Chapter 12

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The cloth of the robe rustled, in a peculiar way, very soft, like a silk ribbon. At the same time, both near and infinitely far away. Olga clutched herself into a lump, covered her head with her hands with such force that her joints were in a tired pain as if she hopelessly persuaded the master to stop torturing herself.

That's enough. She's had enough. There is nothing. There's nothing and there can't be.

A rustle. The rustling grows closer, wider, and wider, filling the universe. Like silk.

Gentle, new silk...

Like a hair ribbon, the very first gift of her life.

Olechka, wake up, it's time for breakfast!

What is it? Where is it from...?

Well, there you are again, hiding. You're probably under the table with the book again, aren't you?

The smile of a mother, the best person in the world. The kindest, brightest person who loves you just for being in the world. A mother's love is the last refuge for even the most disgusting scoundrel. But little Olga is not like that, she's good. And her mother is good. Everyone is very good, even her older brother and daddy. Only daddy has become angry a lot. And when he is angry, he drinks a lot of water from a bottle and becomes very strange. And he does strange, unpleasant things. And brother imitates him in everything and also behaves badly. My mother gets upset and feels bad.

Found ya! Who's the prettiest? Who's the smartest? Who's the most obedient? Who is going to put the book down and go to the table?

Olga felt warmth. A pleasant warmth glid over her body. It washed away the heaviness, the pain, the fatigue. This is how the summer sun warms up when the morning chill is gone, but the heat of the day is a little late. So warms a light-down blanket on a Sunday morning, giving moments of the most wonderful sleep of the week.

She didn't open her eyes, but even through her tightly closed eyelids she could see, feel, the golden glow that gently flooded everything around her. It was pleasant to sit in, it called to dissolve in the glow, to float away on the carefree waves of happiness somewhere far away from here. Somewhere where everything would be fine.

As it was once ...

Porridge is healthy, and we'll make it delicious, too! A drop of butter, a spoonful of syrup... Like this. A spoonful for Olechka.

Mirror. The mirror she found. How she wants to look into it and see a child's face with naughty pigtails. A face from her childhood, which seems so far away that it was not there at all.

She was named after an ancient princess. Her mother chose it herself so that the girl would have the most beautiful name. It sounds full and deep, resonating with every sound, like a bell ringing. And if you want, you can also soften it, very, very gently. Olenka, Olechka... Oleshek, Oleshek, where are your horns? That's what Daddy used to call her, when he came home, bringing the heavy smell of gasoline and work. It was so great! But time went on. Dad would come back later and later. And "Olesha" was called to his daughter less and less often. It was as if everyone had forgotten her name."Daughter, daughter" to her mother, who began to fade, fade and turn into a shadow of her former self. And her father always had other words ready for her now... So did her girlfriends, who had become "exes" overnight.

The warm, kind light around her faded. Deep gray shadows seeped through my eyelids. They surrounded me, like the Dementors from the fairy tale about the magical freeloader with the round glasses. They swarmed, emptying the soul, picking out all the light and good things that remained in the memory to the very bottom. Everything that was "before", leaving only what became "after". After little Olechka stopped being a beloved Olechka and understood well what bitter water is poured into special bottles for adults.

Mirror! Here it is, warm and cozy, even through the fabric of the jacket it clings to the palm of the hand.

"Poor child."

Who said that? Olga didn't understand. The voice was just present. It came from everywhere, but it did not break into consciousness from outside but was born very softly, naturally. Like the whispering of the best friend in the world, who would never let her down and would always give her a shoulder to lean on.

Like the words... of a mother?

"Children. They were once called the flowers of life. In the age of steel anthills, few people know what a "flower" is. But I do. I remember. A child's soul is like a closed bud, ready to blossom, to open to the world. The most amazing miracle of the universe is a child whose destiny is not yet written. But like a flower, it is easy to trample, to humiliate, to mutilate. And how often this happens..."

Olga wanted to cry. The tears rolled away on their own, seeping through her eyelids. Somewhere far, far away, at the very bottom of her consciousness, a lonely, pathetic voice of common sense screamed, wailing, warning her of something bad. That it was time to open her eyes and look around, no matter what horrors awaited her. That she had to save herself.

But it seemed too scary. Olga fumbled with the dirty fabric and pulled the trinket out of her pocket. She clenched it in her fist. She pressed her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around herself, trying to regain the feeling of all-encompassing warmth. To dive back into the golden glow. She wept bitterly in self-pity and understanding how right the kind voice of the world's best friend was.

There were times when she wanted to die. But now she just didn't want to be. Olga felt like she was in the middle of a terrible merry-go-round of memories, a swirling theater of sinister shadows.

It's because of you he drinks!

Catch the freak.

Why isn't your homework done, you bitch!

The boots are dirty again! And they're torn, too. There's not enough money for you. You're like a homeless!

It's meanness, real meanness to get so dirty!

Why are you yelling, why are you yelling? Oh, does the belt hurt you? Doesn't it hurt me to wash your clothes every day? You've been messing around in them!

What a beautiful barrette you have. Give it here, I need it more.

Catch her, beat her!

You'll eat it because it's healthy! Or do you want to die of tuberculosis?!

"It's okay. It's okay. After all, what has already happened is gone forever, it's gone. It is dispelled by the blowing of time and is only stored in our memory. All the evil in the world is only the memory of our grief, a heavy burden that man cannot shed. But it's so easy to straighten up, to straighten your shoulders, to leave behind everything that has been slowly poisoning your soul."

Olga howled, choking back tears, whimpering at the correctness of the invisible Friend's words. Who became closer than a mother, better than a mother. After all, he understood her like no one else. And his speech promised peace, deliverance from grief, a new life.

"It's okay..."

The voice sounded very close. It reached out and wrapped around Olga's very soul like delicate silk. It enveloped her, shut her off from all the horrors of the past and the present.

It promised.

It gave peace.

"Now everything will be all right... I'll show you how to throw off the weight that people carry on their weak shoulders. It's as easy as walking through a tough door with no walls. You just have to see it and go around it. But before you can give up evil, you have to realize it. To understand it, to let it go."

Just want to ... To understand, to let go.

And finally the obliging, frantic memory, with treacherous readiness, showed Olga what was the worst. Well, almost... Worse than her drunken father, worse than poverty and unsettlement, worse than her sadistic brother and angry peers, who had discovered too early and too quickly how easy it was to bully a weak girl who loved books.

What's stuck in her soul with a thin needle forever. She can't forget it, she can't get it out! The words once spoken in the heat of a woman, exhausted to the limit by her backbreaking labor and family troubles. Disappointed by the failure of her daughter, from whom so much was expected and so little received. And then repeated, in the same state of unconsciousness. And again, a little calmer, just out of anger. And again, a little calmer. And again, and again. Over and over again. Until they were just a regular statement.

I wish you were dead. I would have cried on your grave and lived in peace

I wish you were dead...

"You want some happiness. But I will give you something better."

"What could be better than happiness?" - silently asked the little, little girl. And her best friend answered:

"The anticipation. That moment when suffering still lasts, but you already believe in a better life. You know that the bad will pass and the good will surely come. Better than happiness is the near hope of finding it. And I will share that hope with you."

Hope... Yes, it was wonderful. It was clear and wonderful. Everything, at last, became clear. Olga smiled, opened her eyes. The light was everywhere, and she was light. And next to her towered the tall figure of the Best Friend in the world. And how could he have seemed scary to her? On the contrary, there was no one more beautiful and wonderful in the whole world. Someone always ready to support, encourage, and share her happiness. Someone who shares Hope.

Olga smiled again, feeling the movements of her lips generate waves of pleasant warmth. Which, in turn, spread throughout her body, tingling her nerves a little. The girl had long forgotten what a genuine sincere smile was, and not just a routine reaction to a pleasant sensation. And now she remembered, and happily shared that memory with the universe.

How good, how amazingly good, when you can really leave behind the weight of misery and memories. Olga smiled even wider, feeling her consciousness dissolve in a stream of golden light. Her Best Friend slowly reached out to take her by the arms, to take her away... Where...? Though what difference did it make. And the girl firmly knew that now all the time was at her disposal. There was no need to hurry anymore.

She looked in the mirror and saw exactly what she was supposed to see. A very handsome, strong-willed, yet lacking in stiffness, face with eyes of an incredibly deep, rich cornflower color. The unruly hair, always sticking out in all directions like hedgehog needles, was now flowing in a wavy hairdo. It seemed to live a life of its own, flowing smoothly, caressing her head with the gentlest of touches. Olga smiled at her reflection, and it answered her... with a delay that lasted a fraction of a second.

The girl turned the mirror to appreciate the art of the makeup artist who had shaded the play of light and shadow on her face, highlighting her cheekbones. And an unsolicited memory fluttered to the back of her mind. Something to do with... No, no way to remember.

The reflected beauty shook her head, put her finger to her lips, warning against unnecessary thoughts that disturb harmony, that return misery. A wing of platinum hair fluttered again with wonderful smoothness.

"No need to look back," the silky voice rustled. "No need to pick up again all the pain you've left behind."

My best Friend's words... Something in them resonated, something familiar. Familiar and extremely unpleasant, like a damp patina on an expired soybean sausage. It still looked delicious and inviting, but the touch was already unpleasant and promised long prayers to the sacred white stone. She didn't want to think about it. She did not want to remember, but she also could not dismiss it at all. The reflection in the mirror winked invitingly, and the cornflower eyes flashed an extreme concentration of ultramarine.

"Your road leads forward, only forward."

Olga's heart thudded, missing one beat. The gradation of resentment and frustration of the girl with the naughty straw-colored hair was vast and rich. And a large part of it was " show attention and humiliate" fun. For obvious reasons, it was mostly the "girlfriends" who were into it. But my brother made his mark, too. The most important element here was the first stage when it was necessary to lull the victim's guard, to make her believe that all the broken is glued, and the outstretched hand of friendship will not strike at the last moment. But the blow always followed, no matter how much one hoped for the best.

But that's all behind, isn't it?

Olga looked at herself in the mirror, looking for support in her new image. So beautiful, so fairy-tale like at the ball...

At the ball.

In a fairy tale.

It's all happened before. She had seen it all before. But where? A long time ago, in another life, tens of thousands of years ago. A faded disc with a dozen movies on it, barely one on top of the other, with cropped credits. Some adventure crap, and then there's "Infinity Story" and "Labyrinth". The first Hollywood movie fairy tales little Olya had ever seen. "The Story" didn't hook the girl. But the second film touched her heart and inspired a hidden sadness and longing for another life. And then there was the gorgeous Goblin King. He was cool, stylish, charmingly long-haired, and bewitched by amazing visions. The heroine of the movie needed something... very much needed.

Yes! The heroine was looking for her lost brother. And Olga herself was also looking for something. Something very important... Something connected with the deep blue color. And black, too. Black and blue, like the bruises from hard beating.

And then it flashed in her head. That's what happens when a person remembers about a frying pan on the stove in a half-slumber. Or when, in a sweet pre-morning nap, one suddenly realizes that he hadn't set the alarm clock and now he's definitely overslept. The sudden realization hits at once and brutally, like a hammer blow. That's what happened now, to her.

Kryp! The wounded, maimed Fidus, who waits for her. He will die without her.

The reflection wrinkled, its lips pressed together in displeasure. Olga looked at herself in the mirror, and now she could see that it was not her that was reflected in the uneven circle. A very similar face, and yet a completely different person. A mask. A cunning deception. The outstretched hand of friendship, covertly and thickly smeared with snot. A needle stuck in stealthily. An insult that is thrown into a trusting face with a gleeful laugh.

A fraud!!!

The body worked faster than consciousness. Olga threw back the mirror and retreated a step. The golden glow turned into a tangle of threads that swiftly turned black and curled into ashy rags, clinging to the victim like the petals of a predatory plant. But the girl, with an unintelligible shriek, broke through the barrier. Where she had just been, it was as if a mournful wing had flapped. It whipped the mantle of the sneaking freak in the blind mask. His third artificial claw snapped, missing his victim by a finger or two.

The mirror fell and shattered, all of it, including the wooden base. It shattered in a myriad of tiny shards, each one more like a needle. A silent flash of light exploded as if the trinket had been a flash grenade. Olga cried out. Covering her eyes with her hands, she bounced away awkwardly, seeing through the wave of ghostly light how the figure in the robe was spinning on the spot, grasping the air haphazardly with all three limbs. It looked like a crazed garden scarecrow.

The girl stumbled and fell on all fours, crawling away. And trying to blink.

The hallway around her returned to its normal state of dusty abandonment. Gone were the horrible tangle of leather cords, the rust, and other decay. And the garden scarecrow remained. But it had changed as if all the colors had been pulled out of it. Fucking sorcerer now looked like a half-embodied ghost. And deadly nonetheless. The long-robed figure was nowhere near as terrifying as the creatures in the apothecary's warehouse, but there was no doubt in her mind that she had now walked on the edge of something terrifying beyond belief. And irreversible.

Olga froze, trying not to even breathe. The scarecrow froze in place, head spinning and arms outstretched. The shards beneath its feet crunched, shimmering with a mysterious light as if illuminated from within. Oh, it wasn't an easy mirror she'd found back then... But the blind freak seemed to have lost her.

Keep it quiet...

Olga moved, still not getting up, crawled on all fours in a roundabout manner, intending to get to the bag. For several minutes this strange scene lasted, as if from a movie. The attacker, trying to hear the victim, and the furtive fugitive. Olga did make a couple of noises. Her hands and feet were stiff and unresponsive, still shackled by the drowsiness. But the scarecrow also went deaf. Now there was nothing, absolutely nothing left of her best friend.

Hope? Stick it in your ass, thought Olga vindictively, quietly slipping her hands into the straps of the bag. Now it was necessary to walk in the opposite direction to get further, according to the map of the computer.

"I don't think so," said the voice in her head, oozing good-natured irony.

Oh, fuck...

Olga froze. And the figure took two quick steps in her direction, but at an angle, not directly. Now the fugitive from Vidocq did not seem blind. It was as if he perceived the world differently, not with his eyes, not with his ears. He froze again, staring into the void with his glass mask.

"Self-sacrifice, that's commendable," the voice said, speaking directly to the meanings in Olga's head. "But where did it get you?"

The girl pulled the strap over her right shoulder with trembling fingers.

"Father. Mother. Brother. Peers. They all bought something in their lives."

Her left shoulder trembled, and the bag almost fell off. Olga bit her lip to the drop of thick and strangely cold blood.

The figure straightened up and froze with his arms at his sides.

"Self-confidence. The suppression of complexes. Sense of greatness. Relief from fears. The common pleasure, finally."

The last phrase sounded with sad and understanding sympathy. Olga blinked, biting her tongue to keep from screaming at the last words. She felt as if her very soul had been turned inside out and shaken, revealed to the world to the utmost corners. And then plunged into the village latrine. Tears trembled again on the tips of her eyelashes. Somehow it occurred to her that after so much sobbing, her eyes must have turned red all over, like a vampire's.

They acquired for a time what they lacked. But they didn't pay. It was you, poor child, who paid the bill. Your time for their time. Your humiliation for their brief enjoyment of their importance. Your tears for their laughter. Pain and heartbreak for ...

"No!!!" burst out of the girl, on its own. A terrible cry, breaking from the depths of her soul, which denied everything, demanded to stop, not to continue, not to awaken what had been long and firmly buried.

"Oh, yes." The creepy scarecrow sensed weakness and took two confident steps in the exact direction.

Now Olga did not doubt that the creature - as wild as it sounded - was targeting her thoughts, feelings, emotions. It was provoking her, stalking her. Which meant that it was necessary not to cry. To clench her teeth and suppress the urge to scream again in a voice of fierce longing. The pale undead was already three-quarters faded, dissolving like a movie projector beam in a stream of steam. A little more, and it would be gone completely. She just has to endure.

"It was your beloved brother, wasn't it? It was him, right?"

Olga kept silent. She bared her teeth like an angry rabbit and pulled her homemade backpack up so that it didn't pull her shoulders down so much. The vented composition was now placed strictly behind her, and the sinister undead straight ahead and slightly to her left. Olga held back a sob and stepped quietly to the right. The figure was still saying something, but the girl managed to ward off the stranger's words. Not for long, but enough to take imperceptible steps around the enemy in an arc along the wall. It helped greatly that the enemy was visibly weakening. As reality itself pushed him into the other side of the world, the sorcerer's voice faded as well.

However, the self-control that was forced out on the pitiful remnants of the will was not enough for long.

But everything repeats itself, doesn't it? Alone, in another world, in another time, with a knife against dangers, you can't even imagine. And for whom is all this for? You don't know anything about the Inquisitor. How much evil has he done? How many innocents did he torture in the name of blind faith?

A step, another step. The enemy sensed her proximity, made quick turns on the spot, turning his head like a radar. But in vain.

"Again, someone buys something for himself that he is deprived of. And again you pay someone else's bill. Only this time voluntarily. Selflessly. Ready to trade your life for extra hours of life for the Inquisitor."

Olga estimated that now she could run. On the other hand, who knows what kind of spurts the enemy is capable of. No, it was better to go slowly, but safely.

"A useless life, which even its master does not need because it brings only disappointment. After all, our poor Fidus has spent his whole life in humiliation. A weak nobody in the shadow of the glory of the great Kryptman Sr."

Wow. And Kryp, it turns out, has a long history. However, the mention of the father-child problem didn't really strike a chord in her heart.

"Only this time, the price will be too high. No one will say thank you. No one will even experience passing gratitude. They will take for granted all your sacrifice, all the mad courage of a lonely little woman. And they will condemn you for a "heresy" you don't even understand."

Fuck you.

"Child, there are many paths ahead, but if you go to the Inquisitor, all of them will eventually lead you to death. Think about it."

The scarecrow man seemed to have exhausted his set of persuasions. His words sounded weighty and right, but Olga remembered all too well the feeling of unclean stickiness that turned the golden light of hope. Maybe regarding Kryp the scarecrow was right. Except that he himself did not wish the unexpected guest any good. Which meant that he had to go to hell with all the pathos and heartfelt speeches.

Olga was greatly tempted to think expressively, or maybe to say something very effective, catchy, loudly, in farewell. But she still shuddered at the mere sight of the steel hand that hovered over her owner's head. If the demon was tracking her by the vivid images in her head, she shouldn't be giving him a clue.

Fuck him.

She walked sideways for a long time, keeping her guard up. Trying to keep her eyes on the scarecrow and the road ahead at the same time. At last, she was out of sight, turning into the side passage, as marked on the diagram.

The figure stood absolutely still, so still that even the folds of the cloak sagged in heavy folds as if carved from stone. Only the arm behind his shoulders had a life of its own. It swiveled on its owner's head, flicked its four knuckles, and generally acted as a living, seeing thing. A steel snake with cores of cable, always on watch, always on his master's guard. As it went on for about five minutes, maybe more. The sorcerous creature was either sinking into the deepest contemplation or ...

Without warning, the figure shook its head. The blind mask caught the dim ray of light, absorbing it without a trace. And, as if in response to a silent command, the tangle of a giant web trembled. The tinder, woven from the skin of the most loyal, most worthy servants, swayed and shuddered as if it were alive. Or as if something massive was descending from above, moving the thick threads with a multitude of hands.

The manipulator twisted once more, clicked, and folded at three joints, hiding in the folds of the cloak. The warlock removed his hood, revealing his head, completely bald and disproportionately small to his body. The mask hid his entire face and was bolted directly to his flesh with the usual self-tapping screws. The inflamed wounds were bleeding faintly, as they had very recently, and oozing acrid pus, but the figure was not at all bothered by it.

The web swayed particularly violently, then swayed several times in a hushed rhythm, as if the invisible creature descended to a lower level and froze in anticipation.

"She rejected the gift, I can't see her anymore," said the man (or rather, not a man a long time ago) in the sinister mask. This time he spoke for real, the words were muffled from beneath the mask, not adapted to voice transmission. But the hidden interlocutor understood everything.

"I can't find her. But you can."

The sorcerer waved his hands and wiggled his fingers, which, unlike anything else, seemed quite normal. On the dirty, scuffed floor, a string of footprints slowly emerged, as if imprinted with lilac-colored ink glowing in the half-dark. The trace floated and flickered, like an image on a faulty television set, striving to fade into the shadows. But the ominous figure continued to draw the prints out of oblivion with deft strokes.

"Follow her," the masked man ordered. "Don't hurry, don't spook her. We need her. And her ward, too."

He was quiet, with his head tilted to the side, as if listening.

"Of course," the sorcerer paused and admitted. "Amazing willpower. Who would have guessed that so much courage was hidden in such a pathetic shell..."

The invisible in the nets expressed disagreement, rather symbolically, not for the sake of argument, but accuracy.

"Do you think so?" asked the sorcerer from under the mask. "The complex of an unloved child, who wants to earn the approval and attention of the parents... In this case - the father figure embodied in the courageous inquisitor... Yes, perhaps."

He was quiet.

"But I think the strong maternal instinct that she unconsciously transfers to Kryptman has more to do with it. After all, he appeared to her at once weak, helpless, just like a baby."

A pause, filled with an ominous silence and mute speech that only two could understand.

"Father or baby, it doesn't really matter. The important thing is that she takes Kryptman very personally, so she will return to him. And she'll lead you to him."

After thinking for a while, the figure clarified the order:

"Kill the Inquisitor. Bring me his head and spine."

This time the mysterious servant (or maybe the companion? who knows) was not happy and directly expressed his dissatisfaction.

"Because I'll pull from his postmortem memory everything the Inquisitors know about us," the sorcerer condescended to explain. "And because I like the idea of making a "servo" out of him. Let him serve after death what he unsuccessfully tried to fight in life."

There was a grim irony in the invisible one's reply.

"Yes, not without success," the figure admitted, gritting his teeth from beneath his mask. "And all the more he owes me."

Another pause. The invisible one asked for instructions regarding the second subject.

"Alive. Intact. Unharmed," the tall one said, very distinctly and very clearly. "I need her. We need her."

The manipulator trembled, turned around in an attacking snake, its fingers spread out like the tip of a trident, reflecting its owner's latent excitement.

"Yes, our time is running out. We have accomplished much, but we have not achieved complete success. Soon the Inquisitors will come in full force. Time is running out, it is time to leave. But this soul is amazing, unique. It comes from a time when the Other Side was safely hidden and locked away. That is interesting in itself. It is a phenomenon worthy of the closest scrutiny.

But most importantly, it can be used."

The web twitched again. The threads shook. The unknown interlocutor seemed to have descended even lower, to the point of extreme interest. Through the shaggy sweat of leather cords now peered... something. Something the average person should not see. And no one should see anything at all. Because there are good things, there are bad things, and there are things for which there are no definitions because no language can describe their essence.

"Yes," judging by the changed tone, the man smiled wryly beneath the blind plaque on his face. "When I test and prepare the girl, you will absorb her soul, dissolve and distill it. Then I'll make a transcendent lockpick with which we can open the most invisible doors in the Other Side. And no psyker, no navigator will be able to trace our paths."

The Invisible One manifested himself materially for the first time. It looked as if a multitude of people had slipped their greedy, convulsively twitching hands into the loops of the leather washcloth at once. And just as quickly yanked back out. A few dark drops slapped the floor, and the tarlike viscous liquid hissed into the marble.

"If it didn't work in this place, well, we'll try in the other," one monster promised the other, and immediately warned him. "Be stealthy, don't spook the girl. She's been carrying the "flect" too briefly, the scent is barely detectable, and it would be hard to guide you and let it manifest. Our reward, however, will be quite generous. You follow the trail, and I'll prepare the lab."

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