by Dark, Masha
“Oh no, lay it out for me.”
“Okay,” said Volsky reluctantly. “But don’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you. Take a look at this.”
With these words Pavel extracted a transparent envelope with a roll of photographs from the pocket of his jacket and placed it on the table. Marisa took the pictures out of the envelope and intently gazed at what the photographer had managed to capture. To be sure, she’d seen dismantled human bodies before, parts strewn over the floor, blood sprayed over the walls and ceiling, but this time the offender had managed to surpass all the previous targets of the Homicide Division of CRUSS rolled into one.
“How many bodies are there?” asked Marisa after three minutes of detailed inspection of the photographs.
“Two,” replied Volsky. “A man and a woman; their identities are still being established. They were found yesterday morning not far from the Ekebysjon. It seems they were getting it on in the car. Then they were simply sliced into noodles.”
“More like into mincemeat,” said Marisa, pushing the unfinished dessert away from her. “I suppose that gastronomic metaphors are appropriate here, right?”
“You suppose correctly,” grimaced Volsky. “This monster…whatever it was…really tucked into this poor couple… You should see the imprints of his teeth!”
Marisa raised her eyebrows quizzically.
“A werewolf?”
“Presumably – yes,” nodded Pavel. “And it seems that this is part of a series. Of course, I need to verify it, but I believe that there have already been eight similar murders.”
“So, a werewolf is on the loose,” she stretched out the words mirthlessly. “Fucking hell, don’t we have enough with all these vampires?”
“You don’t say,” concurred Volsky. “And more importantly, not just anywhere, but in Danderyd.”
“Uh-huh, and we have enough to keep track of without werewolves in the mix.”
“That’s for sure,” concluded Pavel, putting the envelope of pictures back into the pocket of his jacket. “Alright, let’s change gears. How are you feeling?”
Marisa suddenly observed a strange tenderness in Volsky’s voice. Then, as if accidently, he brushed her hand with his fingers. Marisa’s hand jerked, catching the dessert spoon that was lying on the table. Smiling, Volsky picked up the spoon and once again touched her hand. This time Marisa reacted passively, noting to herself, however, that the touch of Volsky’s fingers was far more pleasant than unpleasant.
“So how do you feel?” Pavel repeated.
“Pasha, I’m trying not to think about how I feel,” she replied honestly.
“I understand – I’m not an idiot.” Volsky covered Marisa’s hand with his own. “You know, I’m looking at you right now and realizing what an idiot I’ve been.”
“I don’t understand the connection,” said Marisa with a slightly sarcastic grin.
Volsky started to cautiously stroke her palm.
“You know, you were the most beautiful girl at the Academy,” said Pavel.
He smiled again, but this smile was of an entirely different character. Once, Marisa had lost her head over his smile. Indeed she had, but he had been unaware of it.
“So you were and so you remain,” added Pavel.
She looked him in the eyes…and suddenly everything spun around her. It was only for a moment, but it was long enough that Marisa once again lived through a whole range of emotions from annoyance and disappointment in herself to sweet suffering, which was just how she had felt then, in her first year at the Academy, when she melted and pined under his gaze…
Someone dropped a tray full of plates, and Marisa descended from the imaginary heavens back to the earth that was located in the dining room for agents of the Homicide Division. The lunch hour was coming to a close. Marisa freed her hand, suggesting that it was time to pack it in.
“Well, first of all, we weren’t at the Academy together – it was a special training – and there is no way you noticed me, Pavel, because you were four years older than me.”
And Marisa stood up, not giving Volsky the chance to find an appropriate reply.
“Alright,” she said. “I’m off. Vampires and werewolves wait for no woman. See you!”
Not waiting for feedback from the crestfallen Pavel, she turned around and began to walk away. She didn’t want to think about that brief flicker of forgotten emotions. She had almost an entire day’s worth of work ahead of her and she simply could not allow herself to waste energy flirting with Volsky. Or with anyone else, for that matter. Still, Marisa was sure that in all of CRUSS there was no man who could compete with Pavel, so magnificent, such an overwhelmingly masculine man. Rumor had it that he was a fantastic lover. As a student, Marisa had nearly gone mad from jealousy and had hated all the women who had spread such rumors. But today she caught herself thinking that her former jealousy and malice had been exchanged for some new feeling, or more accurately for an entire palette of hitherto unknown sensations. And one of the main ones was curiosity. Yes, she was damnably curious to find out how true those rumors really were.
The restaurant in which Soigu apparently loved to dine was located in the Gamla Stan, Old Town and was called Den Gyldene Freden (The Golden Peace). Dalana laughed wholeheartedly, it was reputed to be one of the oldest restaurants in the world and would probably be a tourist trap.
With the help of a new wig, Dalana had turned into a blonde, and her skillfully applied makeup gave to her face a hint of ugliness, which should indicate a certain weariness in the world of excessive employment. In other worlds, Dalana now looked like a stereotypical businesswoman, a character that was, in her opinion, quite serviceable for the plan she meant to implement.
All morning, while Dalana had clothed herself in ‘another’s skin’, Vasilisa had circled around her. An enfant terrible, the girl was weary from boredom; she desired attention and therefore she asked innumerable questions in an effort to converse with Dalana, an effort which drove Dalana crazy.
“So, what’s your real name?” inquired Vasilisa, perching on the edge of the hot tub.
At that moment Dalana was standing in front of a massive mirror, armed with tweezers, bringing her right eyebrow into ideal alignment.
“A night spent in the same apartment is no reason for familiarity.”
“I was wondering what I should call you,” Vasilisa said resentfully. “Secret agent woman?”
“According to my most recent passport, I am Diana Pechorina,” Dalana informed her.
Vasilisa laughed loudly, banging her fists against her knees.
“Yes, you look just like a Diana. Especially a Pechorina.”
“Before that I went by the name of Darla.” Dalana shrugged her shoulders.
“That’s better, but still not great,” concluded Vasilisa. “Tell me, why do all of you…well, the Begotten of Old, so dislike giving out your real names?”
“The more you know, the worse you sleep,” Dalana cut off the inquiry. “You could simply call me Dee.”
“Okay,” sighed Vasilisa. “Just so you know, I sleep very poorly.”
“That was your choice,” said Dalana.
“Not really,” Vasilisa let slip gloomily. “But let’s not talk about that… So, Dee it is then.”
By this time Dalana had already finished plucking her eyebrows and was now making her wig tidy.
“Can I help?” Vasilisa asked.
“You’d better buzz off. Or else I’ll lock you in the pantry,” Dalana threatened.
Having transformed her appearance as much as she could, she gave Vasilisa a spare wig and was amused at how unskillfully she put it on. After Dalana’s intervention, Vasilisa appeared to be a woman with long, fiery-red hair.
“I recommend vulgarly bright makeup,” said Dalana, looking Vasilisa over thoroughly. “It’ll add years to your face, which will lessen your chances of stumbling across the crusaders.”
“I look like a whore in this wig,” said the transmog sullenly.
“And you want to put me on bright makeup on top of that? I won’t go outside looking like this.”
Vasilisa stubbornly folded her arms across her chest.
“Whatever you want,” replied Dalana. “But if I don’t receive my advance by midnight you’re on your own, is that clear?”
“Yeah, it’s clear,” grumbled Vasilisa and she walked over to the mirror with a dejected look.
“You can use my cosmetics,” said Dalana. “I hope that you can paint yourself a vulgar little face without my help.”
“A little whore’s face,” said Vasilisa in a half-voice, rummaging around in the interior of a plump cosmetics bag.
“Can you or not?” asked Dalana.
“I’ll manage somehow,” snorted Vasilisa and in the same breath declared: “But, you know, I need some things of my own. I don’t even have a toothbrush.”
“I’ll get you a toothbrush,” promised Dalana. “The rest is your problem, and you will not attend to it before we take our leave of each other.”
“But what am I supposed to wear to the bank?” the transmog snapped. “Have you forgotten the state of my clothes after yesterday?”
For a moment Dalana again repented of yesterday’s good deed.
“Fine, wear something of mine,” she relented after a minute.
“Your clothes are too big for me,” informed Vasilisa.
“Do you have a choice?” asked Dalana.
There were such blatant hints of menace in her tone that the girl decided to back down.
“All right, all right, I guess they’re not that big. Thank you.”
“That’s more like it,” said Dalana. “There’s a second set of keys on the vanity. And do me a favor– don’t get into any more trouble.”
“Don’t worry,” said Vasilisa as she began to smear an oily layer of foundation on her skin. “You’ll get your money this evening.”
“Only time will tell,” replied Dalana philosophically.
Leaving the apartment, she thought that she might possibly have to move to the cottage today if the girl blew her cover. However, she was accustomed to dealing with problems as they arose if, of course, she was not able to prevent them from arising. Vasilisa was proving to be the kind of problem that was impossible to forestall. There was nothing else to do but keep her eyes open and await the next development.
And she could not forget her original task, Soigu. At least with him everything was so far going according to script, or rather, according to a complicated, bifurcating system composed of a multitude of plans that made provisions for many different situations. As of today there were three such plans.
Plan A involved active reconnaissance, pursuant to which Dalana would stealthily listen in on all the thoughts of the target as he sat at a nearby table, after which she would return home and develop another plan – the perfect assassination – on the basis of the extracted information.
Assassination was also at the heart of plan B, but it was far from perfect. Rather it was adapted according to her present information, which, admittedly, might not be sufficient. If she found an opportune moment, Dalana intended to stab Soigu in the base of the skull using a special weapon called an injector. An injector was a long metal object that fit easily in the palm. Outwardly it resembled a handheld flashlight. Pressing a small button set the machinery working, and the weapon shot out a sharp, sturdy bolt with lightning speed. The bolt penetrated the bone at the base of the skull, passed into the brain and caused fatal damage. The flashlight ‘with a surprise inside’ killed the victim quickly and relatively painlessly. From the outside this whole complicated ritual looked entirely innocent – the assassin walked by and brushed the back of the victim’s head with his hand then disappeared, leaving the victim with a dismally lowered head. The most important thing was that the movement of the hand not be unduly strong or sharp, otherwise the target could fall face first into his plate and arouse unwanted suspicion. Dalana had twice made such a blunder in the past, but now she was certain of her every gesture. The injector worked quite well on humans.
But Soigu might not fall in line with the plan, and she would have to abandon the injector. He might sit in a seat against the wall or surround himself with dozens of bodyguards. Or the restaurant might be crowded with customers and the wait staff scurrying here and there, cutting off Dalana’s access to his person. In that instance she had plan C, which was at heart an extended version of plan A. Having studied Soigu out on the field, Dalana would tail him and, in as much as it was possible, dog his steps to the very end of his itinerary. And beyond that, she would have to play it by ear.
At two o’clock in the afternoon Dalana, was sitting in Den Gyldene Freden. She had to give it its due, the restaurant really was cozy, not a tourist trap at all. Besides Dalana there were only a few other diners in the restaurant and, while it remained so, everything inclined towards the implementation of plan B. Following the waiter’s recommendation, Dalana ordered some hot food and a bottle of wine and now was energetically moving her fork around her plate, imitating a hungry human. Dalana was at a table next to the wall, a good position in that it allowed her not only to observe the entire room but also to keep an eye on the entrance. She hoped to hear Soigu’s thoughts even before he walked into the restaurant.
The clock read a quarter to three when Dalana’s entire body was suddenly covered in goose bumps. A strange feeling of nervousness also struck the diners and wait staff of the restaurant. Dalana marked how several of them began to shiver, uneasily looking around in an attempt to locate the source of the discomfort that had suddenly come upon them. A belated guess shimmered through Dalana’s awareness…
And then the front door burst open and Alexander Soigu swept into the restaurant. Dalana, who been focused on finding his mental ‘wavelength’, felt as if she had slammed into a mute, impenetrable wall. She barely had time to switch off and construct her own mental shield before the wave that was Soigu’s consciousness established a connection.
A petrified waiter, who was dragging his feet, led Soigu into a separate room.
Dalana caught her breath. Another moment and he would have caught her. As Vasilisa said: a bizarre twist of fate. Dalana glanced around at the humans – it seemed they were already coming back to normal, shaking off the consternation that had overtaken then in Soigu’s presence. A woman in the far corner of the restaurant moaned under her breath, futilely struggling with a sudden influx of sexual excitement. Dalana noticed a waiter with a tray: the boy was heading for Soigu’s VIP room. Dalana’s nostrils caught the blended aroma of freshly killed meat and human fear. This last emanated from the boy, who could not understand why the customer had ordered a platter of raw veal.
Dalana now knew the real reason for Soigu’s charmed life. And it had nothing to do with luck.
Dalana raised her finger to indicate she wanted her check. Then she once again gathered together all her observations. The animalistic scent, like that of a wild beast, that caused females to tremble with lust, the strange and frightening eating habits, the powerful aura, which petrified nearby humans, the walled up consciousness… There was no doubt about it: this ‘man’ was Begotten of Old. It was also clear now why Soigu had seemed so subtly familiar to her. Simply put, he was from her World, and even though Dalana could not see his real appearance, she did not discount the possibility that at some time in the past their paths had crossed.
The waiter brought her check. As she was settling her bill, Dalana dropped her purse and began cursing out of pique. The waiter went pale and retreated a step from the table.
“It’s all right,” said Dalana, handing him the leather check holder. “I don’t need any change.”
Still pale, the waiter managed to squeeze out a grateful smile. Then he made himself scarce.
Dalana had counted on getting answers to her questions. And indeed she had. But together with those answers, there was now yet another question, by far more essential and complicated than the others: who was this creatu
re in the human skin? Dalana was sure of one thing – she and Soigu descended from different Fathers and Mothers. But just like her, Soigu was a predator: dangerous and savage.
Dalana rose from her seat and headed for the exit. Plan A was no good now. Plan B was physically impossible. So all that remained was Plan C. True, it would require considerable adjustment, but Dalana had already taken that into account when she had come up with it.
Once outside, she headed for a parking lot. The time had come to settle the issue of transportation. She wanted an easily manageable and not too showy SUV. There was one in the lot. Dalana intended to steal it and to do so just at the moment when Soigu left the restaurant.
3.
That which you possess, also possesses you.
Petronius Arbiter.
Vasilisa apprehensively passed by the ill-fated entrance, recalling yesterday’s incident. The stylish Louis Vuitton valise that she held in her hand was stuffed to the brim with crisp, green bills. Her visits to each of three banks had gone off without a hitch. No one was suspicious of the sexy, slightly vulgar woman with the red shock of hair and the abundant layer of cover-up on her face. Though to Vasilisa it constantly seemed that some brute was just about to appear from around the nearest corner to knock her off her feet and to slip the cold rings of handcuffs on her wrists, it did not happen. The clothes that Vasilisa had borrowed from the wardrobe of the Begotten of Old were too big for her by at least two sizes. The jeans that should have hugged her elegant figure sagged unmercifully, the tank top more resembled a minidress, and the soles of her feet were wallowing in the soft leather loafers. Her head, unaccustomed to wigs, also felt strange.
However, neither the bank tellers nor the taxi-drivers nor the other humans who throughout the past day had crossed paths with Vasilisa noticed anything at all in her face; they remained indifferent to her. Though before she had often been exasperated to the utmost degree by such behavior, Vasilisa was now overwhelmingly grateful. In the end, having accomplished her mission unharmed, Vasilisa finally found herself at the doors of the elevator. She realized that it was broken and that she would have to walk up to the apartment.