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Methodius Buslaev. Third Horseman Of Gloom
Dmitri Aleksandrovich Yemets
Methodius Buslaev #3
Полубоги не уходят без следа. Они не могут покинуть этот мир, не передав бессмертие и дар… Валькирия умирала… Умирала, раненная мечом, который разит даже бессмертных. Умирала в кухне зауряднейшего из домов, на полу, залитом ее кровью. Рядом с ней лежала Ирка, упавшая с инвалидного кресла и с ужасом и восторгом внимавшая словам неожиданной «гостьи». Отныне Ирка становится валькирией! Нет больше беспомощной калеки! Ей предстоит сразиться с третьим всадником мрака. А вскоре она узнает, что это призрак бывшего властелина мрака Кводнона, выпустивший посланца из-за Жутких Ворот, который и погубил валькирию. Кводнон собирается воплотиться в Мефодия Буслаева. И если это произойдет…

Dmitrii Emets
Methodius Buslaev. Third Horseman Of Gloom

© Dmitrii Emets, 2022

Translated from Russian by
Jane H. Buckingham

Translation edited by
Shona Brandt

Cover designed by
Eva Elfimova

Titles in the Series
Methodius Buslaev – The Midnight Wizard
Methodius Buslaev – The Scroll of Desires
Methodius Buslaev – Third Horseman of Gloom

Chapter 1
THE DEBUT OF THE AUNT OF INTUITION
“Depressiac!” called Daph.
Zero attention, a pound of contempt.
“Hey, garaaage! Hello! Depressiaaaac!”
Again nothing.
“Sulfur plugs in your ears, huh? I bet you hear the word ‘gobble’ right away!”
The cat, sitting on Daphne’s shoulder, turned its head lazily. A crimson flame splashed in the squinted eyes. A crow feather adhered to its snout. The infernal cat specifically resolved issues with food. The feather’s mistress did not even have time to croak, having met its fate.
“Oh, he heard! You’re not by any chance acquainted with a winged cat, which can be hastily handed over to a pet store in exchange for money? I’m dying to have something to eat. Huh? What do you say?”
The cat again refrained from answering. Instead, it yawned, after showing its teeth, which would give any dentist a stroke.
“Hmm-yes, your look isn’t marketable! Bald, red-eyed, bloodthirsty: an animal of acquired taste! Mass demand is in no way expected!” Daphne acknowledged dejectedly and scratched the cat’s chin with her thumb.
Depressiac purred. Its purr resembled the sound of rusty iron being cut by a very dull saw. When, not limiting itself to purring, Depressiac even meowed, several paranoid car enthusiasts immediately poked their noses out of office windows, checking whether it was time to celebrate the day of the tinsmith.
“Well, yes, yes: you’re completely right. I, a guard of Light, am proposing clear fraud to you. It’s horrible what I’ve come to!” Daph continued to reason. “Only, please, don’t pretend that you’re outraged. Or I’ll hint to Ed what happened to the cut of meat. He thinks that he forgot it on the subway. Well, what do you say? You think that I’m blackmailing you?”
The cat moved its tail indifferently. It no longer remembered about the meat. You never know what moments happen on the thorny path of life. Who stirs up the past, around which green flies hover?
The mentioned conversation with the cat was conducted on rosy, sun-drenched Petrovka Street beside the antique store. In its shop window, among the wooden elephants originating from India and the Turkish daggers originating from China, Daphne saw a girl of thirteen or fourteen, in a short leather jacket and with a backpack, from which a flute poked out. A cat in overalls hung from her shoulder like a shabby neckpiece.
Daphne raised herself on her tiptoes and then got down, comparing the impression. To catch her own reflection in phone booths, tinted car windows, shop windows, puddles, and even in the glasses of passers-by was one of her street amusements. Depressiac, meanwhile, accidentally pulled poplar fluff into its nose and sneezed with displeasure.
“Animal!” Daph said again. “You’ll shame me with your lethargic and scrawny look! I’m sure passers-by think that I torment you. Say something smart, Depressiac!”
The cat made a squeaky, throaty sound, which could be deciphered as “meow!”
“And in general, Depressiac! There are things which confuse me! In the last month I grew a couple of centimetres, no less. Pants have definitely become shorter. In Eden this would take a thousand years. At best,” Daph muttered anxiously. The fact that she had grown had occurred to her more than once, but only now, after examining the reflection in the shop window, was she finally convinced of it.
Wah-wah-wah, my cry-baby! This is not Eden!
Suddenly, someone giggled maliciously next to her. Daph turned around, but discovered no one. Moronoids flowed by in a puny stream along the sidewalk at a decent distance. The sun stuck to the glowing sky like a pancake to a frying pan. The only cloud, sufficiently well-worn in appearance, was lost in trolley wires and advertising banners. There was absolutely no suspect for the giggling.
The theory that the shop window could emit sound appeared unconvincing, therefore Daph, as a sensible guard of Light, immediately undertook several things. First, just in case, she checked whether the flute would be easily extracted from her backpack. Second, she quickly traced in the air with her index finger a rune known as the “rune of goodwill”. In the event that there were no otherworldly creatures beside her or they were not dangerous, the rune would melt, barely coming into being. However, now the rune was hanging in the air like a smoke ring. Daph calmed down. If the danger was serious, the rune would become crimson. However, a bluish smoke ring indicated that, more likely, someone, who was difficult to call a friend, needed something from her.
And finally, the last thing that Daphne did was squint at Depressiac. The cat sensed danger considerably more keenly. Here, one can also be drawn into a dependency on worn-out style and write that the cat’s fur would stand on end. But, alas, all the hair on the infernal cat would not be enough for even the most modest brush. And even its whiskers would have to be cut off. But then, the minute Depressiac sensed something, the dry skin on its scruff would gather into an accordion like the top of an old boot; the wings, usually pressed against its back, would rear up like a hump under the overalls; and a short slanting wrinkle would lie on the bridge of its nose. Now the cat’s face scrunched up. Its ears, torn in many battles, pressed against its head. The raised lip revealed small teeth. A few drops of acidic saliva fell from the blue tongue and almost burnt the asphalt near Daph’s feet.
This proved that beside her was a creature of a different, magic world. Hesitating no more, Daph adjusted to true sight and, after looking around, saw a strange being. It stood half-turned, with its back leaning against the shop window, and smiled. The smile was nasty. As if it was running with syrup and, hitting a group of billiard balls, for some reason made one think of burnt sugar.
“Someone here – let’s not get personal – thinks that she’s grown up! But what do you want, buttercup? The world below is the world below. Life here flies swiftly, like a suicide from a balcony,” the stranger stated.
At first, Daph decided that before her was a man – with dark hair, a square chin, and a five o’clock shadow on a swarthy face. Such a handsome man, eating female hearts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But when the creature turned, Daphne discovered that the second-half of its face was female – plump doll-like lips, long wheaten hair, and a naive big blue eye.
Along the centre of the face, where the halves joined, ran a scattering of small scars. The impression was that the face was once stitched together, using a normal sewing machine. On looking closer, Daph also distinguished scars on the neck. Traversing the collar bones, they disappeared under the shirt. It meant that not only the face but also the subject’s body was made this way. One hand – short-fingered, with yellowish nails and a hairy wrist – could belong to a boxer or a Mafioso, the other – slender and graceful, with a gold chain bracelet on the wrist – a beauty of the night. An enormous ruby-colored poppy blazed in the buttonhole of a two-coloured coat.
“A succubus, perhaps?” Daph asked in an informed manner. She was relieved. There was no sense in pulling out the flute. She would manage a succubus even without the flute.
The stranger eagerly nodded. His head moved so freely and laxly on his neck that Daphne would not be surprised if it rolled down to the asphalt.
“Whimpus Squealary Hystericus the Third himself – hu-hu! – in person… At your service, my wussy! But you can simply call me: my friend Whimper! Two enamored cockroaches met for four days and died in one day from pesticide! Huh, my wussy? What did I say? Like I said!” The entity was delighted and from the strength of his feelings he turned three times around his axis. Here flashed mismatched ears – one flattened, with a rigid tuft of genuine hair sticking out of the auricle, and the other – pink and clean, created by nature for whisperings of all sorts of amorous nonsense.
For the time being, the succubus was ranting, and his voice, adjusting, changed intonation – from a harsh bass to insinuating babble. This irritated Daphne terribly. Just as the rapid chaotic movements of the entity.
“Listen, can you not change all the time? You should determine whether you’re a boy or a girl!” said Daph.
The succubus reproachfully scratched the air with a manicured pinky. The gesture came out so florid, vague, and beautiful that Daph involuntarily wanted to repeat it.
“Everything to the mistress’ will! For me personally, this isn’t a question!” Whimpus Squealary Hystericus the Third said preposterously. “If the mistress wants, I apologize, a doggie, I’m ready to become a doggie! Shall we proceed? Arf-arf!”
The succubus got down on all fours and with a foot made a reckless, full movement of challenge, which a dog resorts to when, after completing its secret business, it tosses dirt behind with a paw. His face began to stretch out suspiciously. The eyebrows closed in and crawled upward already as red fur. In an instant, an Irish setter on hind paws had completed its transformation in front of Daph.
Something sharp-clawed, predatory, and angry flickered in the air.
“I don’t need a doggie! I already have a cat!” Daph said sullenly, miraculously managing to seize Depressiac’s collar. Without a moment’s hesitation, the cat was already going to make the dog crooked in one eye. The infernal cat did not bother with reflections at the main entrance on who was guilty and where the dog came from at all. Philosophy is the lot of philosophers, but we are cats of action. Meow!
“That’s not what we agreed to, my wussy! Don’t sic any cat on me! I’m a miserable creature, defenceless! What hasn’t been set on me! Both hounds and mastiffs! And I’m no longer hinting at vulnerability. What haven’t they hurt me with: spears and swords, and, excuse me, even a Nagant revolver![1 - The Nagant M1895 revolver, designed by Belgian industrialist Léon Nagant (1833–1900), was adopted by the Russian Empire in 1895 as standard issue firearm.] Well, as I said, as I said! Hu-Hu!” The succubus was excited, hurriedly getting rid of the canine form. Fur peeled off him in tufts and hastened to melt in the air.
Depressiac, having managed to nestle anew on Daph’s shoulder, scrutinized the succubus with great suspicion. “Now I know what a suspicious character you are in reality! You were disguised as a dog!” its whole appearance said.
“Listen, Whimper, have we already met or not?” Daph asked.
“Perhaps in dreams, my wussy!” the succubus uttered sweetly, packing some meaning into this.
“In the residence of Gloom, on Dmitrovka Street?”
After folding his lips into a small tube, the succubus delicately spat on his pinkies and wiped his eyes with a gesture full of coquetry. “What awareness, my wussy! Poor us, poor us! No secrets from Light! No, I have not been there, nasty!”
“You really don’t need to renew registration? Indeed, Tartarus drags away a spirit with registration not renewed!” Daph was surprised.
Having finished rubbing his eyes, the succubus plunged his pinkies into his shell-shaped ears and started to poke there with such zeal, as if he was not extracting modest sulfuric deposits but Solomon’s mines.[2 - The copper mines of Timna Valley in Southern Israel had been attributed to King Solomon, but most archaeologists considered them to be earlier than Solomon’s era.]
“Oh, it drags! It takes and drags directly!” the succubus confirmed, shaking his head. “Only I, little nasty, am from another department. We have many departments, especially on secret assignments… So, wussy, they won’t drag me, have no fear!”
It seemed to sharp Daph that alarm flickered fleetingly on the succubus’ face. “Aha! Now you begin to worry! Blurted out something needlessly?” she thought.
After cleaning his ears and stomping on the spot, the fidgety succubus devised new amusement. Not put off by the glass, he poked his hand through the shop window and, after taking a dagger, proceeded to scrape the part of his neck overgrown with stubble. Just like a junior sales manager, who, fearfully looking sideways at the door, on which impatient colleagues are drumming, dry shaves with a disposable razor in the staff washroom before an evening date. Having finished with the shave, Whimpus Squealary Hystericus the Third discarded the dagger and, having fetched lipstick from the air, started to retouch his lips coquettishly.
“Not tired of playing the fool? Don’t clown around! Say what you want or get out of here!” Daph said, recalling the bluish hue of the rune. It was well known to her that succubi, as well as agents, would do nothing without gain for themselves or without hope for gain. Especially not for guards of Light. The succubus pretended that he was offended. The blue feminine eye began to blink and shed a tear. The second eye, meanwhile, looked at her insolently and smartly.
“I wanted to caution you, my wussy. You indeed like Methodius? Our young master? Ah, what a pair! I’m not even jealous! I’m touched!” Whimper exclaimed.
Daph angrily took a step towards him. Depressiac jumped on her shoulder like a rider. The air smelled of violence upon the poor succubus. “Buslaev? You’re raving! Why do I need him? I don’t work in the pet store!” Daph shouted.
Whimper grinned. A finger again scratched the air. “I beg you, little nasty! Deceive a succubus in matters of love? I know more about love than any cupid. And what can they even know about feelings, those fat diathetic brats? Their arrows burn in whom they fall, and they don’t even take eide for this! If cupids are superior to anyone in matters of love, then only agents! Agents are trash, underlings! Love isn’t their kind of sport!”
“You don’t like agents very much. Do you know Tukhlomon?” Daph asked, trying to steer the conversation in a safe direction.
Whimper winced at the word “Tukhlomon”.
“Disgusting competitor! A baddie! A bully, a bore, and not at all any wussy of mine! Steals my eide, the shameless amoeba! Even though he is in another department, nevertheless a snake!”
“I sympathize! A thief stole a club from a thief!” Daph said with mockery, glad that she had quickly found the succubus’ vulnerable spot.
“Don’t you pity me, nasty wussy! Pity yourself!” Whimper flared up. “Let’s return to Methodius. I understand why you don’t acknowledge that you’re quite fond of him. A man’s time is brief. Do you know how many men live in days? Twenty to twenty-five thousand! Of them, only ten thousand are young! That’s all! Arrogant, with plans! Stuck-up! But there, time’s up, and that’s all! Pack your bags!”
“What bags?” Daphne did not understand.
“Better ask: where to! According to the purchased tickets, either on a freight train to Tartarus or on the express to Eden. You, my wussy, have guaranteed new eternity ahead. It’s foolish to fall in love if you have such inherently different possibilities. Even though he’s the future lord of Gloom, he’s mortal, alas, like all born of dust.”
“I didn’t think about that,” Daph said seriously.
The succubus quickly squatted and looked at her in the eyes from below. Daphne saw on the top of his head the strip where the dark short hair meshed with the long blond hair. “So, you acknowledge after all that you have fallen in love?” Whimper asked in a conspiratorial whisper. “You, an immortal, have committed yourself to a mortal? Huh?”
Daphne stamped her foot. What business is it to this loathsome creature whether she experiences some feelings or not? What’s the good of getting into someone else’s life instead of living one’s own?
“Stop! Calm down!” she said to herself. “And what if Ligul sent this character? But who else? If he doesn’t report to Ares, then Ligul! What if he sniffs around because I’m here, that I’m Methodius’ guardian, and I want that Gloom hasn’t gotten his gift? After all, Ligul doesn’t know that I threw the lace with wings around Methodius’ neck in the labyrinth and have bound myself to him for life.”
“I’m only immortal until someone cut off this here. Will it really be you?” Daph said, defiantly swinging the bronze wings on a lace.
Whimper flushed shamefully. “Ugh, what a nasty baddie! I swear by my dear only mama, I didn’t even think about that!” he said in a hurry.
“You don’t have a mama. Will you swear by your essence, true name, the black moon, and the license for returning from Tartarus? Perhaps, such an oath will suit me!” Daph specified affectionately. Ten thousand years on the school bench is sufficient time to grasp the basics of the science of guards.
The succubus hiccupped uneasily. The desire to swear by his true name and essence was not reflected in his sly eyes. And he certainly was not going to risk the license for returning from Tartarus. “Fine, we’ll hush, my wussy! But now the prize of the game! Now we’ll do a general rehearsal for your great feeling!” the succubus interrupted, wriggling his fingers enthusiastically and subtly starting to resemble someone. He pronounced the word “feeling” this way: “feeiling!” and this pronunciation acquired some new, clammy-corny content.
While Daph was trying to understand what it was all about, Whimper was busily muttering something. This was purely internal, technical muttering. The succubus was tuned in, became sublimated, and got into character. “Now I’m all that. Well, that’s all of me! So: the plan of the hunchback Ligul, Nemirovich, and the other Danchenko![3 - Vladimir Ivanovich Nemirovich-Danchenko (1858–1943) was a Russian and Soviet theatre director, playwright, producer, and co-founder of the Moscow Art Theatre.] Here are the ears, the nose. Under the eyes let’s place a small shadow from lack of sleep, here we’ll drop a couple of birth marks. What else do we have? Hair? Ah, how nice, simply imitate agreeably! The chipped tooth: why did he let himself go like this? Excuse me, there’s cosmetic dentistry,” he mumbled in an undertone. “And even the future sovereign of Gloom! If he wants, he would grow a hundred teeth!”
“No need for a hundred teeth. Depressiac won’t tolerate competition,” Daph refused.
She suddenly became uncomfortable. Right in front of her was Methodius. She knew, of course, that this was just the succubus, but her heart nevertheless treacherously froze in her chest, making a strange pause after each third beat. If she, Daphne, a guard of Light, would behave this way, what could be side about poor enamoured moronoids! No wonder they bring their eide to a cursed succubus for the mere right of temporarily possessing a spectre! Even Depressiac was also a little confused and stopped hissing. As is known, it had a soft spot for Buslaev, which always irritated Daphne.
The succubus had completed the transformation and went around Daph in the new guise, showing off. “Oh, my sunshine, I love you! Let me carry your wings for a while!” he said in a voice, possibly a little more hollow than that of the real Methodius.
Feeling that he had gotten carried away with the lie, the succubus glanced shrewdly at Daph and corrected the voice. “So, excuse me, what about the wings? Will you let me carry them? And perhaps I’ll kiss you for this. And maybe I won’t kiss! I’m so changeable!”
Daph was furious. The allure vanished. Moreover, she still continued to use true sight, and through the image of Methodius, Whimper’s vile form showed from time to time. “Stop meddling in other’s business! One more bit of nonsense in this spirit and I…” she threatened.
The succubus chuckled (or, more precisely, chortled), pleased that he had irritated her. At this moment, he seriously did not hope to obtain Daph’s wings, but only mocked, following a long-standing habit. “Well, well! What will you do to me, little nasty? Set the cat on me? Banish me with the sounds of the flute?” he asked mockingly.
In contrast to agents, succubi did not much fear maglody. No, they, it goes without saying, disappeared when they were banished, but they already returned again after a couple of minutes, as if nothing had happened.
Daph pensively bit the hangnail on her thumb. “Why immediately use the flute? There are also other means…” she said and, having stepped back, whispered something.
“Whisper, whisper! Spells don’t work on me!” Whimper said laughingly.
He continued to bounce and wriggle mockingly, but was doing this less and less confidently. Uneasiness slowly appeared on his face. Then he stopped and stared at his legs. They had shortened and merged together, beginning from the waist and below to his knees. Not only had his legs changed. His face was dripping like wax. In full view, his body was rounding, becoming swollen, sprouting something thick, brown, with dark tan markings. His arms were pulling into his shoulders. His spine bent and heeled to the ground, unable to bear the weight of the long, clumsy body.
When his legs finally grew together and the feet had disappeared, the succubus could not stand and collapsed heavily onto the asphalt. At first he was frightened, but he suddenly realized that it was much more convenient on the asphalt. He folded his body, tried to crawl, and realized that he was simply excellent at it.
“What have you done to me, Light? What was that spell?” he shouted at Daph.
“What’s this got to do with a spell? Ooooh, how glad I am that you’ve become a caterpillar! Oh, how I dreamed about this! How I want you to crawl along the pipe and tumble down! Crawl and tumble! Crawl and tumble! Do this, dear! Do this for me! Oooh!” Daph said, exhaling passionately. Now she no longer whispered and was speaking loudly.
“Stop! What, are you out of your mind? I don’t want to climb anywhere!” Whimper squeaked in panic, feeling that his body had started to comply. In spite of himself, he was already crawling up the drain pipe, up to the second floor, and flopped onto the asphalt, splattering greenish stinky slime. Passers-by screwed up their faces. They still saw nothing; however, the smell was accessible even to the perception of the underworld.
“Oh, how fantastic this is! Do that again, dear! Fall from the pipe!” Daph said vindictively and, after recollecting that she was speaking in her usual voice, exhaled passionately a couple of times just in case.
“Stop! How do you know? I thought it’s a secret!” the succubus pleaded, obediently climbing along the slippery pipe.
Daph looked at him with disgust. Guards of Light had long figured out that succubi were endowed with the innate characteristic to adjust and to adapt, transforming into what their companion wished for. Gloom created them for that. Moreover, transformation materialized against the will of the succubi themselves. There was one condition: the wish must be uttered with the appropriate voice. Otherwise the succubi would not comprehend it.
“Oh, how I want you to crawl out onto the road under the wheels of a truck! Oooh! I so dream about this! This is my fantasy, dear!” Daph said, prudently holding Depressiac by the collar. If she did not do this, the cat would have slashed the vile creature long ago with its claws.
The enormous caterpillar, bending, began to crawl out onto the road. Already on the very edge it tried to be stubborn, but Daph hastened with her three passionate “oooh!”s and one hyper-passionate “OOOH!” Moreover, the hyper-passionate “OOOH!” was in reality simply a disguised yawn.
“Oh yes, yes! This is so wonderful! Crawl faster, dear! Faster! Oooh! Otherwise you’ll be late to fall under that wonderful tour bus!” Daphne said, peering into the distance.
“Stop!” Whimper began to squeal. “Stop, Light! What are you, a sadist? Out of your mind? I’m an artistic figure! I work with my face! They’ll laugh at me in Tartarus if I fall under the bus, especially in the guise of a worm! I’ll have to sign out a new body! In the meantime, they’ll sew, grow it together, and impose magic on it!”
“But what do I care? Oh, what wonderful wheels the bus has! They’re getting closer! Oooh, dear, how wonderful this is!”
“Stop now! Help! Murder!” the succubus began to squeal in complete panic.
“Do you surrender? You won’t change into Methodius anymore?” Daph asked.
“I will, nasty! I don’t take orders from you!”
“Well then, dear, you asked for it! Oooh!”
“Only no ‘oooh’! I surrender!” the miserable caterpillar howled, squinting with horror at the wheels of the bus.
Daph sighed, considered, and magnanimously waved her hand. “Light be with you! Live!” she said.
The succubus stopped squirming, dashed back to the pavement, and with the greatest possible haste assumed his initial half-male-half-female guise. “How did you know about this? Who revealed the secret to you?” he asked, looking with fear at Daph.
“I’m a guard of Light after all. We there in Eden also don’t collect empty bottles,” Daph remarked. “And now, little succubus, tell me what you need, and scram! You bore me!”
Whimper licked his lips. “Anyway, listen! A woman, like a wolf, has to go search to find it. And a succubus more so – if you don’t run about, you won’t sniff out anything! A little birdie told me that soon they’ll try to steal Methodius. Don’t ask who, don’t ask when, but it’ll happen!”
“Nonsense!” Daph said, beginning to experience unease nevertheless.
“Indeed you can believe me, my wussy. I said ‘steal’, it means stealing him from you. In everything about love, I’m a pro!”
“Well, what of it?” Daph asked defiantly. Attack is the best defence.
“What of it? You’re a guard of Light! Have you forgotten? If you love someone, your feelings should be reciprocated. If not, you’ll forfeit eternity, wings, and flute! There’s some clause in your code, you know it better than I do. Light cannot be rejected. If a guard of Light has been cheated on or betrayed, he perishes. Ahh!”
“Well, what’s it to you?” Daph asked sullenly.
“With the best of intentions, nasty! The best of intentions! I wanted to propose a deal. It’s always pleasant for a simple modest succubus to provide service to a guard. You give me the wings and I’ll help keep Buslaev staying true to you. Huh? In my opinion, a fair trade. Meanwhile, the flute and eternity remain yours.” Here Whimper winked provocatively with the male eye.
“You’re so kind, downright stunning! Besides wings, do you need anything else? Perhaps, even Depressiac to pack in your backpack? Don’t be shy!” Daph suggested, regarding him with indignation.
The succubus looked sideways with unease at the cat. “Don’t need an animal now. Some other time, my wussy! So, about the trade? Shake on it?”
“Shake a leg!” Daph said and, waiting until the succubus was puzzled, added, “And even the ears and the nose! If someone needs Buslaev, let them steal him. I somehow don’t remember about arranging for ownership of him!”
“But you’ll perish! You’ll be deprived of eternity, the wings, and the flute!” Whimper exclaimed incredulously.
“And you’re feeling sorry for me, perhaps? We’ll now whine about this in full accordance with your name?” Daph retorted.
“Not for you, but sorry for the wings! You have no idea how Tukhlomon bragged when he brought two laces with golden wings! What an ass! Everyone knows that he didn’t chop the wings off the Light, but you did! You dealt with the golden-winged, and he only ripped the laces!” the succubus said enviously. “And now these two wingless guards are probably staggering somewhere here, in the human world.”
“How do you know? I thought they returned to Eden,” Daphne said in confusion.
“Return to Eden without wings? Disgraced? No way!” Whimper giggled. “Friends told me that they met this pair somewhere in town. They walk and look for someone. Who are they looking for, do you know?”
“I have no idea,” Daph said. She wanted to turn the succubus into a caterpillar again and this time would not pull him out from under the bus.
“Correct. The less you know, the quicker you move up the ranks,” Whimper agreed. “So, what about our deal? Wings in exchange for Methodius’ devotion? Huh, huh, huh? And no jealousy, my wussy! Never! Although, they say, jealousy is free attachment to love. Fans of freebies appreciate it.”
“No!” said Daph.
The succubus was not too upset. His levity outweighed his concern for business. After sighing for decorum, he stared at his hands, choosing with which to scratch his nose. The male hairy paw did not suit him, so he selected the delicate female one, and was satisfied with his own diligence.
“Well, no judgement on ‘no’. Do you want to lose everything else? Eternity and the flute? So, no you and no spirits of Gloom? Well, we’ll still return to this conversation. In the meantime, allow me to present you a gift! It doesn’t obligate you to anything! Not any trade, simply a gift!”
“I don’t accept gifts from Gloom!” Daph refused.
Whimper quickly pulled the poppy out of his buttonhole and forcibly thrust it into Daphne’s hand. “I implore you, my wussy! Don’t be silly! I’m like this, from a noble soul sizzling, no strings!” he said, squeezing Daph’s fingers with the strong male paw.
“What?” Daphne was taken aback.
“Well, selflessly! You’ll always have time to get rid of the flower. But in the meantime, pin it to your clothing and remember. The poppy is red – you are loved, everything comes up roses. No cause for concern. Pink – a slight cooling triggered by new emotions, magic, and whatever: already start worrying, but you still can live. Ah, darling! What subtlety, I’m thrilled!”
And Whimper, extremely pleased, blossomed into a half-smile, which could belong equally to both a self-assured, positive, funny little man from a film about the state border and the winner of a beauty contest.
“Poke, my wussy!” he said and coquettishly touched the tip of Daph’s nose with a manicured finger. Depressiac waved its paw, but, alas, was too late.
“Further attention!” the succubus continued. “Blue is the colour of boredom. It means that you’re bored. Alas, everyone goes through this. Few know that there’s also a way to that side… This, therefore, is the next stage after pink. A brown poppy is the colour of contempt. Yellow is betrayal. Black is hate, such, right to pieces. Grrr! Well, darling, I suppose, you’ll never get to it. Although, moronoid passion is different! Sometimes red-black, black-red! Blinks like this so that you’re exhausted. No drama, no patch up!”
“Stop!” Daph said, turning away. The succubus winced too openly.
“The flower works around the clock. It doesn’t wilt, require batteries, watering, or fertilizers. Doesn’t burn in fire, doesn’t drown in alcohol: you’ll always know how the one beside you relates to you.”
“I don’t need artifacts of Gloom!” Daphne said doubtfully, examining the poppy.
The succubus chuckled hollowly. He knew well how to detect nuances. Daph imagined that a dry pea was rattling inside him.
“What arts? What facts? I entreat you, my wussy, don’t make mankind laugh! This, is a bauble, a pretty trinket! If you want, throw it away. I don’t insist. And now, excuse me, I have a date. A certain ministry worker is going to give away his eidos for a rendezvous with his first student love!”
“What kind of love?” Daph asked.
“Ahh, nothing special! This superficial girl with teeth and legs,” the succubus said with such contempt, as if having teeth and legs was something reprehensible. “I wonder, will he at least wonder why she hasn’t changed in thirty years? By the way, the original lives with her grandsons and two dogs three streets away from him, but that has no value for our friend. Dreams, dreams! Sometimes they’re worth more than reality. Well, I’ll depart on the wings of love! Don’t pass up Methodius, my wussy!”
“I won’t!” Daph said to herself under her breath.
“Your love – indeed trust me on the word – hangs on a wing and a prayer, strengthened by a thread! Need my help, just whistle! Wings, and I’m yours!”
“No!” Daph said firmly.
The succubus formed a ring with his fingers and looked at Daphne through the hole. “So be it! I’ll give you some advice!” he said magnanimously. “As much good as free. When the poppy becomes brown or yellow, you’ll still be able to return it to its previous colour, and Methodius’ love together with it. So, interested?”
“How?” Daph asked involuntarily.
Whimper looked around furtively. “It will be sufficient to sprinkle the poppy with something crimson!” he said in a loud whisper.
“Crimson?”
“Precisely, my wussy! Crimson! What can be more crimson than the blood of a mortal? Only the blood of a guard of Light!”
“I won’t kill anyone!” Daph said contemptuously.
“No need to kill anyone. Quite enough blood from your finger. When the poppy becomes red again, pin it on Methodius’ shirt near the collar. No shirt, a T-shirt will do. Well, time for me to go, Light! Smooch-smooch!”
“Smooch-smooch!” Daph repeated, smiling involuntarily.
“Cheer up! Dream of me sometime! Bye, sweetie!” The succubus wriggled his fingers coquettishly.
Daph shuddered. To see a succubus in dreams is a bad sign. Dreams are their element. They drink strength and soul in dreams.
“You dream of me, my sweet!” Daph said, paying him back.
Whimper flinched, as if all his teeth were aching at once. Whoever strikes with some weapon also fears that weapon. Pretty much how gypsies are frightened on hearing the words “I’ll tell your fortune!” uttered with the necessary degree of conviction. The promise to dream of a succubus is more effective than any curses. A succubus, after seeing a guard of Light in his dream, long afterwards will not get out of Tartarus into the human world. Whimper vanished into thin air.
For some time, Daph pensively examined the poppy, nested in her hand. Dispose of it or not? Pulling out the flute, Daph checked the poppy with a short maglody, which would obliterate the flower if it presented direct danger to her. However, the poppy safely survived. It only changed colour, blazing still more brightly.
“Aha! It seems someone loves me! I wonder who? Depressiac?” Daph thought with curiosity, after looking sideways at the cat. Sticking out its terrible violet tongue, the cat licked its hind paw and, if it loved her, then in the background, in extremely unobtrusive mode.
Upon reflection, Daphne did not discard the poppy, just as she did not pin it in the buttonhole. Instead, she did something in between, just shoved it into her pocket. The middle path is always the simplest. It is another matter that it rarely leads to the right direction.
Hunger, driven away for a while by the succubus’ intrusion, again returned and started to cough insistently behind Daph’s back. A growing organism required cement and bricks for further building itself, the beloved.
“Why don’t I visit Eddy Khavron? He works somewhere not far from here!” Daph thought. The map of Moscow, and the motley small fonts on those small alleys that were much shorter than their names, was woven thoroughly in her memory with scuffs on the creases.
However, by the will of fate, the meeting with Eddy Khavron took place much later and entirely not even at Ladyfingers. Meanwhile, one more meeting awaited Daphne.
* * *
Finding her way to Khavron, Daphne began to meander along the alleys. At first, the alleys retained some dignity: they boasted of old homes, cast iron fences of embassies, and idyllic booths with police peak caps dozing in them. But as Daphne moved away from the centre, the alleys became increasingly pitiful. Dumpsters, earlier hidden in the corners, now jumped out right in the eye. Birches, astounded by their own cheerful impudence, stuck here and there out of the cracked walls of homes.
When Daph, bored by the alleys, turned into the courtyards, there was already rubbish everywhere. Abandoned mastodons, with rotting wheels invariably propped up by bricks, were rusting between the gleaming foreign cars. Geraniums peacefully went bald on the windowsills of the ground floors, and only the new drain pipes bragged that, you know, we here in the wilderness, also do not blow our nose into our sleeve. It was difficult to believe that this was the city centre.
Daph crossed two or three more alleys and came out onto a lively street. While she was searching the blue rectangle of a signboard with her eyes, wondering where to go further, gunshots were heard to her right. Depressiac pressed back its ears. While Daph’s imagination was conjuring up all possible criminal and romantic pictures on the theme of dwarves armed to the teeth fleeing a bank with bags of money, a motorcycle, shrouded in bluish smoke, flew up to her. It was its muffler – or rather the lack thereof – producing loud bangs, which Daph had taken for gunshots.
A little before reaching Daph, the motorcycle sneezed hypochondriacally and stopped. A broad-shouldered giant hastily dismounted from the motorcycle. When he swung his leg over, a belt with a buckle shaped like a skeleton’s hand flashed at his waist.
“Hello, Essiorh!” Daphne said, shifting her gaze from the motorcycle to the keeper and from the keeper to the motorcycle. She could not decide whose appearance struck her more strongly. Essiorh likely deserved more attention. On the other hand, she was seeing the motorcycle for the first time.
Having run up to Daphne, the keeper looked around in bewilderment. His huge hands were clenched into fists. But, alas, there was no one to fight with at all. Unless it was with the drain pipe plastered with ads, but it could perfectly fight back, falling on his head.
“Where?” Essiorh shouted.
“Where what?” Daph did not understand.
“The enemies! I felt that danger threatened you and hotfooted it here at once. Unfortunately, my motorcycle stalled on the way.”
Daph hunched down, examining what Essiorh called a motorcycle. “Mmm-yes,” she said. “Would never have thought that it’s possible to knock together from old scrap such a wonderful wheelbarrow for transporting junk! It’s another joke of the drunk Kulibin!”[4 - Ivan Petrovich Kulibin (1735–1818) was a Russian mechanic and inventor. He had a special interest in the clock mechanism. In 1791, he built a push-cycle cart using a flywheel, a brake, a gearbox, and a roller bearing.]
“This is not a wheelbarrow!” Essiorh was offended. “The bike is outstanding! It’s based on the Ural,[5 - The Ural motorcycle is manufactured by IMZ-Ural, Irbit Motorcycle Factory, a Russian maker of the heavy sidecar motorcycle. The first prototype M-72 was built in 1941, modelled after the late-1930s BMW R71 sidecar motorbike. It was the bike suitable for the Red Army during WWII. A modern day Ural can come with or without a sidecar.] but the rest is solid improvisation. The frame, for example, is welded to a Zhiguli wheel. I invested a little money here, but a love of railway cars. Only love has a value in determining the true value of objects. Pity the battery just died! I removed the muffler myself.”
“Aha, it happens. Eddy Khavron recently also removed the door from the washer. He had to reach for something from the top shelf and thought of getting up with a foot on the door. Now they do laundry at the neighbour’s. They pay her with produce: a potato for each pillowcase. Socks go under an individual rate,” Daph remarked peacefully, patting the bike seat.
Essiorh turned red. Daph thought that if someone hit upon the idea of touching his forehead with an unlit cigarette, it would flare up by itself. “I ACTUALLY removed the muffler myself,” Essiorh said, glowing with anger.
“Okay, okay. Am I arguing? Depressiac, Uncle Essiorh unscrewed this muffler himself! With his own hands! He likes to ride on the motorcycle so that everyone thinks that the city is a war zone. Oh, oh, oh! Depressiac, help! Uncle Essiorh will now unscrew my head! I’ll be the first guard of Light in the world finished off by his keeper!”
Recollecting himself, Essiorh took a step back and stared at his hands with horror. “Ahem. It seems I overreacted! So, what’s up with you? Where’s the scoundrel, or scoundrels, that attacked you?” he asked in a dispirited voice.
“The scoundrels left, after presenting a flower to me!” Daph explained, showing Essiorh the poppy.
He took it, examined it critically, twirled it in his fingers and, after shrugging his shoulders, handed it to Daphne. The poppy remained red.
“I must admit, I expected something different,” said Essiorh.
“What precisely? And why you did say ‘scoundrels’? It was indeed just one succubus. I’d have handled him myself,” asked Daph.
“One succubus? Really? Are you sure?” Essiorh elaborated incredulously.
“Yes. I count to one very well. Haven’t been wrong once yet,” Daphne bragged.
Essiorh went to his motorcycle and ran his big hands along his face, just attempting to bring his thoughts in order. When he took away his hands, traces of machine oil remained on his face. “Well, I don’t know, I don’t know! I had an insight – it’s a special feeling, accessible only to a keeper – that mortal danger threatens you. Could there be someone else still hiding next to the succubus? Maybe the succubus was simply distracting you? Huh?”
Daphne honestly tried to recollect, but failed to remember anything. “Who knows? Possibly. I checked the succubus with a rune, he was clean. But I didn’t scan anymore… Somehow didn’t guess!” she acknowledged.
“Here you see!” Essiorh said, aiming a finger threateningly like a pistol at her. “Oh, heavens, what a hick I have to deal with! They almost nailed her and she blinked and missed everything!”
“Okay, okay. No need to mix me up with ashes! Less than removing the mufflers! If you would have been next to me and all that! Whom are you guarding after all? Me or your tricycle?” Daph snapped. The keeper was silent in shame. The reproach was justified.
“Essiorh! Another question. Do you have any money?” Daphne continued.
The keeper looked at her indignantly. “What kind of question is that? Of course not. Since when do they issue an allowance to those appearing from the Transparent Spheres? Why do you need money?”
“I want to eat. It’s simply scary. My body has decided to grow. Now and then it seems to me that I would even eat Depressiac, if I had the appropriate sauce,” Daph acknowledged. Two red eyes stared at her with reproach. “Be still, nightmare of a practicing vet! No offence! It was just a figure of speech,” Daph assured it.
The keeper pondered, contemplating the front wheel of his motorcycle.
Daphne had the suspicion that he was not quite thinking of lofty matters. “Hey!” she reminded him. “The child is starving!”
“Yes. Hunger isn’t an auntie. It’s an uncle. An angry uncle with forks instead of teeth, sandpaper tongue, and a seething stomach,” Essiorh uttered importantly, unwillingly turning away from the motorcycle. “You haven’t tried finding an old piece of iron somewhere and turned it into gold?”
“Are you mocking me?” Daph asked. “Any magic of transformation is under the control of the golden-winged. It doesn’t appeal to me very much to be nabbed. Am I really still wanted?”
Essiorh nodded despondently. “I’m afraid that while Buslaev’s eidos is in limbo and has reached neither Light nor Gloom, nothing will change. Transparent Spheres won’t dare to intervene in order not to expose you to Gloom by its intercession. So, the golden-winged continue to search for you. It’s a matter of principle for them. They loved Populus and Rufinus, and indeed precisely you deprived them of their wings.”
“Sort of,” Daph said gloomily.
Essiorh wanted to pat her on the head encouragingly, but squinted at Depressiac and, instead of Daph’s hair, patted the seat of his motorcycle. “Perhaps there’s something I can do for you all the same,” he decided, touching his silver wings.
A tray of food materialized in front of Daph’s nose: fried potatoes, crunchy chicken legs, saltines, a plate of dried shredded squid, and a large glass of orange juice.
“Well? You can sit down over there! In my opinion, it’s a suitable bench. No mothers with children, lovers, or old ladies,” Essiorh said, after looking around and scouting the locale.
“Did you buy this? Somehow I didn’t see you pay,” Daph said with doubt. She could also steal dinner from moronoids herself. It is another matter that this was not the best pursuit for a guard of Light. Each act of this type would be a minimum of one darkened feather.
Essiorh dejectedly clicked his tongue. “No, I didn’t pay. But my excuse is that this was an unlucky dinner,” he said.
“Unlucky in what sense? In my opinion, it’s quite a good dinner,” Daph said, contemplating the tray and its contents.
“Oh, Transparent Spheres!” Essiorh exclaimed in horror. “What did they teach you in ten thousand years? You really didn’t work with predicting the fates of the simplest objects?”
“What, did I have to? I was probably sick at that time,” Daph assured him carelessly.
“Well, and your health is poor! Prediction of fates is at 300 years and again repeats in seventy years!”
Daph was not too impressed. “Don’t be a bore!” she said. “Or else I’ll shower your bike with mud again! So, what’s with the dinner? Why is it unlucky?”
“This is about insight into fate. According to the theory of universal space, the tray with this dinner was supposed to crash down near the cash register, when its mistress was hailed by her friend. The mistress of the tray would slip and break her ankle. While she was lying in the hospital, her fourteen-year-old daughter would drop out of school, her husband would drink a glass of poison by mistake and burn his stomach, and a truck would run over her beloved dog. Now none of this will happen. So, arguing logically, I did a good deed.”
“So, aside from getting your hands on the dinner, you also did a good deed? The approach of a guard of Light is immediately noticed: combine the good with the pleasant and not come out worse off at the same time!” Daph clarified mockingly, putting a straw into the orange juice.
“Well then, give it back!” Essiorh was angry, leaped up and tried to take the tray away from her. “Ungrateful pig! Give it back right now!“
“Don’t! Oh! Okay, okay, okay! I won’t do it anymore!” Daph became alarmed, blocking the tray with her body.
Snorting indignantly, Essiorh removed his hands. “You reason like a Dark! Young lady, are you sure that nothing was messed up? That training didn’t take place in Tartarus, but in Eden?” he asked in fury.
“Please hush!” Daph brushed him off. “For what it’s worth, you saved me from starving to death. Let’s finish off your dinner, before it again decides to fall near the feet of the poor woman whose kinfolk are inclined to drink poison and drop out of school.”
Daph took a chicken leg and almost took a bite of it, when a sharp-clawed paw flickered before her eyes. In the next moment, the leg simply disappeared. “Whoa! Crows aren’t enough for someone! That’s gall, young man! It will be even more gall if the bones of this chicken are later discovered in my hair,” said Daphne.
They occupied the bench. While Daph was finishing the potatoes, dipping them in ketchup, Essiorh rolled the motorcycle and put it beside her. Daph pulled away just in case. She feared that the motorcycle would fall from the stand and crush her foot. Taking into account her keeper’s general bad luck, this outcome was more than probable.
“In my opinion, you more often roll your motorcycle than it takes you somewhere,” Daph remarked.
“Not true!” Essiorh was outraged. “We have an understanding. It strictly stalls at a traffic light. But starts quite obediently when you accelerate afterwards.”
“And your motorcycle, is it also an unlucky motorcycle? Or did you hijack it in the routine way?”
“You insult me,” Essiorh said, getting furious. “This evening, this motorcycle was supposed to take away another man’s wife. And then two days later, it would be stolen, the exchange bureau would be robbed, and then it would be dumped in the swamp outside the city. What vandalism! What abuse to motorcycles!”
“But now, of course, none of this will happen. You did a good deed again, didn’t you?” Daph asked.
Essiorh coughed. It seemed like he did not much like the question. “Koff, koff… Well, how to tell you…” he muttered.
“Tell it like it is.”
“Eh, eh… well… Actually, to be honest, reality will change a little. They’ll rob the Exchange using a Zhiguli, and take someone else’s wife away on the subway. Moreover, she’ll pay for the ticket herself.”
“But they won’t dump the motorcycle in the swamp?”
“Of course not. Just let them try!” Essiorh uttered challengingly.
Daph finished the potatoes and disappointingly slurped with the straw in the empty juice glass. Depressiac, meanwhile, had dealt with the dried shredded squid. Only the tray, presenting no gastronomical interest, remained of the dinner. “So, someone else’s wife will be taken away on the subway! Phew, how unromantic! This damsel would be sort of proud to be kidnapped on a motorcycle, but now she’ll only snort!” Daph said. This thought had already been troubling her for about two minutes.
“It’s her problem! But generally, they may say thanks. Rail transport is much safer than the wheel!” Essiorh retorted sternly. He clearly intended on defending his motorcycle against all sorts of attempts.
“Well, it’s all bull!” Daph said, having already had time to fall under the verbal charm of Eddy Khavron.
“What’s bull?” Essiorh asked without understanding.
“Well, bull, it’s like… hmm… crap,” Daph explained authoritatively.
“What’s crap?”
“Crap, it’s bull! What, don’t you understand?” Daph said, no less authoritatively.
She was ready for new questions, but her keeper had already satisfied his curiosity and only thoughtfully drawled, “Ahhh!” The subject had been exhausted.
A group of about fifteen fanatics rushed past them, jumping over the bench in panic. Another group of about fifty raced after them at some distance.
“How wonderful!” Essiorh said approvingly. “Instead of sitting in front of the TV, these youngsters are busy with sports.”
“Are you sure it’s sports?” Daph doubted.
“What else? Do you have another hypothesis? Well done, friends, good luck to you in your group race with obstacles!”
The first group of fanatics reached the alley, and the other group, more numerous, rushed to Daph and her keeper. Not analysing the way, the group burst right onto the small park, jumping on automobiles. The bench on which Daphne and Essiorh sat was overturned. Both were forced to leap up quickly.
“Hey, hey, friends! Don’t knock over my motorcycle!” Essiorh was alarmed, clinging to the handlebar of his iron horse.
One of the pursuers tried, in passing, to grab Depressiac from Daphne’s shoulder, but jerked his hand back with a howl. Blood slowly appeared from five fresh scratches. Depressiac thoughtfully licked its claws, determining the level of hemoglobin.
The first group of fanatics had reached the alley, where they suddenly received a solid reinforcement of about a hundred people. After locking together for a minute, the groups’ roles were reversed. Now the first group was pursuing and the second group was fleeing. And both groups again rushed past the astonished guards. This time, however, Daph and Essiorh had enough sense to press against the wall of a house.
“Perhaps I’ll go and see where they’re running to! What fervor, what expression! I’m sure this will be informative for me. See you later, Daph!” Essiorh said. He took the motorcycle from the stand and ran, pushing it. Then, after hopping nimbly onto the seat, shifted gear and dashed away, gunning the engine, enveloped in bluish fume.
“I’ll rent a brain. They aren’t offered second-hand!” Daph said after him. She imagined to herself advertising in the newspaper. Her guard-keeper was an impervious idealist. However, Daph liked this. Each gets the keeper he deserves.
* * *
After taking leave of Essiorh, Daph, having more or less satisfied her hunger, decided not to search for Eddy Khavron anymore, but simply stroll. However, Depressiac suddenly started hissing, broke away from Daph’s shoulder, and, on the run trying to free its wings from under the overalls, dived into a gateway. Daphne’s first thought was that it had seen a dog. The second one was that it had met a great and innocent love, the seventy-fifth according to count, which directly preceded the fleeting seventy-sixth and the incomparable seventy-seventh.
She rushed after Depressiac, but just into the gateway on one side was a house, and on the other side was the red brick fence of an unknown factory. Without attempting to climb over the wall, the cat slid into a manhole and disappeared, leaving its mistress in confusion.
“The escape of overheated cats! When you dispatch the brain for repair, write a return receipt!” Daphne thought.
She was about to follow the cat, using the magic of passing through objects, but recalled in time what this would be fraught with. The entire lunch eaten recently, which was pleasant, would remain on the wall outside, as it was ordinary, non-magical by nature of its substance, and it had no ability to pass through objects.
Daph was not seriously worried. Depressiac had run away from her so many times that this already gravitated towards bad infinity. One time it had disappeared for twelve years. True, this happened in Eden and not in the moronoid world. However, there was also nothing to fret about here. Daphne did not envy the car which would hit it, or the dog that would attempt to smother it, or the kamikaze, working for the city, who would try to shove Depressiac into a cat cage.
Still, she did not like parting with the cat. Winged cats, even with a nasty disposition, do not lie around on the road. Daphne wanted to fly over the fence and had already grabbed her backpack so that the materialized wings would not be entangled, when she suddenly experienced an acute unease of unknown origin. The unease was much stronger than in the case with the succubus. If it had only been a vague unease then, now Daph was simply beside herself with worry. Her heart leaped twice as if on an elastic, and then, after growing bolder, skipped two beats.
“Run! Hide! Do something! Ahh, mama, make this sleepyhead think quicker! They’ll finish her off and me together with her!” her inner voice howled in panic.
Daphne obeyed. She pulled the flute out of her backpack and, focusing in order not to slip, blew the maglody of invisibility. Her body became invisible first and slightly later also her clothing. Only the backpack dangled in the air as an eternal monument to obstinacy.
But Daph’s inner voice was not calmed down by this, demanding something more. After dashing to the kiddie sandbox, Daphne climbed in it and lay down, taking refuge behind the freshly-planed wooden border. She did not wonder whether this was a foolish act, trusting what was leading her.
“I don’t understand why intuition isn’t included in the list of basic feelings. A guard of Light without intuition is a corpse standing in line for burial! Mark my words, my nestlings, and let the scar remain in your memory!” Elsa Kerkinitida Flora Zaches loved to repeat.
She pronounced the word “scar-r-r-r-r-r” so menacingly and meanwhile rumbled in such a way that unripe fruits poured down from the pear of decency. Sniffka was probably difficult, but she taught her subject well. A good teacher, as is known, is an enthusiastic bore, not even permitting the thought of her tediousness.
And here Daph, one of the victims of the mentioned training, had already been lying for almost a minute with her stomach on the green sand, which smelled of cats. Judging by some tactile signs, non-magic cats. A crushed nicotine-smudged filter stuck out from the sand in front of her nose. Daph grimaced with disgust. She wanted to crawl away, but she did not dare. Her inner voice demanded full immobility. Moreover, it even wanted her to bury her face in the sand and almost burrow in it, but Daph could not go through with this. Not a chance! No need to steal bread from ostriches.
From where she was hiding, Daphne saw perfectly the gateway through which she had recently ran, following the cat. Danger radiated precisely from there; it stretched out to her just like a draft. No one entered the gateway. By the dumpster, on the spot, pigeons were feeding, cooing, and coupling. The wind was flapping a duvet drying on the balcony of the third floor. On the duvet were stout blue hippopotami with bulging eyes. When the wind blew the fabric, it seemed that the hippopotami were about to scatter from the balcony like a hailstorm.
“How is it possible to nestle with such a duvet? How gross! They would even decorate it with hanging squirrels! Ahhhhh! I’m done! I’ll now grow roots if I lie here any longer!” Daph thought towards the middle of the third minute.
Her present position smacked of idiocy. Three minutes in a row she was hiding in a sandbox, contemplating the artistically lightly-buried cigarette butts. And all this was guided by an unconscious unease. It felt ridiculous to Daph. She wanted to get up and leave. “I’ll count to a hundred and, if nothing happens, I’ll move away to mourn my stupidity!” she thought and turned her gaze, intending on looking up at the sky, checking whether golden wings shone there. Precisely at that moment a terrible elastic force pressed her into the sand. What was that? It was something combining an explosion, a flash, fire, and light. A terrible, panicky thought flickered in Daph that her eyes were scorched. Pain, fear, emptiness… Daph understood that she was being attacked by the magic of destruction. Darkness with a white whirl of flares sucked her in. It seemed to the girl that she had broken up into hundreds of little screaming Daphnes, and that she no longer existed at all.
“Told you, wimp, face in the sand! Squeamish about cats! Ooh, how delicate we are! Got it?” Perhaps the inner voice should be more polite, but Daphne was not so gentle with herself. The number one rule of life says: if one is gentle with oneself, others are not so gentle.
Several tormenting seconds later her sight began to return. Daph felt relief. She had not been blinded! She was saved by looking up, shifting her gaze. Nevertheless, for now she saw only outlines, silhouettes, and shadows, nothing more. In the strange dance of shadows and flares, it seemed to her as if the stones in the gateway opened up, and a man stepped out of the reddish brick onto the road. Daph lay low, fearing to breathe, to stir, not daring to change the position of her body. She no longer trusted the maglody of invisibility. After all, it had not helped her before the explosion.
She felt rather than saw the unknown person stopped and looked around.
“If anyone from Light was here, he no longer exists. Only the one who hid in a pine coffin would survive,” the man uttered in an undertone and, after turning his back to Daph, walked out of the gateway. Under his arm he was carrying a long object wrapped in burlap.
The voice was distorted: it jumped, sounding sometimes like a falsetto, sometimes like a bass, and Daph would not risk assuming whether it belonged to a man, a girl, or an adolescent. “Look at how he protected himself! The spell of voice change. Plus the magic of distraction, attached to the rune of falsity of the second level. You see an old lady or a packed donkey, but in reality it’s a massive Cyclops, to whom the doctor prescribed cannibalism to boost hemoglobin, or a combat unicorn!” she thought. “Eh! Moscow is becoming a boring, weird place. A little longer, and it’ll breed so many wizards that moronoids will become an attraction. But why did I survive?”
After deciding that it was time to leave her hideout, Daphne started to get up, but the back of her head struck painfully against something. She twitched and pricked her shoulder with a carelessly driven nail. She rolled away fearfully, imagining heaven knows what, with her hair sliding along the wet sand, leaped up quickly and… her gaze was captured by the recently planed side of the sandbox – two boards below and one horizontally for the comfort of resting mommies.
Do not throw sand in mommy’s eyes! You will get your hands dirty!
“Indeed, the sandbox is pine! A board on the side and a board overhead!” Daph thought. She suddenly wanted to burst out laughing, fall down and, rolling on the sand, repeat, “Well, have you eaten?” Realizing that she had started to become hysterical, she bit her hand painfully. The pain brought her to her senses.
Daph approached the arch, examined and even felt it. Her returned sight informed her that in front of her was plaster with a cheerful pattern of mould, and brick under the plaster. The arch was like an arch. Fully moronoid in every respect. There was no confirmed presence of a permanent magic teleport. So, the passageway was temporary.
So, here was the fatal danger Essiorh had imagined! A temporal shift had befallen the hapless keeper, and he had seen a threat that had not yet happened at that moment. If not for the appearance of the succubus confusing them, Essiorh’s help would have come opportunely.
Daph already wanted to leave the arch when she suddenly saw a dark spot on the asphalt. She squatted and ran her finger along it. She lifted her finger to her eyes and suddenly felt sick, nauseous, and horrible. To a guard of Light, even inexperienced, it was enough to see blood once in order to understand whose and under what circumstances the blow was inflicted. There was only one thing Daph could not say: who had inflicted it.

Chapter 2
AH YOU @ AND THE OTHER BEASTS
On noticing that the edge of the blanket had slipped, Irka straightened it. She preferred to keep her legs covered, even in summer, when there was no necessity for this. This way, sometimes it was possible to forget about their existence for a while. But during a massage, changing, or when she was taking a bath, she could not manage to run away from her legs, and they persistently tormented her gaze and soul – deprived of muscles, blue-white, with protruding knees that could bend only in the hands of the masseur.
How she hated her body: hideous, useless! How she wanted to break free and exist independently, out of the flesh. How she envied apparitions and ghosts, which freely moved in space, not depending on a body. Let alone that they did not need a wheelchair. And they did not have blue ghastly legs.
Over time Irka adjusted and more and more perceived her body as a small house of little boxes, the shell of a snail, on the whole, something serving as the temporary abode of the mind. Her legs, though, were a nuisance, a huge dinosaur tail that she had to drag behind her, when she, using the handrails attached to the walls, moved from the wheelchair to the bed or settled down in the armchair by the computer.
Now and then, after staying up reading or near the monitor until the middle of the night – Granny did not insist too much on a routine, she simply did not care for it – Irka became so tired that she almost existed out of her body. In any case, she hardly thought about it.
“The computer lights burn so terribly at night. Like Vii’s eyes,” she thought, falling asleep, although, it goes without saying, she personally was not acquainted with the reputable functionary from Bald Mountain.
All day she was reading – the pyramid of books occasionally grew to the middle of a wheel of the wheelchair and even higher. Her world was fantasy – hundreds of realities, sometimes terrible, sometimes tempting, sometimes strictly Gothic, in muted tacit colours. But all of them, even the most lacklustre, were still better than reality. As a result, Irka spent a large part of her life in dreams. She knew as much about dragons, centaurs, griffins, chimeras, the sharpening of swords, and the mechanism of crossbows, as only a person not having seen or held one can know. Under the assumption, of course, that all this was the minimum amount known by the authors of the books from which she got the information.
School did not especially strain her, since Irka studied as an external student. Helping her were her grandmother (mainly serving as a morally determined baton) and two teachers, with whom she met five or six times a month. Each year, lessons took up less and less time. At times, Irka wondered whether it was worthwhile for her to glance in a textbook, as she already knew the answer in advance. Everything was simple, logical and… boring. The most depressing of all was to write in the notebook even answers clear to her: to spell out in simple terms the elementary component, all these parentheses, degrees, intermediate actions, and other crutches of thought; to reveal formulae, where her mind leapfrogged two or three steps. In the end, tired of following dreary school conventions, Irka abandoned the tedious entries and limited herself to immediately writing the answer.
The first time, the teachers were indignant, claiming that she peeked into the “answer keys” and, according to Irka’s expression, “bread crumbs”. However, this continued only until she solved one of two dozen problems in their presence. Then the teachers stopped squealing in amazement, and in their eyes appeared the bewilderment of people who do not want to relinquish profitable tutoring; but deep down they wondered what was still possible to be taught here.
Irka had already passed exams for grade nine. Two more grades, swallowed by the external student, and it would be possible to enter college. But Irka was not particularly in a hurry. Intuition suggested that seventeen- or eighteen-year-old fellow students would not take her seriously but only as an amusing little talking pet. If so, then her student life, let it even be restricted in a wheelchair, would be hopelessly shattered.
This evening, when Granny, yawning in her shop, was cutting a marshal’s uniform for the theatre, Irka was home alone. And, it goes without saying, she was sitting in front of the computer. Irka’s computers – both the desktop and laptop – were on even at night and, as often happened, they frightened Granny with the sounds of texting.
Suddenly a strange sound was heard from the kitchen. A chair had fallen. Plates clattered. The teapot stand hanging from a cord also shook, scratching the wall. And in the next instant, it seemed to Irka that she heard a moan. Completely real. Human.
As any computer person, Irka thought with her fingers and was also scared with her fingers. Now, before panicking in earnest and sounding the alarm, she reflexively typed:

Rikka: Someone has gotten into our kitchen!
Anika-voin: Aha! They want to steal your antique fridge!
Miu-miu: run for help, but stop to make a sandwich on the way.
Rikka: I’m serious! Someone is moaning in there!
Miu-miu: eat a sandwich.
Anika-voin: What if some bozo came to you with a chainsaw? I wonder, do-chainsaws work not plugged in?
Miu-miu: Nah, hardly!
Rikka: Idiots!

While she was typing “Idiots!”, the moan in the kitchen repeated itself. The reality of what was happening finally reached Irka’s consciousness. And she actually felt fear. After all, the second floor is not the ninth. Granny had warned many times that a thief could climb in from the street, and if not a thief, then some tipsy cadre, who took it into his head to drink water from a tap.
And here this happened. Irka understood that she was sitting by the computer without light, and in that case, thieves could think that there was no one in the apartment. The kitchen had been quiet for a long time, but Irka, with some real, natural intuition, sensed that this was a false silence. There, in the dark, unlit kitchen, someone was lurking, someone completely real. She started to phone her grandma on the cell phone, but Granny did not answer. Her workshop was in a semi-basement with such thick walls that a cell phone only picked up when she by chance appeared near the window.
After deciding that the most reasonable thing would be to go to the neighbours, Irka began to quickly turn the wheels of her wheelchair, but the monitor continuously flared up, spitting out new lines.

Anika-voin: Hey, what’s with you? Freaked out?
Miu-miu: Where did she go?
Anika-voin: What if they really attacked her? Call the cops?
Miu-miu: Aha! We’ll call and say, “At user Rikka’s, IP address unknown, someone is moaning in the kitchen! When we suggested that the dude had a chainsaw, she called us ‘idiots’ and slipped off somewhere.” And we’ll introduce ourselves: Anika-voin and Miu-miu.
Anika-voin: You blockhead! (takes a machine gun and shoots).
Miu-miu: blocks with a frying pan.
Anika voin: bullet will pierce frying pan.
Miu-miu: Fig. See what frying pan.

Irka hurriedly moved the levers, setting the wheels in motion. The wheelchair went in the gloom of the hallway almost noiselessly, but it seemed to Irka that her heartbeats were giving her away – resonant, chaotic, as if a leather-covered tambourine was located inside. She had already guessed the entrance door, which was darker than the walls. Open the lock, then the latch, push the door forward – by no means hard enough that it would hit the wall – and leave carefully. Insert the key outside, turn it once, and then whoever was in the kitchen would not be able to follow her. She would be out of danger and reach the neighbours.
True, the most fearful was ahead: from the kitchen to the door was a short hallway, about three or four steps, no more. And the door could be seen perfectly from the kitchen. One hope was the gloom. If the eyes of the one who had climbed into the kitchen from the brighter street had not gotten accustomed to the darkness, she would have a chance.
Let us repeat once more: lock, latch, pull out the key, leave, insert the key outside, clo…
However, before the chain was completed, the world faltered. Her palm missed the lever, only stumbling everywhere on the rubber elasticity of the tire, and in the next moment, the warm linoleum struck Irka’s cheek. Irka lay, perplexedly contemplating the overturned world. Her head was buzzing. She realized too late that she had caught the edge of the shoe rack, which she usually went around diligently. The darkness had turned from a friend into an enemy.
Understanding that the noise had hopelessly given her away, Irka hurriedly crawled and dragged the wheelchair behind her like the shell of a snail. Her useless traitorous foot – how Irka hated it at this moment! – it goes without saying, had landed between the spokes.
The shoe rack, having managed to conspire with the wheelchair, swayed. Winter boots, tucked away for the summer, bounced merrily. The material world took offence at once and rose up against Irka. This looked tragicomic, at the intersection of gothic and ordinary everyday farce.
A light suddenly blazed in the kitchen. It bore little resemblance to electric light. Bluish, persistent, much brighter, it broke out and illuminated the hallway. Irka’s eyes started to hurt and tear up. The world dazzled with the strips of the painted walls (Granny hated wallpaper) and blinked with the frivolous vases on the wooden shelves.
“Well! Really!” Irka thought, realizing that, lying, still chained to the wheelchair, she would never reach the lock.
After raising herself on her hands, she peered anxiously into the illuminated kitchen, expecting to see a stocky male figure with a crowbar, a flashlight, and a large bag. For some reason, that was how she imagined an apartment thief. But reality shook more than any naive fantasy.
A white she-wolf lay by the table among the broken crockery. The side of the beast directed to Irka was covered with blood. The wolf studied Irka without rage. Sorrow froze in the eyes of the beast.
“Hello! Ah… ah… and I’m crawling here!” Irka said for some reason.
The wolf’s upper lip lifted, baring long yellowish fangs. Blood continued to flow from the wound. It ran along the wet fur in large drops.
“Are you hurt? You poor thing!” Irka said, wondering where the wolf could have been wounded.
Had it cut itself jumping through the kitchen window? But the kitchen window appeared intact. Where could the wolf have come from at all, and even an albino, in the city, on the second floor, with the glass intact? But this was all secondary. Many things are more useful when taken for granted.
Feeling sorry for the beast, Irka tried to crawl up to it, pulling her disobedient body with her hands. She did not think about the frightened, suffering wolf charging. Too much intelligence was in the sad eyes of the beast. When, after jerking up its muzzle, the wolf howled, its howl, low and intermittent, immediately stopped and resembled human speech. As if the wolf wanted to utter something, but, not getting an answer, realized the futility of its undertaking. It tried to get up, but it was unable to. The hind legs of the beast never came off the floor, and it collapsed heavily with its chest onto the linoleum.
They lay this way on the floor for a long time. Two cripples – human and beast— equally helpless. Except that helplessness was familiar to Irka, but the wolf was apparently meeting it for the first time. Irka said some friendly, disjointed and not very coherent words, but the wolf first growled softly, then looked at her expectantly.
Finally, after twisting, Irka successfully freed her foot and escaped from the wheelchair. Without the wheelchair, Irka dragged her disobedient body along the linoleum much faster. The wolf watched her with understanding, not trying to move from the spot. Occasionally it turned its head and licked its wound. However, it was too deep, and the beast only irritated it with its tongue.
“Don’t touch it! We need to seal it up or to call the vet, if only those fools won’t induce sleep in you. Wait, I just… Darn, I won’t reach the table,” Irka muttered, hoping to calm the wolf with the sound of her voice.
Irka had almost crawled to the table when the strange bluish light dimmed, coiled with a mysterious image like a spiral, and enveloped the wolf. The wolf howled, and its howl, growing fainter every moment, was the howl of death. It placed its snout on its paws, continuing to look at Irka. The howl turned into a wheeze and died away. Its eyes became dull and glazed over.
It seemed to Irka that she was delirious. The body of the dead wolf changed. The matted fur with spots of blood more resembled feathers. The snout with bared fangs changed into a white bird’s head with a beak. And here in the middle of the kitchen, a swan was flapping a broken wing, making an effort to take off. The kitchen was tight for the huge bird. The healthy wing touched the table. Finally, exhausted, the swan stopped flapping and, stretching out its neck, issued a throaty, sorrowful sound. This again resembled speech.
“I don’t understand!” Irka said helplessly.
She no longer crawled closer – and froze about a metre or two from the swan, sensing that this was still not the end of the transformation. And she was not mistaken. Suddenly the body of the swan quivered, losing its outlines. Silvery sparks scorched Irka’s face. To save her eyes, she covered them with her hands. When, squinting, she dared to peek, she saw a young woman in a long white robe, half-sitting on the floor. Her collar bone had been fragmented by a terrible blow. The woman was bleeding.
Addressing Irka, she uttered something hoarsely. Irka shook her head, showing that she did not understand. Mild annoyance distorted the truly classically beautiful face of the woman.
“Don’t be afraid of me! I’m a swan maiden,” she repeated in Russian. Her voice sounded throaty and aloof. There was in it something of the howl of the wolf and of the trumpeting of the swan.
“A swan maiden?” Irka asked.
“At times, they call us valkyries.[6 - In Norse mythology, a host of female figures called valkyries is sometimes connected to swans. These valkyries are responsible for choosing who should be slain in battle.] Soon I’ll be completely gone. He caught me off guard. I thought he was weak, and I was mistaken. I turned out as weak. The sword had inflicted me a wound, from which I’ll never recover. Two of my essences – the swan and the wolf – have already perished. Now death is getting closer to the last…”
Irka crawled up to the valkyrie. She hardly believed in the reality of the situation and continually glanced down to where her bitten nails were scratching the linoleum. This was the logic: the fingernails were real, the linoleum with onion skin was also more than real. The onion skin and Granny’s eyeglass case lying under the table were too detailed for a dream. But the special liberty and creative fluency, skipping insignificant details, that most daring fluency which always accompanies dreams, did not disappear, confusing Irka.
“Who wounded you?” she asked, putting aside, for the time being, the thought of whether what she was seeing was real or a hallucination caused by the new prescription from the day before.
The valkyrie looked at her sternly. In her tired eyes, continually changing colours, was something poignant, otherworldly. A strange power, authority, and wisdom. On the wall behind the swan maiden, it vaguely seemed to Irka, was a shadow of enormous heft. The worlds opened wide. The worlds were created from dust. Fates intertwined and untwined just like golden hair in a braid.
Finally, the valkyrie looked away. The shadow of heft disappeared. The wall of patterned tiles appeared before Irka in all its dreary banality, flickering beet, carrot, and other idiotic greens.
“Don’t try to find out. Until you’re ready. Your time will yet come!” The maiden coughed. Blood came out of the corners of her lips. “In the pattern of runes of the Sinister Gates there was a single error. One of the runes was not finished, and he knew how, after completing it, to convert it into its own opposite… It was impossible to flee, but he sent his breath out. I stood outside, but saw nothing. It was my fault, since I was his guardian in this century. His breath moved into the messenger’s body, and he wounded me with a sword, which strikes even an immortal. Once this was a sword of Light, and even now, after passing through many rebirths, it has retained its power over us, its creations. I didn’t have time to parry the blow. It was too unexpected to receive it from the one who inflicted it.”
“Whose body did he move into?” Irka quickly asked. For some reason, this seemed important to her, though she did not even know who he was.
“You have asked good questions. Your mind is inquisitive and restless. You’re not one of those living dead, whose heads are empty and whose eyes fade before death. I think I did the right thing choosing you…”
The valkyrie’s voice weakened. Her pupils were losing colour, becoming almost transparent. Irka suddenly realized that the swan maiden’s life was departing together with the colour of her pupils.
“What if we bandage you? Granny has a first-aid kit there…” she said helplessly.
The valkyrie looked at her fragmented collarbone and smiled weakly. “The wounds inflicted by this sword don’t close. Even if it scratched my finger, I would be doomed. Remember the main thing about whom you must stop! You have to come in contact not even with him, but only with his breath. However, there’s also enough force in it to put an end to you. He doesn’t have his own flesh, since it has long become dust, and the wind has scattered it. His spirit is capable of moving into any of the few suitable bodies, crowding its owner. However, while he is in a stranger’s body, his potentials won’t be greater than those of that body. In order to attack in earnest, in full force, he will leave it, and only then will you be able to battle with him. But if he doesn’t leave the body, you’re powerless. Your spear will pierce only the human flesh and its true owner, but not affect the one hiding inside. However, the sin of murdering the guiltless will make you weak, and you no longer will know how to do anything.”
“And how do I recognize him?”
“Don’t worry. It’s impossible not to recognize him. When his breath leaves a body, it’ll become visible even at noon. It’s a spectre of a rider on a red horse. Fight him like you would fight a normal rider. The spectre will be vulnerable to your weapon. But fear his magic: it presents a threat to you, just as the sword that struck me.”
“And if he doesn’t want to leave the body?” Irka asked reasonably.
“Antigonus will help you if he accepts you as his mistress,” the valkyrie replied. A shadow of sadness passed over her pale face. “Perhaps the sword’s blow wouldn’t have caught me unawares had Antigonus been nearby. He’s endowed with the gifts of foresight, expulsion, insight into true essence, and many other abilities.”
“Who’s this Antigonus?” asked Irka. The valkyrie unexpectedly smiled, warmed by some quiet, pleasant thought.
“It’s a most delicate topic. Better not to touch it again. Once a house-spirit fell in love with a kikimora! Love, love! Only whom don’t you catch in your net! True, this wasn’t an entirely pure kikimora! Her maternal grandpa was a vampire, her paternal grandma a mermaid, and paternal grandpa a wood-goblin! Besides, there was even talk of dwarves and Snow White, but that’s doubtful…” she said.
“And?” Irka prompted cautiously.
“Antigonus will become your servant, ally, and adviser. In a favourable situation. True, it’s difficult with Antigonus. Sometimes it’s much simpler without him than with him,” the valkyrie admitted. Cheerfulness went out of her together with life. Her eyes already saw eternity.
“Will I be able to summon him?” Irka asked.
“It’s unnecessary to summon Antigonus. In any case, doing it aloud. At times, it’s sufficient to think of him properly,” the valkyrie replied.
“And how do I think of Antigonus properly?”
The valkyrie shook her head. “I can’t tell you. You must find out by yourself. Otherwise, you’ll never find a common language with Antigonus. Indeed, he’s a terribly strange creature… Now let’s talk about the enemy. About how you’ll find the body which he has moved into…”
The valkyrie’s voice was barely audible. The pauses between the words were increasing. Irka had to keep crawling nearer, straining her ears.
“Not all bodies suit him. There are only four bodies in this world that can accept his essence. One of the four he doesn’t dare touch for the time being… But only for the time being… So, must search among the remaining three…” the valkyrie said. Blood was now barely flowing from the wound. Her face was becoming grey.
“She’s dying!” Irka realized with sudden clarity.
“Don’t be alarmed! Demigods don’t depart without a trace. They can’t leave this world without passing on immortality and gift,” the valkyrie said, after reading her thoughts. “Take my winged helmet!”
“Helmet?” Irka repeated, looking around. She did not see a helmet.
The swan maiden coughed. The blood, which earlier bubbled in the corners of her lips, ran down her cheek. Irka crawled up to the valkyrie. The swan maiden, quite weakened, carefully lay down on her back, helping herself with her good hand. Her long bright hair sprawled over the linoleum. Irka involuntarily thought how strange they both looked. Two half-beings – one dying and one crippled – in the kitchen of the most ordinary home, on the floor flooded with blood, were discussing the fate of the world and the escape of an unknown essence from the Sinister Gates.
“When you need to, you’ll see it and take my place! Stop the messenger, before he acquires power… Don’t let him catch you unawares. Don’t repeat my mistake!” The valkyrie spoke each new word with difficulty; blood pushed out of her throat together with the sounds. “There is little time… Swear on your eidos to Light that you’ll assume my gift and carry it to eternity, until your breath disappears. Without this the helmet won’t become yours.”
“But what’s this eidos?” Irka asked carefully. To swear on something she did not know existed seemed to her unreasonable. Something stirred imperceptibly in her chest, prompting the answer. “I swear!” Irka said, obeying the prompt, but immediately added dubiously, “But how can I stop someone… In this idiotic wheelchair I can’t even go down the steps without Granny’s help.”
The valkyrie’s lips trembled, attempting to form into a smile. With a weak motion of her hand she ordered Irka to keep silent. “It… doesn’t… matter… Don’t get distracted by trifles. We should have time for everything. Si fata sinant [If fate would have it (Lat.)]. Don’t fret about the disability. I’m taking on your pain! The scars on your back, your lifeless legs… I accept them as a gift in return. Will you agree to transfer them to me?” the valkyrie said.
“Yes,” Irka quickly said, sharply feeling all the nastiness of this answer.
The swan maiden chanted something droningly. It was impossible to repeat this chant. It was anything but human speech. Like a tiger’s growl, a wolf’s howl, a falcon’s screech…
The last sound had barely stopped and the valkyrie turned heavily on her side. Irka saw that her white robe was stained with blood on the back. Two long bloody strips went precisely where Irka’s scars were. Irka cried out.
With a gesture, the valkyrie forbade her to approach. “Redemption! Punishment for evil I committed long ago!” the valkyrie uttered hoarsely. “The load of grief and happiness is measured out to each in advance. Nothing can simply disappear. The pain, having disappeared in one, will arise in another. I took your load, nothing more.”
“But why?” Irka shouted, with involuntary happiness feeling her legs warming up. It was a new feeling, vague, joyful. As if spring sap was running through a dead dry tree.
“Don’t thank me! I won’t carry another’s burden for long. My sun is setting, yours is at dawn,” the valkyrie smiled. “When one valkyrie leaves, another must arrive. Soon your body will renew, the wounds will heal… Lean over! Closer… Still… You’ll receive my last breath! With it I’ll transfer my power to you! I don’t think that you’ll get the entire gift at once, but gradually it’ll come to you… And most important: at this moment, don’t think about anything else! Your mind must be as empty and beautiful as crystal glass. This is necessary so that the regeneration will begin…”
Irka wanted to state that she had no idea how to receive a breath, but the valkyrie did not hear her. “Si ferrum non sanat, ignis sanat [If iron does not heal, fire heals (Lat.)]. Sic vos non vobis vellera fertis, oves. Sic vos non vobis mellificatis, apes. Sic vos non vobis fertis aratra, boves [So not for yourselves bear fleeces, you sheep. So not for yourselves make honey, you bees. So you not for yourselves draw ploughs, you oxen (Lat.)],”[7 - Famous verses by Punlius Vergilius Maro (70-19BC), usually called Virgil, one of the greatest Roman poets during the reign of Caesar Augustus (63 BC -14 AD), the first emperor of the Roman Empire.] she muttered.
The valkyrie’s voice was barely audible, fading. Irka concentrated. She did not know how to accept the last breath and feared doing something wrong. Suddenly she saw a hazy pink radiance shrouding the valkyrie’s head. An indistinct bright spectre detached itself from her lips. After looking intently, Irka discerned the miniature figure of a woman in a helmet and a shining breastplate with a spear in her hand. Turning into a sweetish smoke, it slid towards the girl’s face.
“Here it is now…” Irka thought. “What must I do? Aha, not to think about anything else. Just imagine a crystal glass?”
She began to honestly visualize a glass, but, as always happens with imagination, it was obstinate and, instead of a glass, produced a glass with tomato juice stains. The spectre of the woman in a helmet approached her lips and froze, and shook its head reproachfully, as if in doubt. Then, already beginning to dissipate, it moved forward. Against her will, Irka inhaled deeply, sensing something unfamiliar merging with her and becoming a part of her.
Irka was suddenly seized by rapture, which she did not deem necessary to hide. For a brief moment she felt enormous, absorbing all the secrets of the earth, the underground, and the ocean floor. The interlaced tangle of parallel worlds and the taut, rigid spirals of time, like the springs of a clock, everything had become as natural to her as the arrangement of rooms in the apartment.
Irka laughed, and her laughter swept over Moscow in July like a sudden peal of thunder. An instant hurricane roughed up lawns, tossed dust on the embankment, rattled signs, broke several windows, overturned tables in a summer cafe, and swept and whirled old newspapers. Moronoids stopped and squinted at the clear sky with alarm. Some routinely checked the umbrellas in their bags to see whether they were buried in the things and whether they would open quickly. Their movements were mechanical and precise, like a soldier checking whether his sword is stuck in the scabbard.
“Greetings, new valkyrie! Hush, quieter! Not so frisky! Reserve the magic!” Irka heard the barely audible sad voice. Coming to her senses, Irka stopped laughing. The sensation of omnipotence disappeared. Irka understood that she had needlessly wasted power, which should only be resorted to out of necessity.
In front of her on the kitchen floor, a young woman, who had given Irka her own power, was dying from a wound. Now that her magic had left, her helplessness was manifested in everything. Especially pitiful were the thin, weak, absurdly twisted legs. And Irka felt it so sharply that, despite her present might, she would not be able to help. Sensing her dismay, the swan maiden smiled weakly. “And who must encourage whom? She’s stronger than me in spirit even now!" Irka thought with shame.
“Now’s not the time for tears. Be careful turning into a wolf or a swan. This gift is very rare. I alone of all of the valkyries have it. At times it’s convenient, but remember that in doing so, part of your intellect retires and is replaced by that of the bird or the wolf. It’s not dangerous while you predominate, but sometimes, the element can overwhelm you. Always recognize where your will finishes and the desires of the beast and the bird begin. This is monstrously important. You won’t forget?”
“No.”
“Remember something else! None who knew you before should learn the secret of who you are in reality. You won’t be able to reveal it to them either under torture, in times of happiness, or in a moment of anger… From now on, you’re a valkyrie. The previous Irka no longer exists. Your past is known only to you and me.”
“Yes, but if so, then…” Irka began.
“To your grandmother, you’re a cripple as before, chained to the wheelchair. No one is in the state to get to your secret while you guard it,” the valkyrie said impatiently.
“But if I don’t?” Irka asked.
“If you don’t, the one who hears it, even by chance, will lose his mind and die. And it doesn’t matter who this will be: a relative, a casual acquaintance, or a loved one. Death won’t bypass him.”
“I also can never tell Methodius?” Irka asked, unexpectedly for herself. She wanted to say “And Granny?”, but instead Methodius came out for some reason.
The question provoked the swan maiden’s displeasure. And the displeasure, as it seemed to Irka, was connected precisely with the name she heard.
“Especially not him! A valkyrie can only reveal to the one she transfers the gift. And now good-bye! Illi robur et aes triplex [There oak and triple bronze (Lat.)]…”[8 - The quote is from Ode 1.3 – To Virgil, Setting Out for Greece – by Horace, Quintus Haratius Flasccus (65 BC – 8 BC), the leading Roman lyric poet during the time of Augustus, Illi robur et aes triplex circa pectus erat, qui fragilem truci commisit pelago ratem primus – there was both oak and a triple layer of bronze around the heart of he who first launched a frail craft on the savage open sea.] A major shudder passed through the valkyrie’s body and it suddenly disappeared. A merry joyous ringing hung in the air, similar to the sound of a distant bell or spring drops falling sonorously on a sheet of iron.
A silvery helmet with moulded wings and an arrow-shaped protrusion, protecting the centre of the forehead and the top of the bridge of the nose, emerged on the floor. Irka carefully touched the helmet. She heard a soft ringing. The moulded wings swayed and fluttered with feathers coming to life. They became thinner, longer, more airy, losing the previous powerful, slightly taut outlines. Irka understood that the helmet was adjusting to its new owner. She understood that it was waiting for her.
Feeling her fingers shaking, Irka took the helmet and put it on top of a felt liner. Her knowledge of this was sufficient. Those who wear a helmet without a liner are either owners of naturally soft heads or dashing fantasy authors, courageous heroes who pull armour over boxer shorts in the morning and, after fastening a bridle, yawning, lead the war horse, whining from impatience, to walk along the meadow, the horse already having targeted in advance a sprawling bush with its experienced violet eyes.
The arrow-shaped protrusion had barely touched the centre of Irka’s forehead and she again felt the vibrant warming heat, which arose in her at the moment when she discovered the secrets of earth and water. The familiar world cracked, exactly like the shell of an egg, the outside of which turned out to be immeasurably enormous. Consciousness proved not to be able to immediately fill this bulk.
Irka cried out. What she experienced was akin to the feeling of a man who thinks that he is alone in a dark and gloomy room with cobwebs. Everything is bad and cheerless. And suddenly, searchlights flare up and he sees that he is standing in a circus arena full of laughing people. What earlier seemed like a grey reality turned out to be a ridiculous plywood set, which can be toppled with just the push of a hand.
On feeling that hair had fallen onto her forehead, Irka impatiently cast it aside and suddenly realized that the helmet was no longer on her head. Had it come off? Nonsense, it could not be. She did not begin to search for it on the floor with her eyes. The sensation that the valkyrie’s winged helmet had remained, and would not abandon her even if she had to dive like a swallow into a waterfall, did not leave her. There are things which cannot be lost. It is only possible to betray them, after changing their purpose.
There was only one thing Irka had not yet resolved to do: check her legs. She had not tried to move them, although she felt a strange, unfamiliar tingling sensation in her feet.
“And for how long will you be afraid? Get up and walk, fool! If you can’t walk, crawl!” she thought and, after closing her eyes, attempted to twitch her big toe. She twitched and did not know whether it worked or not – so great was her fear of failure. Sweat, as cold as yesterday’s broth, poured down her face.
“Come on! Well! Are we going to lie this way and wait until Granny returns and loads us into the wheelchair? Forward! Move, dead horse!”
Angry at herself and hating the sensation of fear as such, Irka turned around, with familiar distrust stared at her legs and… Instead of being pleased, she frowned, suspecting a dirty trick.
If her legs had earlier resembled skin wrapping around skeletal bones, then these could belong to a model. Strong, smooth, tawny. With perfectly formed knees. The thighs of a runner or a dancer. The calves were muscular, but not excessively. Beautiful feet. Obedient new legs, which would obey any desire. Run, swim, or lift her to at least the ninth floor without rest. They would drive one crazy, attracting attention…
Irka suddenly wanted to cry. Throw a tantrum in the spirit of drama theatre. Throw something at the kitchen window so that it would shatter, sharp as resentment, cutting like disappointment. Something moderately heavy that before hitting the window would have time to draw a beautiful arc in the air.
She felt like a child who had jumped into a toy store without permission, picked up an expensive doll and twirled it around, knowing that now a stern voice would sound and she would have to put it back in place. “Where are you now? Do you want me to search for you everywhere? I’ll have a talk with you on the street!”
However, seconds had passed wearily, but the terrible voice still did not sound. The old dead legs also did not return.
Irka got up, staggering. She got up and was surprised that the skill of this movement was not forgotten or lost. She took a step, then another. The apartment seemed to her small, unfamiliar, and oppressive. Twice she tossed her head in alarm, until she realized what the reason was: she was afraid of hitting the ceiling. She was used to seeing the apartment from the wheelchair or the bed, and the sensation of extent remained in her as before, diminished, from the wheelchair or the bed.
Irka clenched and unclenched her fingers. They remained as before, but in reality had subtly changed. The reserve of strength she felt was not a reserve of mortal strength. Irka suddenly realized that if she should wish, she could push through the wall of the home with her hand, as if through paper. She felt the flow of blood – crimson, intoxicating, like red wine. Fresh spring forces seethed in her and exploded outside.
The memory of past incarnations and dormant magic skills overwhelmed her, but Irka forced the memory to retreat, to lay low. She felt that this knowledge was still dangerous, since it could submerge her own, as yet fragile consciousness.
Irka felt a sharp prick of curiosity. Having walked around the wheelchair, she entered the bathroom and immediately, without allowing herself new hesitation, looked in the mirror.
From the mirror splattered with toothpaste – Granny always brushed her teeth with the zeal of scouring saucepans with burnt food – a beautiful young face looked at her. Irka both recognized and did not recognize herself. Yes, this was her. But simultaneously not her. The difference between her past and present appearance was so great, as if a genius had repaired the picture of a mediocre artist. Everything remained as before – the nose, face, hair – but the girl in the mirror was different.
Irka examined herself for a long, very long time. When each feature had been imprinted in memory, she, obeying an unexpected impulse, squinted and with changed sight saw a swan and a white she-wolf. Not those that had died before her eyes on the kitchen floor, but others, her own, having subtly incorporated the features of Irka herself. And Irka understood that, at any instant on a moment’s notice, she would be able to become a swan or a wolf. However, she still hesitated, knowing that the time had not yet come.
“I’m a valkyrie! A swan maiden. A wolf!” Irka shouted in a full voice. The fear that everything could disappear had vanished. Everything was immutable.
The mirror sprayed into fragments. Some jumped in the drain, others to the floor. Irka looked guiltily at the sagging wooden frame. “Sorry, mirror! I’m simply a nitwit! I forgot that you knew me before!” she said and, after stepping over the fragments, returned to her room. On the computer monitor, which continued to live its life, new lines flared up.

Anika-voin: Hey, Rikka, answer! Did they kill you or not? Who was that bum in the kitchen?
Miu-miu: What are you, sick? How will she answer you if they smashed her for real?
Anika-voin: But I have to know when I should worry! Maybe I’m already mourning. Maybe my fingers are already flying over the keyboard?
Miu-miu: Vaporize, loser!
Anika-voin: Chill!

Irka moved the keyboard and, with only capital letters decisively typed several words and sent them away.

Rikka: I AM, BUT I AM NOT. LIFE HAS CREATED A NEW FILE!

Not waiting until her virtual buddies comprehended what was written and ran their fingers along the keys, Irka turned off the computer, and after that also the laptop. From surprise, the green light of the laptop did not go out for a long time. But, finally, it did. The illusory life had ended.

Chapter 3
THREE IS TWO WITH A SADLY DROOPING DOG’S TAIL
It was a couple of years ago. Vologda. The intoxicating March sun. The endless agony of winter. Resurrection Cathedral. The lower steps had become icy, the ice yellowish and packed, with scars from the blows of a crowbar and with frozen sand. A foolish sparrow was trying to bathe in a puddle, jumping and rolling with its chest on the thin crust.
Victor the holy fool was hanging around the Cathedral. A haggard swollen face, mossy eyebrows, beard up to the eyes, a piercing gaze. The head sitting on a slant on the neck, crooked. The neck pointed from the darned pocket of a woman’s coat to the sky. Whether he was really a holy fool or not, to get to the point, as they say, he saw everything.
Methodius in a circle of a motley gang of local children, passed by, and the holy fool suddenly hit his back with a crutch.
“What, are you nuts? What did you do that for?” Methodius shouted. He was not so much hurt as feeling spooked.
The holy fool swung the crutch again. “You’ll find out what for!” he shot back, and a juicy, puckering profanity.
Met was eleven. He was here on vacation with Zozo. Time was short, and it was necessary to blend into the new company, become one of them. One weakness, one unavenged insult and they would harass and tear him to pieces. Children are little angels only in isolation. Together, they are a flock of wolf cubs with its own laws.
At the laughter of his friends, Methodius grabbed a piece of ice.
“Hit him in the mug!” someone shouted.
But Victor the holy fool, leaning on the crutch, was looking so steadfastly, with such smoldering contempt, that Methodius’ hand seemed to wobble by accident and the ice flew near his feet, shattering with yellowish splinters…
Dreams, dreams, dreams. Everything has a flip side. Gloom takes payment for bright days with bad nights. Here a peach lies on the grass under a tree. It looks so soft, its fuzz glistens so with dew that the stomach aches with happiness and anxiety, like a sophomore on a first date, who, standing under the clock, bites off the leaves of the bouquet of tulips without noticing. But, alas, disappointment always goes arm and arm with happiness and gnaws with its canine teeth. When you lift up the peach, you discover that the bottom is already soaked and a worm is inevitably digging in the sweet rot.
It was not the first night something sticky, much more persistent than just a dream, haunted Methodius. He felt that invisible spirits – servants of Gloom – were swarming all around, that thousands of assertive eyes did not leave him for a moment. And he could not comprehend what was splashing at the bottom of these eyes – servility, fear, mockery, or expectation.
Today Methodius saw in his dream that he was being carried by a swift stream to a waterfall. In front of the waterfall were enormous black gates. In the centre of the gates were lion muzzles with bulging, embossed eyes. In the teeth were bronze rings. Methodius knew that as soon as he turned up on the other side, the gates would close and something terrible and irreversible would happen.
Methodius tried to grab and clutch at stones, frantically working with his feet, but it was useless. The terrible gates kept getting closer. On passing through them, as through water, one probably, turned black and then fell into nothing. Methodius screamed in terror and woke up. He sat on the bed and convulsively coughed nonexistent water. Then he slapped his cheek hard, and only sharp level pain convinced him that this was no longer a dream but reality.
Moscow in July stood out as clammy and sweltering. Heat during the day, pouring rain at night. It was already dawn outside. The bluish, useless light of the streetlights floated in the milky fog.
“A madhouse!” Methodius said loudly. He said it just to hear his own voice. The empty house at 13 Dmitrovka Street swallowed his words indifferently. It had heard more than that. And had seen more.
Recently, Methodius, at Ares’ request, had left Glumovich’s boarding school and moved into the Chancellery of Gloom, into a room on the top level, immediately above the office. The action of the fifth measurement did not extend to here. Whenever possible, Ares shielded Methodius from excessive magic. All around, the walls were greenish with plaster peeling, dislodged parquet, and high ceilings with water nymphs dancing around the hook of a missing chandelier.
If the size of the room could frighten, then the scantiness of furniture could surprise. An ancient high bed in the very centre and a frivolous chair on thin curved legs. On the chair was a deep basin with water, with which Methodius washed. The water in the basin never ran out. Several times, experimenting, Methodius tried to flood the office below through the holes in the floor, but it never worked out. In addition to the bed and the chair, an ancient piano, baring yellowish keys, was located in the corner. Sometimes Methodius approached it and, hitting keys at random, extracted a muffled and mysterious sound from the depths of the instrument.
The dull Tverskaya Street, the cheerful and decrepit old lady Vozdvizhenka Street, and the austere Kuznetsky Most Street sprawled very close. However, here in the room with the enormous window, with construction mesh stretched over the outside, the city was somehow not felt. Moscow had disappeared, vanished somewhere, and had become an empty and superfluous backdrop.
Methodius got up and discontentedly kicked the leg of the bed – huge, carved, and regal. Not so long ago, the faithful Mamai, smirking ominously, brought the bed from somewhere. Methodius also recalled thinking: if Mamai travels in cars which were burned out long ago, then where did this thing come from, oblivion or storage of cursed objects? For example, did Grishka Otrepiev, the False Dmitry, not sleep in it in the Kremlin until his ashes were loaded into a cannon and he was shot towards the Polish border, and they said, “Go brother, where did you come from?” However, the bed looked quite reliable. The wood was dry, the carving skillful, and the duvet soft. And the bed smelled light and pleasant. It was either a cypress or a Lebanese cedar, or some other strange and rare tree.
Methodius even pulled off the rather heavy quilt and thoroughly examined the part of the bed under it. He kept trying to understand why the plasticine khan was smirking. Yes, that was it. Several flattened bullets were lodged in the bed.
On continuing the examination of the bed, Methodius discovered a cunning protrusion, suitable as the eye of a griffin. Pressing on it, the lower part of the bed rolled out and again back into place, as if nothing had happened. Methodius recalled a popular fairy-tale plot about damsel-villains. After steaming in a bathhouse and kissing him affectionately on the mouth, the damsel would tuck the merchant into the soft quilt, and in the middle of the night, with broken arms and legs, he would suddenly turn up in a dungeon.
Just in case, Methodius plugged up the griffin’s eyes with matches, after rendering the trick lock harmless. At the same time, he understood that Gloom hardly had plans to settle scores with him this way. Ares did not like cheap stunts. Even for Ligul, this was also a bit beneath him. It is another matter that the object itself could get here, at 13 Dmitrovka Street, only having passed specific filtering in the fabric of existence.
“I wonder, what distinguished the chair?” Methodius thought, and immediately the haunting memory of the object obligingly engulfed his imagination. Here an emaciated official with a peaked face got up on the chair and carefully slipped a noose around his neck, as if putting on a necktie. Now he was standing, swaying, blinking vacantly, but all the time, there was no commitment. On the contrary, the wild desire to live suddenly seized him. He looked at the painted walls on either side, at the overshoes standing by the door, and small, mobile, active thoughts distracted him. It would be necessary to close the window so it would not blow, clean the uniform, and let the cat out to the stairs… Perhaps everything is not yet so hopeless? Having changed his mind, the official reached to remove the noose from his neck, but a thin leg of the chair suddenly gave way. Fingers clawed at the rope. A long black shadow bounced on the wall.
Methodius ran his palm along his face and looked at the chair with such hatred that it burst into flames. Fire ran down the back, licking the varnish like a child licking chocolate off ice cream. The room became smoky. It was like a stinky rat was clogged in his throat. It scraped the walls with its paws, tickling his nose with its tail.
Methodius tried to imagine the foam of a fire-extinguisher flooding the chair, and he imagined it quite vividly. However, the foam never materialized where necessary, only a raspy howl reached him from the street. Buslaev mentally apologized to the early passer-by.
The chair continued to burn.
“It’s always this way with me! All magic is only spontaneous! When needed, it breaks off!” Methodius thought angrily, trying hectically to bring down the flame with a pillow. After burning the pillow, he belatedly discovered the basin with spring water and, having mentally diagnosed himself, began to put out the flame. The fire was extinguished only when Methodius had flooded his feet and turned the room into a branch of a suburban Moscow swamp somewhere in the Taldom District.
Having finishing messing around with the chair, Methodius looked around to see if anyone had seen his infamy. There was no one in the room; however, this did not guarantee that an agent was not spying and would now tell Ares. Although, it is possible that he would also not tell. Recently, the agents had begun to be wary of Methodius, especially when Ares entrusted him with one of the seals of Gloom. Meanwhile, Methodius only used it for extension of registration, sometimes in irritation stamped directly on their plastic foreheads.
He no longer wanted to sleep. Methodius, without any special purpose, strolled around the room and, after recalling that it would be good to practise, he started searching with his eyes for the case with the sword. And he found it, however, to his surprise, not on the windowsill but in a corner of the room on the floor. Not attaching special meaning to this, Methodius opened the case and took out the sword. Suddenly something cold dripped onto his palm.
Squinting in surprise and not understanding what had appeared as a spot on his hand, Methodius approached the window. The dim morning light fell on the blade. Methodius recoiled in disgust. There was blood on the sword blade. Its brown drops appeared everywhere: on the floor of the room and on the velvet of the case. The blood should have dried long ago, but it was flowing and flowing, as if horror did not allow it to stop. It was crimson, shimmering with a myriad of tiny fires. The blood of a creature of Light appeared this way. Methodius had memorized this when Daph once injured her finger accidentally. The blood of a creature of Gloom was different: sluggish, sticky, with a greenish sheen that is on the abdomen of flies.
Methodius tossed the sword aside, dashed to the basin and quickly began to wash his hands. Although the spot was quite small, all the water in the basin was stained before his palm became clean again. However, he did not succeed in cleaning the sword as well. It seemed blood would now remain on it forever. The blade tinkled and throbbed. Methodius sensed the impatience and fury of the blade. It was like a beast, having discovered the taste of blood and wanting nothing else.
“Settle down!” Methodius said to the sword.
It was useless.
“Hit away! Kill! Blood spill! Blood like water into the ground run out! Scarlet poppy will sprout! Hit away!” the blade sang with inspiration like a maniac. Buslaev felt its small impatient trembling.
Methodius discovered that he was squeezing his hand against his will. The knuckles had become white. The fury of the blade had passed onto its owner. Buslaev suddenly wanted someone to appear beside him, someone he could knock down from shoulder to waist. Ares, Julitta, Tukhlomon – it did not matter. At this moment he would attack anyone. The single thought that cooled him down was about Daphne. It was enough for him to imagine her head with the weightless blond tails, which would not lie still and soared like wings, and his fury instantly dissipated. He understood that he would never be able to chop down Daph.
Calming the sword, which needed to vent fury, Methodius twice lowered it onto the high headboard of the bed. The blade sparkled like a young moon. He did not feel the impact, although he did not even try to pull the sword to himself, as Ares had taught him. The blade began to sing. The age-old wood fell apart easily, as if the bed was made of butter. Only when the bed, broken into three parts, spread out on the floor, did Methodius feel that he could unclench his fingers again and put the sword back into the case. He was free from the power of the blade. The carrier of death magic had let go of him.
Methodius looked at the sword, trying to determine from where the blood could have appeared. He definitely knew that no one else could take his sword. Even Ares never allowed himself the free handling of it, moving the blade only by the strength of spells. The sword of The Ancient One, having undergone many incarnations, did not tolerate strange hands.
“What if I, in delusion, under the power of black magic, hacked down someone? Although definitely not an agent! Then it wouldn’t be blood on the blade but it would be blackened with plasticine!” Methodius thought, with horror reminded of Daphne again.
He wanted to see her right away, to know that she was safe, but how? Where? He looked around the room with annoyance, regretting that there was no phone here. After all, Daph was still living at his home.
“Well, well! So far, they haven’t provided the future sovereign of Gloom with a free cellphone! But Methodius Igorevich himself can’t summon anyone telepathically! He is magically not mature! Blowing up the phone exchange is like hitting a dead fly with a slipper, but just calling – not!” Julitta taunted him sometimes.
Suddenly the Book of Chameleons, lying on the windowsill, woke up. The book cover started to rattle with an unpleasant sound. The closed and unsteady old door was knocking so when the draft hit it. Methodius’ teeth immediately started to ache depressingly.
Even without glancing into the book, Methodius understood that Ares was summoning him. The chief was impatient. A little longer and a mighty roar, after easily piercing the spectral boundary of the fifth dimension, would reach him from below. However, it was better to not lead to this. Eide did not like loud noises, especially when enraged creatures of Gloom generated them.
* * *
After getting dressed, Methodius went down to reception. He did this in an unexpected manner. In the corner, Julitta had scraped a rune with her rapier directly on the scratched parquet. It could be casually stepped on as much as desired. But it was necessary to step on it with closed eyes, stop, and utter, “Odium generis humani [hatred for the human race (Lat.)]”, and you found yourself right in reception, one-and-a-half metres from the fountain, from which the Crimean wine “Black Doctor” flowed day and night.
Succubi, frivolous folk, constantly strove to splash in the small fountain in their birthday suit, catching the sweet drops with their lips. Only after Ares’ shout did they climb out of the fountain and, leaving tracks of wine on the parquet, scurry guiltily to Julitta to prolong their registration. The treasured fountain did not only attract succubi. Somehow, Tukhlomon, playing a drowned man, blue and bloated, lay on the bottom of the fountain for the entire day and was so carried away that he passed up the eidos of Leo Ovalov, a philology theorist and author of the mystery Col and Bok and the ideological novel Three Piglets.
Methodius looked around. He saw in reception only Julitta, who, after sticking out her tongue with diligence and helping herself with its tip – in any case the tip of her tongue was moving synchronously with the pen – was sketching Essiorh’s portrait on documents. The flame of a candle was flickering wildly on her desk.
“Hey!” Methodius called.
“Yeah!” the witch responded, continuing to sketch.
“Do you hear me?” Methodius asked.
Julitta looked pensively at the drawing and touched up the line of Essiorh’s cheek, attaining absolute likeness. But to capture the resemblance was tricky, since the incompletely-drawn Essiorh was constantly turning his head and squatting.
“You hear me,” the witch acknowledged after Methodius repeated the question again.
“What do you want?” Methodius asked.
“What do you want?” the witch repeated like an echo.
“Me? Nothing!” Methodius flared up. Summon a person in the middle of the night and then forget about him, as if he came on his own initiative. This is totally in the spirit of their organization.
“Well, and nothing for me!” the witch said.
“Then I’m off!” Methodius snapped.
“Well, go!” the witch agreed and, after noticing that Methodius took a step to the rune, she said, “Oh, wait, I remember! The chief summoned you.” After giving out this information, Julitta again returned to the drawing.
“Is Ares in the office?”
“Uh-uh. He teleported somewhere about five minutes ago. He said he’ll soon be here and you’re to wait for him. That’s all! Don’t bother me! I’m drawing the ears. Hey you, the sketch, don’t twirl! I know, it’s ticklish! Ears are the most crucial part!”
“Ears are the most crucial part? Why?” Methodius was surprised.
Julitta suddenly put down the pencil and stared at him with indignation. “What are you, Buslaev, a parrot?”
“What?!”
“Then for what reason do you repeat everything after me?”
Methodius was dumbfounded. “Repeat? Me?”
“Again! Only idiots do that!” Julitta twirled a finger at her temple.
“Listen, you’re cheeky!” Methodius said with admiration.
Julitta ran her hand lovingly through her hair and made herself a little bang on the forehead, just playing Uncle Adolf.
“Well, I’m cheeky! He discovered America! I’ve always been cheeky, for your information! Cheeky and fat! On the whole, remember, applicant! Geniuses have big ears. Students who hand in exams ahead of time and genies trapped in non-sterile containers have small ears. Lab techs of technical specialties and first year biting vampires have elongated ears with deep conchae. Here I am trying to recall what ears Essiorh has in order to understand what kind of suspicious character he is! But you’re pestering me! You won’t bother me anymore?”
“No,” Methodius said concisely, afraid of repeating something again. He walked away from the witch’s desk and began to wander around reception, waiting for Ares. Suddenly Methodius caught sight of something bulky concealed under a long red cover. Here and there on the cover were traces of damp earth. Musty rot wafted from the unknown object.
“What’s this?” Methodius thought. He did not like oblong objects, on top of that even covered. The emerging association was not in favor of what was inside. “Where did this come from?” he asked.
“Ares brought it,” Julitta replied lazily.
“And went off again?”
“He stated that he needs some tool. And that you’d wait for him and not take it into your head to be off anywhere.”
“What tool?” Methodius was puzzled. The situation looked strange. Guards of Gloom usually did not need tools. In order to demolish a wall or pierce a solid twenty-metre stone well, it was enough for them to stare at it or desire it.
“Listen, Met, I’m a smart girl, of course, but not enough to answer every question that you have enough stupidity to ask,” Julitta remarked compassionately.
Methodius carefully tapped the long cover. It was a quick, almost fleeting touch, but also enough for him. With his fingers he came into contact with something deathly cold and hard like a diamond. An icy viper crept along the vessel to his elbow. His arm went numb. His temples ached. Methodius hastily withdrew his hand and took a step back.
“Ah, that’s what you are!” he said vindictively to the strange object.
Angry, Methodius wanted to decisively pull a long brush and tear away the cover, but something, more real than fear or suspicion, stopped him. He simply felt that it was not worth doing. What was inside presented a threat no less than Mamzelkina’s scythe.
The thought flickered in him to ask Julitta, but he doubted that he would receive an answer. Julitta was very busy, touching up Essiorh’s bumpy alcoholic nose. Not limiting herself to this, she drew Essiorh with fangs and about ten vampire pimples. In addition, she bestowed on him a ski cap, a homeless sporty look, and admired the result.
“Why do you do it?” Methodius asked, forgetting for the moment about the strange object hidden by the cover.
“Do what?” Julitta did not understand.
“You’re distorting Essiorh.”
Julitta pondered, after staring with surprise at the pencil in her hand. Apparently, even she herself clearly did not know why she abused Essiorh’s image. “A complex question! I want to be certain that when I need to, I’ll be able to get him out of my head just in case. Because somehow I’ve very often begun to be reminded of him recently!” the witch said, studiously depicting a dumpster next to Essiorh.
“And you think that you’ll forget him by sketching him?” Methodius was incredulously curious.
“An amateur is visible from afar! I localize the image in order to banish it from my consciousness! In order to stop loving someone, it’s useful to present him in a silly and ridiculous way. I’m working on this. I’m creating a many-sided portrait of our ‘ideal’.”
“So, how’s it turning out?”
Julitta appraised the figure and, leaning over, whispered something to it. The homeless-looking Essiorh took out a herring skeleton from the dumpster and began to chew on it with greed. After finishing with the skeleton, he wiped his lips on his sleeve, hiccupped with satisfaction, and again started to burrow in the bin. This time his attention was drawn to a cracked bottle of cologne, to which he clung immediately.

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notes
Примечания

1
The Nagant M1895 revolver, designed by Belgian industrialist Léon Nagant (1833–1900), was adopted by the Russian Empire in 1895 as standard issue firearm.

2
The copper mines of Timna Valley in Southern Israel had been attributed to King Solomon, but most archaeologists considered them to be earlier than Solomon’s era.

3
Vladimir Ivanovich Nemirovich-Danchenko (1858–1943) was a Russian and Soviet theatre director, playwright, producer, and co-founder of the Moscow Art Theatre.

4
Ivan Petrovich Kulibin (1735–1818) was a Russian mechanic and inventor. He had a special interest in the clock mechanism. In 1791, he built a push-cycle cart using a flywheel, a brake, a gearbox, and a roller bearing.

5
The Ural motorcycle is manufactured by IMZ-Ural, Irbit Motorcycle Factory, a Russian maker of the heavy sidecar motorcycle. The first prototype M-72 was built in 1941, modelled after the late-1930s BMW R71 sidecar motorbike. It was the bike suitable for the Red Army during WWII. A modern day Ural can come with or without a sidecar.

6
In Norse mythology, a host of female figures called valkyries is sometimes connected to swans. These valkyries are responsible for choosing who should be slain in battle.

7
Famous verses by Punlius Vergilius Maro (70-19BC), usually called Virgil, one of the greatest Roman poets during the reign of Caesar Augustus (63 BC -14 AD), the first emperor of the Roman Empire.

8
The quote is from Ode 1.3 – To Virgil, Setting Out for Greece – by Horace, Quintus Haratius Flasccus (65 BC – 8 BC), the leading Roman lyric poet during the time of Augustus, Illi robur et aes triplex circa pectus erat, qui fragilem truci commisit pelago ratem primus – there was both oak and a triple layer of bronze around the heart of he who first launched a frail craft on the savage open sea.