2

Whispers and gnashings immediately returned, something heavy and clawed began to stir and jump around the corners. Cres picked up a kerosene stove from the table in the hope of dispersing the villains in their holes, or at least to understand who he would face. Only puppet eyes still protruded from the gloom, as if stars were winking from the bottom of a well.

Cursing all the Khamers and their mothers, Kres found with difficulty the ajar door hidden behind the desk. Behind it, a low corridor, more reminiscent of an earthen hole, stretched like a snake. At the end, there was a tiny strip of light on the floor. Closing the door tightly behind him, Cres walked straight towards it. A frightening rattle breathed into the back of the head, which did not even think to calm down. The floor suddenly wobbled like the deck of a ship, nearly knocking Cres off his feet. The boards creaked under heels, pressed in and cracked, clinging to the sole with nails. The dark tunnel stubbornly did not want to see outsiders in its interior.

Finally, a glowing thread fell on the toes of his boots. The door barely audibly slid inward.

A poor little closet. A work table, trash, tools, a pile of half-finished toys...

- ... he came too early. Better wait...

In the light of a single candle, the silhouette of the puppeteer loomed in a dirty dark green blot. He was sitting right on the floor, legs tucked under him in tattered stockings. In front of him was a dilapidated, purple-hued chair. And it was empty, except for another ugly doll, which royally sat in the back and grinned at who knows what.

Slamming the door in fury, Kres found himself in one step beside the puppeteer. This time the trick with darkness failed. Cres grabbed the little man by the collar and lifted him off the floor. The scarf fell from his face, revealing a very unpleasant sight - from ear to ear, the short man's face was crossed by an ugly old scar.

- Let go! shouted the puppeteer in a broken voice. Just a muzzled teenager, no more than twelve years old.

The discordant march of hundreds of little feet drummed in the corridor, the walls cracked with the fury of the elements. Kres whirled around in a haunted manner, grabbed his knife and held the blade to the puppeteer's distraught face. Something inexorably approached from the dark corridor. And it was furious.

Who knows, Cres thought in response to the monstrous sounds outside. “Maybe they’ll all take a break, as soon as the mirrors of this storyteller close forever?”

- Enough. Let him go.

The puppeteer suddenly gave a frightened sound and went limp. Something crashed down the hallway with a deafening roar. And there was a tense silence, even the rain suddenly subsided.

“The mistress of the house - mice in holes,” Kres recalled the old saying and let the puppeteer go. He fell face down, as if he really was a simple doll.

- Goon, get up. Have a modicum of self-respect.

The boy got up and, bowing his head in humiliation, climbed behind the back of the chair. His movements became awkward, constrained, not a trace of the former light and not a hint of mockery in his eyes. This is how a puppet would move in the hands of an inept puppeteer. The gong merged with the shadow, became just a piece of furniture, another stupid doll.

- So…

Yes, there was a doll in the chair. An ordinary ugly doll. Or... Cres brought the lantern closer. The one sitting in the chair vaguely resembled an ungainly little girl. A very thin angular figure, dressed in a dress the color of old dark wine ... Her round, irregular face was lost in black tousled hair scattered in disorder over narrow bony shoulders. Unsuccessfully, Cres tried to peer into her face. Only eyes lived on this dead clay mask. Impatient, domineering, frightening eyes.

- Who are you? Cres broke the silence. He didn't fully understand who he was talking to. With a living being?

- I'm Miss Koch. Did you want to see me?

Cres swung the kerosene stove from side to side. Shadows jumped around the room, only the round, disproportionate face of the doll did not change at all. Only a dangerous ember slipped in his eyes, which should not be inflated.

“You must prefer to talk to more… lively interlocutors?” she suggested. “Or at least imagine them alive. Well, there's nothing you can do. I'm not ready to meet your wishes right now. Or do you insist?

Cres swallowed the viscous lump in his throat and said nothing. The lips of this "creature" did not move.

- Gunchik, bring us a mirror!

The puppeteer rushed to obey the order, as if he was just waiting for her word. The slave did not even think of something to light his way. Looks like he navigated the dark like a rat.

“Why a mirror?” Kres watched him go.

“So that we can both see each other a little better,” the doll replied.

It gnashed. A mirror under a black blank canvas, vilely grinding rusty wheels, floated out of the darkness and stood opposite the chair. The puppeteer in front of him seemed almost a dwarf - it exceeded his height by almost twice. The canvas slipped and fell at their feet.

Cres saw his frightened, pale face and...

- Don't turn around.

The place where the one who called herself Mrs. Koch settled down was empty. No, the ugly doll was still sitting in the chair, but the creature that lived inside the toy was gone. Just a dead ugly toy left.

Mrs. Koch stood behind Kres and loosened his scarf. Her black hair curled in long snakes and fell over her bare shoulders. The same eyes that a moment ago raged from the white, man-made face dug into him with iron hooks. They burned with the cold cunning of an old she-wolf who had been distracted from hunting her favorite game.

"Now everyone's happy," she cooed, running her fingernail across his throat under his folded scarf, right along the old scar. - Let's talk - why did you come, dead man? And the night is too short.

Cres made a move, about to turn around. But she was faster - a sharp nail dug painfully into his Adam's apple.

"Bad idea," Koch whispered into her ear. - I decided to talk personally, face to face, so now you can’t get away. Once you invited the mirror to the ball, then dance to the end.

Without taking his eyes off her black eyes, Kres slowly raised his hand, tore off the glove with his teeth and raised his open palm to the level of her eyes.

Koch sighed in surprise and removed the dangerous nail, leaving, however, no peace of his neck. The fingers of his free hand quickly slid down his shoulder. She grabbed his hand and brought it closer. Those terrible, cold eyes lit up with genuine interest. It crossed Kres's mind that perhaps for the first time in many decades or hundreds of years, some semblance of warmth flared up in them.

“You probably didn’t get it for nothing…” Grasping her palm with both hands now, she purred into his ear. - It's a Mark!

The mark, a black broken seven-pointed star with a grinning inhuman face in the center, was burned directly into the skin, in the center of the palm. Kres shuddered as Koch ran a long fingernail along his mangled lifeline.

"I don't care what it's called," he snapped. - Can you remove it ?

“Why waste such beauty? Koch said, smoothing her blackened skin with long, bony fingers that made her insides clench in disgust. How I wish I had something like this...

“Take it off my hand and you can take it.” I do not mind.

“Silly, I'm not quite out of my mind to wear this on myself,” she laughed. - On my own, by no means. But your palm in a bottle - just right. How do you like this option?

Her body shook in a fit of guttural laughter. Cres shuddered, like a crow croaking in death convulsions.

"Don't even think about it," he said, inwardly hoping that this was a stupid joke.

- They offer help, but you balk! This method is the easiest and fastest: chick! and the deed is done.

“Any butcher is good for that. That's not why I came to…” Cres stammered.

- To the witch? Do you think this despicable word offends me? Oh, dear, do not be afraid of words when you wear such a gift of fate. I heard many different stories about such signs, but I could not even think that some of them would turn out to be true.

“I thought you witches knew a lot.

“A lot, but sometimes even I wonder who brings me to the threshold,” she said, and her hands continued to “cradle” his palm. - Who should I consider you? I don’t need this dog nickname of yours, which only by misunderstanding can be called a name. Who is Cres? Cres can be a mercenary or a thief. He can beg, trade saint bones, or burn villages. What kind of person are you, Cres?

Cres remained silent, however, this did not bother her at all.

“The mere fact that the Mark is in your palm speaks volumes. When any doubt about the authority of Spasik threatens with a fire, in order to walk with such unkind signs, one must be either very brave or very stupid, which is basically the same thing. Or have powerful friends...

She paused for a moment, looking from the Mark to her guest's eyes. Cres was silent.

“It's up to you, I'm not intrusive,” she continued to whisper in his ear. “We both know there is only one place to get something like this. I can see from your face that everything I said is not far from the truth.

Her reflection in the mirror stared straight into Kres' soul. He realized belatedly that he was drowning in her ancient gaze. Now he saw himself and Mrs. Koch as an outside observer. She was stark naked, with long black hair hanging down her back like the dirty tentacles of a sea monster. Small in stature, she had to stand on her tiptoes to rest her chin on his shoulder. But gradually her body began to increase in size. She whispered:

- Do not resist, Mr. Cres. Black magic can only be dealt with by another, even blacker one. After all, the fastest and least painful way does not suit you?

“No… wait,” Kres said through his strength. Only one voice still remained in his power. But maybe Koch decided how to answer him.

- Okay. I will do my best,” she cooed, plunging her long black claw into his palm. – In the meantime, tell us how you got this Mark.

The reflection in the mirror gradually became cloudy, the edges of things were erased, the faces in the mirror were covered in a stuffy haze. Soon the outlines of the room were drowned in this haze. Kres tried to free himself, but the limbs, as if poured with heavy lead, became alien and no longer obeyed him. The walls of the room dissolved, the mirror disappeared, the light disappeared, the witch's slave with the disfigured face disappeared. Kres caught a glimpse of his eyes smiling before the darkness swallowed them up. The city inhabited by the Saved people also disappeared. Everything swept away, and he became only a disembodied spirit of the past and rushed everywhere. Suddenly a gust of furious wind hit, the noise of heavy forest crowns and leather wings pierced his ears. The cold air was filled with the smell of pine needles and the stench of rotten leaves. On the sides, in the darkness, bonfires flared up, drums rattled, screams grew. He had fun and he was eager to dance around the fires along with people with dog heads. A dizzying dance of wild shadows and winds revolved around.