Chapter 15

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Holiness looked the same - fat, smiling, with a pious expression on his face. He was habitually seated on a half-ruined couch, his arms folded over his chubby tummy. The old house where Celesta had previously met Fakasius was about to be demolished, and they had found another place to negotiate. The two predators, the living and the undead had no intention of bringing a rival to their lair, so they chose a room equally convenient for both. The second floor of the former store, which stood at the crossroads of two roads and was now completely ransacked, was an example of comfortable asceticism. In other words, there was almost no furniture, but the roof did not leak. Holiness was attracted by the possibility of placing guards on the first floor, without which he avoided appearing anywhere: secret and obvious enemies he had plenty of. The ghoul had appreciated the number of sewer manholes in the area and the small distance to the next building: a bit far for a human, but an undead, especially if he ran, would fly from window to window like a swallow.

"Darling! I am extremely embarrassed to remind you of our agreement, but with a heavy stone on my heart I have to remind you of the deadline." The crime boss was still smiling, but his eyes looked unexpectedly sharp. "When is the promised shipment coming?"

"Why are you in such a hurry? I didn't take an advance from you, and I warned you about the need to simplify the process." The girl looked coldly at the "dear friend". "Or you're not interested in the quality of the product?"

"That's right, sweetie, that's right ... Only I trusted you, reduced the number of purchases, waiting for the promised products. But it's still not there! It's purely out of a friendship that I complain: the stock in the establishments will soon run out, there's nothing to trade with. The employees are asking, they're worried!"

"Tomorrow you'll get a liter of concentrate," Celesta promised. "No more is ready yet. Technical difficulties."

In fact, Stasch had been working nonstop in the lab, and six litters bottles of the undiluted final product had already been carefully wrapped up in the warehouse. Only Fakasius shouldn't know about the stockpile. A steady supply of goods will begin a little later when the idea of building their tavern takes final shape. For now, the location had not been decided, there was no preliminary estimate of costs, and it was not known when exactly the establishment should open. The impending Great Hunt has messed up all plans. If the spring expansion goes well and quickly, then the authorities will soon weaken the strict rules of trade and people will have free money. Especially the soldiers, who expect to profit from the poorly explored territories.

It was necessary to carefully determine the place where the tavern would be opened. The rebels hoped to attract a certain kind of clientele. It would be more correct to say that they planned to open a brothel. A place where people in trouble with the law gathered, always ready to fight and drink their last money. The tavern-keeper and employees can also buy up stolen goods, collect information, and hire performers to carry out the ghouls' tasks. The masterminds in any business make better money than the doers, so Celesta aspired to become something more than a mere mercenary. In all areas. Quite naturally, it was better not to locate a thief's den next to the guards' apartments. That was the problem - there was no telling how living conditions in different parts of the city would change after the resettlement was prepared by the authorities. I wouldn't want to close down a brand-new establishment because of money losses or too much attention from neighbors.

Finances were a problem, too. Dinirs were slipping through her fingers like water, her income was almost nonexistent, and she constantly had to look for ways to make money. Celesta was so angry about having to save money that she seriously considered robbing the house of some important official. If it weren't for fear of attracting too much attention from the spiders who are bound to investigate incidents of this nature, she would have broken into someone's coffers long ago.

At least one issue was resolved: Varek agreed yesterday to serve the undead.

The man gave a mixed impression. Not yet old, covered with scars, wearing a dirty shirt and greasy pants, he sat, arms folded and hunched over, on the doorstep of the community house. His whole posture was one of weariness. The kind people here had agreed to shelter his children for a while while he tried unsuccessfully once again to find work. I might have mistaken him for a completely desperate man if I hadn't watched him the previous week. This man did not break down. Give him a chance and he will cling to it, flounder as hard as he can, but not let it go. And he would do anything to get out of the misery of his family's situation. Even make a deal with a vampire.

He didn't even flinch when I got in front of his face-just raised his head: "What do you want, girl?"

I smiled at him, showing my fangs. The man immediately pulled himself together, a wary expression on his face. I followed his gaze and calmed him down: "Nothing happened to your kids, don't worry."

"What do you want, ghoul?"

"Talk, Varek. Just talk."

"What do you and I have to talk about? If you want blood, take it, there's nothing I can do. But don't touch mine."

His admission of weakness was doom-and-gloom: he knew he was powerless to resist.

"Varek, a fisherman of the Three Brides, lost his parents during the plague but managed to transport the rest of his family to Serpent Island, where he waited out the most dangerous time. Then he came to Taleya and entered the Duke's service. All went well at first, but then you quarreled with Lash, lost your job, and your wife, brother, and son died. For the last year, you've been surviving on odd jobs and the children are starving. Is that right?"

The man remained silent.

"Do you want me to tell you what awaits you? You won't get a job: the officials are afraid of the Count's wrath and try to please him. You could, of course, try to go as an underling to the shady bosses, but I doubt you'll be accepted. The character's not right. You tried, didn't you? And you got ratted out. Next time they catch you, you won't get away with it. You'll go with your children to the villages or to the mine to work with a pickaxe. How long do you think you'll live at the mine? Or would you like me to tell you about the way the wardens screw up the stubborn... Is that unpleasant to hear?"

The man parted his parched lips: "Why are you telling me all this?"

"You're good for me. I have a job for you."

Varek grinned: "What, leading people into an ambush? Sorry, I'm not a murderer."

"No, I need a manager."

He hadn't expected to hear that from a ghoul. I was sure he'd never have been more impressed with an offer to share blood, or a mere bite in the neck. I started to explain: "It's very simple. I need someone to oversee business in my absence, and you seem suitable for this role. There are no complications with the distribution of duties either - I set tasks, leaving it to you to decide how to accomplish them. Money, stability, freedom, independence from authority. Agree to serve me and you won't have to worry about your daughters. Otherwise, their future is unenviable."

If he refuses now, I will have to leave, having suffered a serious defeat. I have no second choice. The undead cannot exist outside human society, nor can he be inside it: it is his destiny to glide along the border. In other words, it is not enough to rob passersby in dark alleys in order to live a normal life. We need a steady source of income and a link to the world of the living, so we need someone who can become our "face" in the eyes of ordinary people. I was counting on Varek. He was shallow, moderately honest, and hard-working, and he seemed like a suitable candidate.

"What would I have to do?"

A stone fell from my shoulders. A whole mountain. Varek hasn't definitively agreed yet: he's hesitant but willing to listen. There was only a little bit of pressure left.

"As I said, I need a manager. You will be the official face of the inn, practically the owner, I will not control how you do business, just pay a certain amount of money a month. Besides, from time to time we intend to eat at your inn. Oh, don't be frightened, no one's going to chase the customers around with glowing eyes. All it takes is a little blood from a sleeping man, and those drunks won't even notice. It's not in the interest of our kind to attract attention. You also have to collect rumors, gossip on topics of interest to us. Perhaps hire some people on your behalf."

"What makes you think I won't report it?"

"Because then you would lose everything. You will not be forgiven for associating with a monster."

"Don't worry, Holiness, you won't be without product." Celesta turned her attention back to the conversation. "Have I ever let you down?"

"No, no, I wouldn't think of it" waved his hands Fakasius. "I only wish it were quicker. What's the use of upsetting the people? They're all for the cause, aren't they?"

The undead almost blurted out, "Not every cause is worth caring for". She kept silent. No need to quarrel with the fat man - his help was indispensable soon. Instead, she promised again:

"You'll get the stuff as quickly as possible. I'll bring it myself."

"Oh, why bother! Send one of your friends, I've wanted to see them for a long time! They say your friend, Medea, is a real flower, and the new guy, what's his name... I don't remember..."

Under the ghoul's motionless, bone-crushing gaze, Facasius shrank, his voice becoming quieter and quieter. He should have screamed for help from the guards, but his throat was too tight with fear. He'd had time to wean himself off it, to get used to it, to forget why people were afraid of the living dead, to relax into the calmness that radiated from his partner. No, of course, Holiness feared Celesta, but for some time now he had regarded her as an ordinary person, albeit an incredibly cruel, cold-blooded one. He had stopped seeing her as a supernatural being, deceived by the joint affairs and the rational approach.

Now the trembling man faced the Darkness itself, indifferently and mercilessly. The girl's snow-white face, with its clearly defined cheekbones, was frighteningly beautiful, her bright scarlet eyes overwhelming at the very thought of resistance. Long fangs protruded from her slightly open mouth. For the first time in many, many years, Fakasius felt the urge to fall to his knees and beg, truly, unpretentiously, for mercy. There was a pungent smell of urine, but neither of them paid any attention to the smell.

Andrew was deciding what to do next. His instincts demanded, screaming at the top of their voices, insisting that he kill Holiness, who had allowed himself too much. He shouldn't have known the names and numbers of the other undead, moreover, he shouldn't even have suspected of their existence. Well, what he'd heard about Medea was no surprise: she's a very conspicuous girl, sometimes Celesta is not even noticed next to her. But he mentioned Hustin, who had only recently joined. So he's watching. How much more did his spies find out? If they merely collected rumors, talked to the poor, shook information out of them, not so much. It was different if they'd managed to recruit a Morvanite. The Dark One's worshippers have visited several hideouts, they are aware of many plans, they know the location of the lab, and most importantly, they have kept tabs on a sect of Illiar's servants. Which have knowledge that could be a real weapon against the undead.

"How did your people know about Hustin?"

A barely audible whisper made the man shudder and winch: "Trash said, Trash. He said the ghouls used to come one or two at a time, but now they always bring a guy. Big one, takes a lot of blood, like a pump. Says it's been a while..."

"Enough."

Fakasius shut up instantly, even stopped breathing. The rage and the desire to kill him slowly faded, followed by the consciousness of the stranger, displaced by the personality of Celesta. Killing the fat bastard was impossible - too much was tied to him. He was useful. Let him live a little longer. All the more so because he was so frightened, he wouldn't dare use the information. He will not dare to meddle in the affairs of his allies from the beyond. We only need to consolidate the result, because types like Holiness have very selective memory - they remember only what they want to remember.

"Perhaps you are right, Fakasius." The ghoul lowered her eyelids, at last, releasing the mortal from her gaze. The inhuman mask was fading from her face. "Indeed, you don't know any of my kind."

The man swallowed convulsively, clearing his throat, and nodded vigorously.

"Perhaps I should really introduce you?"

"Yes, Mistress. I certainly do not insist, Mistress."

"I'm glad to hear it. Especially since there's a Holiday coming up. Do you remember which one?"

The bandit, who was beginning to come to his senses, went white as a sheet. He wished he could forget about the feast, but he couldn't. A Sacrifice to the Lord of Darkness, after all. In the old days, in the springtime, criminals from all over the realm would gather who had done more evil than any other human: infanticide, maniacs, altar-blasphemers - anyone who had been sentenced to death by the courts. From among them, thirteen of the worst scoundrels were selected. The would-be victims were subjected to months of ritual torture that inflicted no physical damage but turned them into bloodthirsty madmen. Then the crazed humans were released into the arena, where they tore each other to pieces with their bare hands in a fit of rage. If by some miracle, one survived the massacre, he was declared forgiven - and, after a course of rehabilitation, released on his merry way. In theory, he was, for there had been no survivors in the last five hundred years.

The ritual was performed once a year, on the day when the sun for the first time cast its rays on the stone in the temple of Darkness. It was believed that Morvan was going to cede power to his brother and rival, so he cleans up the accumulated "tails" of the past turn of the planet. He took with him those who had nothing to do on earth, whose sins could not be atoned for.

For His Holiness, the hint was more than transparent: "But I, Mistress... am not ready! The honor is too great! I'd rather do it with my friends, modestly..."

"Well, suit yourself, Facasius. Or come if you change your mind. Then I'll introduce you to my kindred."

"I dare not disturb you with my intrusive presence. And business, business... This Great Hunt."

"Yes, so do we. So, Fakasius, try not to mention my friends too often. Every business and everything has its time, and nothing happens except in time. If necessary, they will find you."

They stayed silent. Holiness was wiping his face with his sleeve, forgetting his handkerchief and wondering what to do with his wet pants. Showing oneself to the guards like that was a little uncomfortable. Celesta wondered how their relationship would change after tonight. Without deciding anything, she mentally waved her hand. It was unlikely that Fakasius would try to eliminate her or report her to the authorities - the rest was not that important. In the worst case, she could live without the fat man. Tarrasch, with the right approach, would be just as useful.

"See you soon, Holiness. See you."

Fakasius did not have time to answer. A dark, swift shadow, not listening to the parting words, the ghoul jumped out the window.

After a brief meeting with Medea, the idea of organizing a ritual appeared in a new light. Indeed, why not sacrifice? The fanatics should be regularly tossed bones with meat, and a feast in honor of the Dark God, albeit in a truncated version, should serve as a good confirmation of the ghouls' sacred supremacy. If it's properly organized, you can do it without special effects.

Initially, the role of "lamb to the slaughter" had been intended for the chatty Trash, but on reflection, this candidate was rejected. No one would have believed that a well-known drunkard would be a worthy gift to Morvan. The Dark Lord valued strong, violent men, those who actively tried to bring chaos to the world and spat on any prohibitions. So it was necessary to look for a replacement, involving in the case of definitions of the cultists, happy with the trust of their superiors. As a result, the lunatics almost fought among themselves for the right to name the best candidate.

Celesta had to intervene. She assigned an old absentee acquaintance named Osilti as the sacrifice, and no one was willing to argue with her. The choice was considered impeccable. The man had once led a band of desperate thugs but had defected to the Duke's side in time. He was now, according to some reports, running errands for Count Maulvlar, or rather, serving him as a traveling executioner. Maulvlar was in charge of the settlements outside the city line, most of whose inhabitants were serfs. Riots often broke out there, and if the local guards could not cope with it, the Count sent Osilti. There was a very bloody trail behind the bandit.

The undeniable virtue of her choice Celesta considered the huge number of enemies that the former outlaw had made. So many people wanted to kill him that the investigation was bound to confuse the versions. True, due to the aforementioned circumstance, Osilti slept in the house with a strong guard, but the ghoul, after a preliminary study of the building, considered kidnapping quite possible. Especially if a friend helped. Plus - as several informants mentioned at once - the bandit kept a large sum of money in the house, but only he alone knew the location of the stash and the code to it. And the undead was in dire need of money because of the expenditures to be made.

Hustin, though superior to ordinary people in the ability to move silently, still did not learn to hide on a par with the girls. So Celesta went inside with Medea, leaving the young man to watch the surroundings of the house. The first obstacle was a heavy, massive door. There was no other way to reach the first floor. The windows of the second floor were kept shut in wintertime, and some of them had bars on them. Though the neighboring houses were relatively far away, the noise was avoided.

From the very beginning, the ghouls understood that no living witnesses should be left behind. Whoever they met in the house - the hosts, the guests, or the prisoners - would all be killed. Medea cautiously helped the little girl to the ledge, where she bent a piece of badly nailed plywood and slipped into the gap. The room was empty, just as they had anticipated. From the sound of it, they could hear two guards awake below, and the sound of sleepers breathing faintly in the adjoining rooms. The bandit himself slept in the corner room, even the glass in the windows intact, while his men were content with less comfortable conditions. Celesta, treading slowly, stepped out into the short, dark corridor and gently opened the door to the first victim.

The man slept on a bed made of a layer of what looked like styrofoam and covered with a mattress. He had not moved in the time that the undead had sneaked up to the bed. Nevertheless, it acted with incredible care: humans, who had survived the nightmare of a three-year war of all against all, were unwilling to become sensitive and dangerous beasts. The slightest sound was enough to make them jump up, blindly swing away from the threat, and only then open their eyes. The killer didn't hesitate; she hadn't needed to adjust to the proper stabbing in a long time. The only thing she feared was a sudden awakening or a loud sound that might alert the other sleepers. She used to it, though. As she habitually plunged the blade into the hollow of the neck, she simultaneously placed her palm over the guard's mouth, plucked the knife almost immediately, and stabbed at his heart. She waited a few moments, staring at the dead man before he twitched and listened in the darkness, then quietly moved on. The smell of blood didn't disturb her - she'd been feeding on purpose today.

The first difficulty arose in the third room: the guard who lived there did not sleep alone. Who the naked girl sleeping next to the massive figure of the warrior was, Celesta did not know and did not want to know. Maybe a prisoner, a lover, or a daughter bought for one night from her poor parents - what difference did it make? She was unlucky: she shouldn't have gotten in the way of the undead. The man lay with his head comfortably turned on his side, the thin stiletto sliding easily into his temple, not even having to hold his body up. His woman died a moment later.

Here, on the second floor, was Osilti's "retinue," his old associates in the bandit trade. Their women and children lived separately in a nearby outhouse, coming in only occasionally to clean up, fetch food, or serve as bedfellows. Such a way of life served the ghouls well, sparing them the dirty work. Celesta, however, would have chosen a different candidate for sacrifice had she known she would have to kill children. Her principles were few and far between, but she held on tightly to what was left.

After leaving seven bodies in the rooms, she returned, poked her head out the window, and whistled softly. Immediately a rope flew up from below, and Medea climbed up. Hastin remained immobile: he was strictly forbidden to interfere with what was going on. Now came the hardest part - dealing with the ringleader. Brute beast, he from the inside locked the massive door to his room, sneaking to him in silence would not be possible. She had to rely on speed and the inherent strength of the undead. But first, to be safe, the guards had to be disposed of. Dragging two mattresses and covering the door with them - if the fight dragged on, the sound would penetrate anyway, but at least some insulation - the partners snuck up the creaky stairs to the first floor. Fortunately, they were out of sight: the guards were too busy playing cards. And who was there to be afraid of? The only door to the street was bolted shut, there were no windows, and no strangers could gain access to the house. They would even take a nap if they weren't afraid of the ringleader.

The two strong men died quickly. The two blurry shadows that had inexplicably skirted the mat that covered the doorway rushed into the den, leaving them no chance. The mortals didn't have time to do anything, their weapons still lying nearby on the table. The ghouls looked at each other, and hungry Medea rumbled and snuggled into the still-warm throat of the corpse. While her friend satiated, Celesta hastily searched the other victim, took all the valuables, and glanced around the room. Then she made a sign to leave. They'd have time to get serious later after they'd caught their main target.

Pulling back the mattresses that covered the door, they stood listening for a moment. Inside they breathed smoothly, slowly, the way deep sleepers breathe. The girls didn't seem to be noticed. For some reason, there were three people inside, with only one snoring. Did Osilti want to have fun with two?

After a moment's hesitation, Celesta looked at the sturdy oak barrier and changed her mind. There was no particular reason to hide, but brute physical strength was very much needed. Hustin, for all his imperfections, would take out the door with a first strike, at least the hinges would certainly loosen. It would be a good start to work with a crowbar, but the bandit is a brute, he would wake up at the slightest noise. It's a miracle he's still asleep. The important thing now is to twist the ringleader quickly, not to let him grab his weapon. The ghouls never learned how to fence.

The guy called up from the street ducked and shot his body out, his shoulder crashing into the thick wooden plate. The house trembled. The door crunched and cracked, but it held, and Hustin flew back, grabbing for the dislocated shoulder. Celesta practically jumped over him, pushing off the floor and clumping together into a single lump, hitting the barrier. The door collapsed with a terrible rumble. It took Celesta a moment to come to her senses, and before she could even lift her head, her legs straightened and carried her toward the bed. She was late. A lean man with a scarred chest and blind, sleep-crazed eyes fumbled with his hand, fumbling for the hilt of a sword that lay in the headboard.

Medea was ahead of them all. Hustin was still lying in the hallway, Celesta was just beginning to rise, and the honey-haired beauty had already sprung to the huge bed. Osilti had no time to reach for his weapon when a terrible blow knocked him unconscious. The next to suffer was the girl closest to Medea - she, like the second mistress of the ringleader, did not understand anything and tried to scream. Screaming was not part of the plan of the attackers: the second was immediately pacified by a blow to the forehead. She was in a bit of a hurry, so she didn't know what she was doing and the girl's neck snapped. The first one seemed to have fainted.

The ghouls froze, listening. Silence - nothing and no one could be heard. There had been groans and cries and pleas for help from this house before, and the neighbors were used to it. The tension was slowly released, the three undead realized: the initial, the most difficult part of the plan had been successful.

They can relax a little bit.

A brief glance and Medea drags both girls into the corner. Whether they were alive or dead, they would be in the way now. Hustin had to explain in words: "Look outside, make sure everything is quiet."

A short nod in response.

Celesta herself, meanwhile, was tying the ringleader to the bed. They had never before interrogated people in such comfortable conditions. A tattered sheet was wrapped around his arms and legs, and a mouth-covering scarf with a small hole in front of his mouth was thrown over his face. A Band-Aid would have been better, of course, but Band-Aids have long since disappeared from use. In any case, the man will not be able to scream. Now they must wait for a while, and not to waste the time they had, they must take a cursory search of the corpses.

Hustin, who had returned, was not surprised by the girls' "dishonorable" occupation; on the contrary, he joined in the looting with vigor. Looting was considered a sin only by aristocrats who were a little out of touch with life; ordinary people had a more practical approach to survival. They collected only money, the best armor - the armor they expected to carry on their haunches, and other light and low-volume valuables on a spread-out blanket. They wouldn't be able to sell them anytime soon, the spiders would probably shake down the dealers of stolen goods, but it was worth stashing away for the future.

Finally, having finished their search, the ghouls gathered in Osilti's bedroom. The chief had not yet regained consciousness, and the girl, unconscious from Medea's blow, was unconscious as well. Time was short before dawn: another hour and the first rays of sunlight would pierce the sky over the city. And in an hour and a half, the undead bodies would fall into a dead stupor.

"Come on," Celesta commanded, focusing.

Hustin stared at the strange scene in amazement. Medea patted his cheeks lightly and stretched out on his right side, her whole body pressed against the man, whispering something in his ear in a soft purring voice. Her hand slid gently over the man's chest, arms, and head. The man, though unconscious, reacted more than obvious to the caresses - a lump grew on his groin, covered by the sheet. Osilti tried to turn around and wrap his arms around the woman, but his intention was thwarted by the ropes.

Celeste immediately intervened. She hovered over the bound man on the other side, and when he opened his eyes with a groan, she brought her face sharply close to him. She bore the little resemblance of humanity now. She looked as if she were a demoness of prey who had come for the soul of a sinner, to devour the wretched soul. The distorted features struck him as grim and cruel, a kind of jagged beauty, her gaze seeming to stare right through Osilti. The mortal lay relaxed, which could not be said of his... opponent? Yes, what was going on was more like some kind of twisted duel.

"Can you hear me?" Celesta hissed rather than whispered. "Answer me."

"I hear."

"What's your name?"

"Ruk."

Ruk the Fluffy. A ridiculous name, not at all appropriate for a violent bandit leader. The other is Osilti, the Fang.

"You want to help us, don't you, Ruk? Do you?"

"Yes..."

"Help us, Ruk. Help us," Celesta repeated persistently, persuasively.

"Okay..."

"Are you a wealthy man?"

"Yes..."

"Do you keep your money in this house?"

"Yes..."

Celesta hesitated a little, leaning lower.

"Do you keep money in a stash?"

"Yes..."

"Is it in this room?"

"Yes..."

"Where?"

The man twitched and frowned slightly. Medea immediately moved even closer and stroked him with her other hand.

"You have to press on the peacock's eyes."

Celesta, without taking her eyes off the prisoner, waved vigorously at Hustin. The boy looked around. There were no peacocks in the room - no statues, no images. Only in the far corner on a shelf was a statue of what looked like a bird. Hastin looked closely and rushed to it - the statuette had a broken tail. Pressing his eyes hastily on it, he heard a mechanism somewhere in the wall turn with a creak. The bandit was taking a risk. A little more, and the rusted gears would not have been able to open and close the hiding place. How had it survived, what had the former owner of the house been doing, how had the bandit known about the cache? No one wouldn't know now, and who cares.

"Yes!" cried the young man cheerfully, and immediately there was a sharp sigh from the bed. Turning around, Hustin managed to see a sharp and precise blow struck by Medea on the captive's head. Celesta tiredly covered her face with her hand.

"Be careful," the beauty remarked venomously.

In the cache was a large bundle of money, five hundred dinirs at first glance. There was also a tiny, fabulously priced crossbow and some letters neatly tied with braid. Without examining it, Hustin put all the loot into the canvas bag he had brought with him. Then he knotted the blankets, packed the loot, and looked around uncertainly. The girls, he thought, would take care of the transport of the prisoner.

"Don't rush."

The pallor was gone from Celesta's face, but she looked as if she'd eaten her last meal three days ago. And she felt the same way. Thirst reared its ugly head, she wanted to claw at the man's throat and drain him of every last drop of blood. She had to pull away, crawl off the bed so she wouldn't be tempted. The stench of blood, of pain, of murder, wafted through the house, and she sensed that she was about to lose control of her waking demon. She leaped toward the girl in the corner, growling muffled, violently yanking at the rug she'd been wrapped in, and jabbing at her throat. The victim, who had regained consciousness from the pain, cried out and fluttered helplessly in the embrace that gripped her. Hustin stared nervously at the gruesome meal.

"You're in luck." Medea, as she continued to bind the prisoner's hands, looked at the novice mockingly and with mild contempt. "You've never known what real hunger is. Watch closely. Sooner or later you too will go through it."

"Why is she... like this?"

"Using our abilities takes a lot of effort. The darkness generously bestows its servants with gifts, but it also demands high fees. Very high. In time, you, too, will discover something in you, a certain vocation, a gift, whatever you want to call it."

"Is it magic?"

"No." Medea began to wrap the man in the rug. She would have to carry Osilti alone, it seemed. Celesta needed to rest after her wild exertion: blood alone was not enough to recover her, and Hastin would carry the rest of her prey. She'll manage somehow, as long as her prisoner doesn't get in the way. "Magic is the use of external forces to achieve the caster's desired result. Do you forget the definition, student? That's not how we do it: we use our energy. We'll talk later. Let's go."

Celesta walked like a somnambulist, Medea always having to keep an eye on her. Medea looked anxiously at her friend; she had looked much better before after the interrogations. However, and faced with such stubborn resistance of the victim they had not before: the people they captured from the beginning willingly shared the information in exchange for life and freedom. The ringleader, on the other hand, resisted as best he could, knowing that he would not be left alive.

"Set fire to..."

Before she left, Celesta stopped and looked at her companions with a hazy look. Hustin, who was about to check to see if anyone was outside, nodded back: "Now."

He did run out the door briefly, looked around without seeing anyone, and only then called for Medea. The girls hurried to the nearby entrance to the sewers. The route had been decided beforehand, in view of the possibility of failure. Everything seemed to be accounted for - the frequency of guard patrols, rumors of spider dogs being used, even an estimate of how to escape if wounded. Hustin stayed in the house. He ran quickly through the floors, navigating the smells.

The scent of blood in the air disturbed his thoughts, but he managed to find liquids that smelled like alcohol in the guards' room on the first floor and the rooms of several of the bandits. It was true that most of the bottles contained some kind of bad stuff with weak degrees, and only two bottles were suitable for the novice arsonist. After spraying the second floor, paying particular attention to Osilti's room, he struck sparks with a pocket-sized incense on a soaked rag and threw it on the floor. Then, without looking back, he ran out the door, picked up his bundle of belongings, and hurried after the girls, who had long since disappeared underground.

The Morvanites who entered the underground chamber looked childishly happy. For the first time in a long time, they felt needed, they felt a sense of belonging to true power - the power over hearts and souls. They had long been forbidden to take active steps to glorify their god, but today they were convinced that their expectations had not been in vain.

The city was buzzing. Last night's daring murder of a dozen men who were among the entourage of an aristocrat close to the duke himself had caused an avalanche of gossip. It was said that Count Lash had taken revenge on an overly fortunate rival and that the favorites would finally have a fight. It was whispered that the executioner had been punished by a miraculously surviving slave who had escaped from the mines and had been on guard for a week. Morvan himself was said to have sent a demon to punish the sinner who had angered him. The latter rumor was more true than any other, and, dressed in the ceremonial robes Celesta had issued for the occasion, the cultists knew the truth better than most.

Osilti lay on the altar, chained. He spent the day in a deep, cold tunnel, covered by a heavy wooden circle, then he was extracted, washed, and led into the hall. The underground temple looked unfamiliarly solemn and austere. Medea long repaired it, decorated it, with the help of fanatics searched for and found valuable objects of cult, placing them in one understandable order, until she achieved a sense of dark, gloomy harmony. With great difficulty, a dark cross, brought from the surface, seemed to draw the eye, setting the tone for the whole atmosphere of the superiority and power of the sanctuary's master. The small room seemed to converge on the base of the cross, the black slab on which the naked man now lay.

Since sundown, Hustin had been busy applying sacred signs to the body and the altar. Medea, though a noblewoman, had the vaguest notion of temple mysteries, so the task was assigned to Hustin, who knew little more than she did. He tried his best. Unfortunately, he had little time to learn, which is why he used mostly symbols borrowed from his late great-grandmother. The old witch was notorious for being almost openly accused of association with the Dark One. The lad had forgotten much and had seen little of it, but he could scrape together at least the outward trappings from memory. After he'd drawn a chalice full of blood from the honorable fanatics, he painstakingly painted first the altar, then the victim, leaving some of the salty-smelling water in the bowl for the ritual. It was a shame to pour it out, and Celesta would surely find some use for it.

The prisoner looked dazed and, judging by his wandering eyes, was suffering from a concussion. Having spent the day in the cold, at fifty meters depth, he had caught a cold. He was covered with a blanket, but it was not for humanity's sake - Medea hated to be disturbed during her performances, and the coughing, sneezing, and gurgling of snot in the victim's nose were not conducive to the concentration of the ritual. So Osilti was even lightly treated with hot wine and spices, which caused the hungry and weakened man to fall into prostration.

"Praise our Lord, children of mine!"

A white robe without a single pattern or symbol was traditionally worn by priests of the highest initiation. The protocol called for a headdress like a crown, but they couldn't find one, so Celesta appeared before the audience with her hair down and a large jewel glued to her forehead. Medea deliberately made her lie still for ten minutes, waiting for the compound to set. The result was worth it, though. Barefoot, in a snow-white dress, openly displaying her thin fangs and scarlet eyes, the frail wit-girl did seem a partaker of some higher power in the unlit torchlight. Her inhuman essence, usually carefully concealed, was now visible from behind the mask she wore.

In unison, the cultists fell to their knees.

Celesta sang, and the rest of the ghouls echoed, followed by the rest of the Morvanitess. Medea, hidden in the shadows, led the party - her voice sounded as if it were beside everyone present. Hustin had no time to memorize the text, so he taped a torn page from the book to his side of the altar, and now he was very afraid to get lost. After yesterday's events, he'd gotten an idea of Celesta's capabilities and knew for a fact that he didn't want to incur her wrath. If he had previously looked down on the girls, though he didn't show it, considering them to be weak and helpless creatures, he had no illusions now.

"The Chalice of patience is overflowing, and the gods have turned their backs on people who have fallen into sin," Celesta said with enthusiasm. She composed her sermon using excerpts from Carlon's speeches and recollections of the services of the orthodox priests. "The power-hungry stopped caring about those who trusted them and lost power. The greedy and avaricious weep, for their luxury, have turned to ashes. Those who lusted after carnal pleasures now live in filth and corruption. The envious weep when they see their desires fulfilled. The haughty are cast down, and afterward, they procure their food, toiling on an equal footing with those whom they formerly despised. The mortals have fallen into despondency."

"The Dark Age has come, my children! For three hundred years Morvan, Lord of Darkness, will rule the world, three hundred years his reign will last! The weak will die, the strong will be broken, iniquity and evil will overwhelm the land of Talea. This is the test. The LORD is cruel but just, he sees everyone. He will see who follows His will and who rejects it. Reject the old laws that have become unnecessary, rise above the crowd, forget that there is morality, justice and mercy! This is the will of our God! All that is done for the good of the Lord of Hell must be declared good; call evil all that contradicts the truths He has spoken! A thousand chains wrap around each of you the Law, it pulls you to the ground, binds man to home, family, and friends, makes you serve your superiors and gives you the illusion of happiness. Only a fool believes in prosperity! Life is death, cruelty is inevitable. A mouse kills a blade of grass for its sustenance, only to be killed by a cat in a moment. Pain and fear accompany man from birth to death..."

The speech was a bit muddled, but the medicine poured into the flames of the torches made the people ecstatic. Medea, who silently echoed every word of the sermon, made it seem as if Celesta were merely amplifying a voice for the neophytes that came from nowhere. It certainly looked serious. After that, the Morvanites would revere the ghouls for a long time to come, and follow every order they received without question.

According to the ritual, Osilti should have first ripped open his chest with a blade, pulled out his heart, fed it to the dog, and then offered the sacrificial blood to everyone present. But Celesta decided with peace of mind that the ritual needed some adjustments. First, there were few dogs in the city - domestic dogs, for even mutants preferred not to mess with packs of wild ones - and there was nowhere for the undead to keep them. Second, most of the blood would go to waste if the canon were strictly followed, and that waste made the ghoul twitch nervously. So she made a sign to Hustin and Medea to come closer. They knelt on either side of the motionless, slightly snoring body. Each held onto the victim's arm, preparing to sink their fangs into the invitingly throbbing vein at the bend of the elbow.

"Hear us, Morvan!" The priestess at the top of the altar cried out. "Accept our sacrifice, and bestow your power upon our faithful servants!"

The short, broad blade went into the chest, cracking the ribs.

At the same time, Medea and Hastin both bite the hands.

The wound widened, and a pillar of Darkness came pouring out of it.

The sensation was gone. There were no arms or legs, only consciousness, resting in the boundless ocean of Darkness. The bottomless emptiness without a single glimmer of light stretched around, indifferently ignoring stupid human fictions - such as space, time, matter... Absolute darkness surrounded Andrew, thoughtlessly threatening to consume him, to crush a tiny bug that dared to touch the forces too great for it. One could spend eternity here without noticing it.

The dazed mind did not immediately realize how heterogeneous the place in which he incongruously found himself. Numerous shadows surrounded him, approaching, floating away, touching him with transparent tentacles. He could neither see nor feel them, but from somewhere he knew for sure that they were there. It was as if the heavy gaze of an enormous giant never let him go for a moment. Mighty beings on the other side of good and evil, life and death, had turned their attention to the intruder and were now deciding his fate. The superiority they radiated - not contempt, if the emotions of mortals are appropriate-they pressed physically, they could destroy Andrew's too feeble consciousness and not notice his demise. The state of uncertainty lasted a single moment, but even the brief moment was enough to silently groan in the pain that followed and to remember for decades the animal horror of the detached curiosity of the Dark Ones.

Then one of the shadows rushed toward him...

The sensations returned suddenly, abruptly. Smells, muffled sounds, the sensation of someone else's body touching the back, and the pain of someone else's slaps on the cheeks. Strangely enough, there was no weakness: the body was overflowing with strength. She wanted to move, to run, to wave her arms, to laugh for no reason. Celesta opened her eyes and looked around.

Medea was sitting in front of her with a frightened expression; it appeared that she was the one who had slapped her friend. She was, therefore, supported from behind by Hustin. The undead was still in the hall of the underground temple, but the room now looked more like a morgue. The Morvanites lay in a semicircle, looking as if a giant pump had drained the life out of them. Completely white, their bodies without a single blood vessel, not the slightest wound, and the feeling of cold coming from them. Osilti's corpse was still on the stone slab of the altar, completely covered in black, dripping blood. At the sight of the victim, Celesta felt herself shudder - something ancient and wise inside her wanted to flee from the man who had served as a conduit to hell.

"What happened?" Celesta's own voice seemed unusually loud.

"We don't know, we woke up recently ourselves. God seems to have responded." Medea looked at her with rapt and frightened eyes. "When you stabbed the prisoner through the heart, we felt someone's presence at the same time, and we stopped drinking blood. Then the torches went out at once, and out of the wound arose... Once I've seen a spirit summoned: here came something similar, only different. Dark, terrifying. I don't know how to explain it. It touched everyone, but somehow it spared us, the undead. The Morvanites died."

"I think we accidentally performed a rite of summoning," Hustin said quietly.

"Bullshit. The caster must believe in the success of the ritual, and we were, you know, playing a show."

"So the faith of mortals was enough for all."

Celesta jumped easily to her feet, and with dancing gait circled the room. She kicked the bodies of the fanatics, respectfully ran her finger over the blade of the ritual knife thrown into the far corner, tucked it behind her belt. From afar, she admired the creepy grimace on the bandit's face, gingerly felt the air above the altar with the gesture of a blind man. She noticed how strange the dead Morvanites looked, whose faces in death expressed a strange mixture of pain, suffering, and happiness. They seemed to have united with their god after all...

Undead stared at the leader with a look of surprise and understanding. They were caught too, but Celesta got the most of the dark energy.

"I think," Hustin said, "there are still mages in the castle, aren't there? They must have sensed the moment of sacrifice."

My habitual caution spoke up and broke through the euphoria in my mind. We really mustn't relax. The barefoot girl in the white dress stopped moving aimlessly around the temple and walked quickly toward the exit: "Let's get out of here."

* * *