears, really not finding one of the earrings. A large shiny jewelry in the form of a golden rose with a pink stone in the center. Her face was almost instantly covered with purple spots, her lips were compressed into a tight thin line, and her jaws were clenched so tightly that you could see the corners of her sharp cheekbones trembling. ― Ah-ah-ah! ― Mrs. Manson screamed so loudly that the windows almost began to crack from such a high pitch. ― Nasty birds! Dirty flying rats! ― she shouted, flying up to the open window and looking out for little feathered thieves on the street. ― Well, wait for me! I'll find justice for you! Where are the city authorities looking!? What is the district administration doing!? With a sharp movement, slamming the window and closing the curtains, the enraged woman turned to the girls, glaring at each of them with an angry look. The only thing that saved Pauline from reprisal was that she had the status of a guest in this house, and the split forehead allowed her to pretend to be injured during this little "accident." ― Don't get so angry, ― Pauline rubbed her forehead, showing the wound. ― They're just birds. They were more scared than we were. ― They're flying rats! Peddlers of contagion! ― it was very hard to take a disheveled and disheveled Mrs. Manson without laughing. ― Sam, get the first―aid kit right away and treat your friend's wound. I don't want there to be rumors in the neighborhood that someone got sick after visiting us. And I'll call the sanitary inspection station. Let them rid us of these reptiles and treat the house! They've probably brought a bunch of their parasites here! Furiously tapping her heels and continuing to shout curses in the direction of the magpies that had long since flown away, Mrs. Manson left, almost crying and trying to shake off the fluff stuck to the fabric from her dress and pulling out small feathers from her hair. She's obviously going to take a long time to get herself back into her usual idealized plastic look. ― Can I ask you something? ― Sam turned to Pauline, completely unable to contain her smile. Her eyes were dry and the only reminder of the tears she had shed were her slightly swollen eyelids. ― Can your birds hide this poor earring somewhere and never return it?

***

The family spent the entire time before the hospital in silence. Initially, Jess, as the most unprepared for the sudden and difficult changes in their lives, was offered to stay at home. But the girl silently gathered herself and got into a taxi with everyone at the very last moment. Along the way, without saying a word, she did nothing but scroll through something on her smartphone. Such a painful immersion in the news feed definitely could not end well, and everyone understood this, including not only Jess herself, but even the surprisingly silent taxi driver who drove them. ― Mom, I read it on the news... ― Jess hesitated slightly before continuing. Slamming the book case shut, she looked up at Maddie, who was sitting on the very edge of the chair in the emergency room, waiting for Danny to return after the dressing. ― It's true. Everything you've told me about Dad today. Maddie looked at her daughter. The girl was upset: her eyes were wet, the tip of her nose was flushed, and her eyebrows were like a house. Until today, she was a normal person who lived in a relatively normal family, and today she found out that one of her parents was a criminal, probably not quite mentally healthy either. At least that's what Jack Fenton's act was all over the news. During last year's Samhain, the man managed to become famous for tracking down spirits right on the streets of the city, pouring ectopenia on passers-by in fancy dress. Fortunately, no one was hurt then, except for his reputation and the nerves of the law enforcement officers, who obviously worked overtime that evening because of him, because a couple of particularly impressionable religiously minded citizens adopted the hunter's line of behavior and began to pour "holy water" and sprinkle salt on the mummers approaching their homes. The news said that a couple of kids who got caught in the distribution had to wash their eyes, but nothing serious anymore. And now... ― Unfortunately, dear, ― Maddie sighed, putting her arm around her confused daughter's shoulders. Her children are clearly going to have a difficult start to the school year with similar news that will appear against the background until Jack's case is closed. ― That's not the only reason you're divorcing him. Why can't I know everything that happened? ― Jess raised her voice more than she should have, attracting the attention of strangers and a couple of patients who, judging by the bandages on their heads, could not stand the noise at the moment. ― It's because of Dad that something happened to his arm, ― Maddie just nodded silently in response. ― You said that there was something else connected with him. But why can't I find out about it? ― Honey, the thing is, it's hard to explain. And I'd say it's a more private conversation, ― she replied, hinting that there were too many extra ears around. ― This is about your brother, after all, and you know that he doesn't like to do anything that makes him public. ― She doesn't even use social media, ― Jess just nodded sullenly, leaning back in her chair. ― But still, I have a right to know. The girl was right about that, too. Just as Danny is right not to talk about everything that concerns the Iron Maiden once again. It's obviously not going to be easy to solve this ethical dilemma, but maybe when Maddie herself has more or less digested everything that happened, she'll be able to handle it easier. She should at least get a day of peace and reflection for this. It's just a pity that real life wasn't going to give her such a long break. ― What happened last Halloween. Tonight... It was obviously something not very good, wasn't it? ― Jess continued to reason softly, looking at the blank black screen of her smartphone. ― Dad's obsession with ghosts. The fact that he now takes even people for them... ― That's enough, honey, ― the woman put her hand on her daughter's arm. ― Everything seems too complicated now. Don't try to sort out what happened right away. Give yourself and your brother time, I'm sure he'll tell you everything himself when he's ready for it. ― And if he doesn't want to? ― sometimes it seemed that Jess really behaved like a child much younger than her years. On the one hand, there was nothing wrong with this, but on the other hand, such character traits did not help at all in solving serious issues. ― In that case, you'll have to put up with other people's desires, ― Maddie lightly stroked her daughter's hair. It probably wasn't the answer she expected, but it was an honest one. Danny finally appeared in the waiting room with a fresh snow-white bandage on his palm, which looked much less alarming and much neater than the one that had been before. Accompanied by Masters, who, as in the morning, kept his usual restrained smile on the verge of falsity. It seemed that there would be no other emotions from him, even during the apocalypse. Maybe it was because of this innate composure and concentration that Danny trusted him faster than his own parents? ― Everything is not as bad as it seemed yesterday, ― the teenager smiled, showing a bandaged palm with a smile. There were still dark circles under his eyes, and his pale lips were completely lost in an equally pale face with huge blue eyes. ― I hope so,― Maddie got up from her seat to hug her son, who was surprisingly accommodating and not resisting tenderness today. ― I'll need to stay here on business. ― You can go for a walk with your sister or have a snack at a cafe. This is just a suggestion, if you want, I will order you a taxi and you will go home to rest. You don't have to wander around the city right now. I'll meet you at home and order something delicious, okay? ― It's not necessary to stagger, but we'll take advantage of the offer, ― Jess concluded, jumping up from her seat too cheerfully and grabbing her brother by the elbow with her good hand. ― Jess... ― Maddie said softly but insistently, letting her daughter know that she was being too intrusive right now. ― Don't make that face, Mom, I get it, ― Jess snorted in response to her mother's stern look, rolling her eyes. Looking at the children hiding behind the glass front door and the somewhat pained look of her son, Maddie sighed heavily. It will be a great success if the brother and sister do not quarrel after this walk. Another scandal is clearly not going to benefit their family, especially now that they are all on edge. The disturbing thought that letting them go like this was not worth it was interrupted by Masters' voice lightly touching her shoulder. ― Is the girl too proactive? ― With a smooth gesture, the man invited her to follow him, into the depths of the corridors, to one of the service elevators, which did not transport patients unless absolutely necessary. The cabin doors opened almost immediately. ― I guess you could call it that, ― Maddy sighed, rubbing her neck wearily. They went up to the right floor in silence. The woman kept glancing sideways at Mastres, lost in thought about the reason why this man, who seemed to her personally fake through and through, could be trusted. Danny has always been overly cautious in choosing his social circle. He preferred not to call friends of strangers and not to invite the whole class to the holidays, contrary to school rules that forbade this, which is why he received a reputation at school as a terrible boor and outsider. But Masters. What was so different about him for a secretive kid? ― So, how long have you known? ― Maddie asked as the door to Masters' office closed behind them. ― What exactly is it about? ― the man clarified, as if just in case, offering the guest a place at the table. ― About Danny, ― the woman explained. The knee of her leg, which was injured due to the incident in the mountains of Colorado, slightly cracked when she sat down. No matter how much she trains and studies, the fracture and long recovery will obviously take some time to make themselves felt. ― He told me a lot of interesting things today, but what really interests me is why YOU found out about it earlier. ― It's a trivial accident, ― Masters settled into the chair opposite her. ― It was just a combination of circumstances during your visit, timed to coincide with the alumni meeting, nothing more, ― the man looked quite sincere, but with his limited emotions, it was difficult to draw conclusions about such a thing for sure. ― I guess that really unsettled you. ― Stronger than I thought, obviously, ― Maddie understood that the man was now quite deliberately avoiding the answer, but she did not insist on her own. In the case of someone like Vlad, going ahead would just be suicidal stupidity. ― Too much has happened in the last twelve hours for us. And given everything that happened, I can understand why Danny didn't want to trust me or Jack at the time. But you... Even if you found out about all his features by accident, his secretive nature would not allow him to continue and develop communication with you without a reason. What's so special about you? ― There is an explanation, but it's not an easy one, ― Masters adjusted his glasses with a barely concealed disappointed sigh. ― I'm afraid now is not the right time... ― When you offered me to work for you, you insisted that Jack stay away from research, albeit in a very tactful way, ― the woman interrupted Vlad. ― In the documents, several separate sheets are devoted to explaining in detail what "non-disclosure" is and what things fall under it. Even government employers do not show such meticulousness in this matter. Even in a case that now looms before us all like a giant elephant in a cramped room, and with which Jack, with his obsession, and Danny, with his idiosyncrasies, are directly connected, you've been obscuring and avoiding questions for as long as you can. This cannot but suggest some thoughts about what exactly you seemed safe to my overly secretive son. ― You're still as perceptive as you were in college, ― Vlad smiled slightly, and it was genuinely difficult to understand the reason for his outright satisfaction with Maddie. ― You're thinking in the right direction, the part of my work that I don't advertise to the general public is really very close to your research, even if it doesn't completely overlap with them for ethical reasons. But to some extent, she often comes dangerously close to politics and social activities, no matter how much I would like to avoid it. ― Wait, you mean... ― Before we start discussing cases and before I fully let you in on the details, I would like you to understand what problems you will have to face, ― Masters sat in an armchair, keeping his posture perfectly straight. His whole appearance at the moment, as it seemed to the woman, radiated not so much danger as inevitability. ― For the most part, people are timid creatures, and at this time they are also so sensitive that even for banal politeness and saying "today is a wonderful day" to the wrong person, you can get a lawsuit in court. You know, if something goes beyond the usual, a lot can go wrong, and any misunderstanding can have very fatal consequences. What if there's more than one like Jack Fenton? Should a new witch hunt begin in the wake of public hysteria? Danny understands that, and I hope you do too. If you decide to immerse yourself in your work, and if you want something like Jack's case not to make SUCH a fuss, then a certain degree of unfreedom for you will be associated precisely with communicating with the press and any official statements. You will have to trust me on this, no matter how unpleasant it may be for you. Masters outlined the situation quite clearly for her personally, using neutral words in case she says "No" and wants to play against him from now on. Jack and his actions are a stumbling block for all of them at the moment. You don't need to be a special genius of thought and a great strategist to understand exactly what Vlad is hinting at, drawing such an obvious analogy with a witch hunt. If Maddie decides to go against him, if she decides that she can play by her own rules, she risks raising a fuss and popular unrest during which her own son, and maybe not just him, will be thrown on a bonfire by superstitious people. Danny had been playing similar games with her for years, realizing that in the worst case scenario he would end up on the autopsy table and focused on it. Assuming the worst possible scenarios, he was able not only to hold out for so long and not be discovered against his will, but also got under the wing of a man whose influence is great enough to ensure his safety. A sixteen-year-old teenager, unlike his father, turned out to be very smart to understand how the rules of this social game work. And if it comes to her children and Jack, then will the man have to obey the question of his puncture too? Should I tell the court and the press the versions he puts forward? Even if it's an outright lie? The very thought made Maddie's stomach turn. She was not just being dragged into another secret project, but into a secret project that could only be left upside down. ― What do you say, Mrs. Fenton? ― Masters' voice was as calm as it had been at the beginning of the conversation. The smile on duty did not fade, as if it was glued to his face. In any other situation, Maddie would have admired her composure and self-control, but definitely not now that she was offered a deal with the Devil. ― Do you agree with these rules? ― I guess if one girl wasn't in a coma right now, it would be easier to say "no", ― Maddie smiled bitterly to herself. ― Unfortunately, ― for a brief moment, sadness flashed in the man's blue eyes. The glimmer of sincerity disappeared so quickly that one might wonder if it had ever been there. ― As a small consolation on my part, I can offer all the honesty I have. It's not much, but that's all I have. ― I agree,― at the moment when she held out her ungloved hand to seal this unspoken agreement. When Masters' hot and dry skin touched her fingers, she saw a barely noticeable scarlet light in his dark blue eyes.