by Masha Dark
“Tengri,” prompted Dalana.
“Yes, that’s it! Tengri,” Vasilisa stroked the kitten. “Who are they?”
“That’s another issue entirely,” replied Dalana. “There is no end to those who were created on this earth, and all of them are different…”
“That I know,” declared Vasilisa importantly, again interrupting Dalana. “But the Tengri…”
“Well, in ancient times, humans honored the Tengri as the most powerful Gods,” explained Dalana. “Of course, in the Upper World there are creatures both more ancient and more powerful. But still, the might of the Tengri is very great.”
“Consequently, the Upper beings are Gods,” the girl scratched her head meditatively. “Mentor called them something else.”
“The one who transformed you?” said Dalana. “It’s possible that in his homeland they were called something else. The creatures of the Upper World bear many names in many languages.”
“That Fire spirit – was he from the Upper World?” asked Vasilisa in a conspiratorial whisper.
Dalana nodded.
“In the place where I was born, he is called Gal.”
“Where were you born?” It was an entirely logical question.
“You’re interested in everything, aren’t you,” smirked Dalana. “That place is now called Buryatia.”
“Oh,” said the girl. “Now I see, all the names are sort of Eastern! Edzen, Noyan. But you don’t really look Asian. Though, there is something vaguely Asiatic about you.”
“Asian, Asiatic – all these are recent words. Humans always try to simplify,” declared Dalana.
“Now I understand why you are distant and untouchable at times,” Vasilisa frowned thoughtfully. “Who wouldn’t be, knowing all the secrets of existence! How is it that you don’t get lost in all the names? I mean, you call that Fire spirit Gal, but someone else, in England for example, might call him Lucifer. Would he still understand and appear?”
“You, naturally, are simplifying things as much as you can,”‘ sniffed Dalana. “The trend of your thoughts is basically correct, but in the future try not to squeeze everything into one box. Think. Use your brains. To be sure, the creatures of the Upper World were born far earlier than I was and, believe me, I was born far before the emergence of humans. In those times, all creatures spoke as one. Since those times everything has changed more than once, but you can take my word for it, even now the Khan of Fire heeds summons addressed to him regardless of where or by whom they are delivered – whether it is some wandering kami scaling on the heights of a Tokyo skyscraper or a shaman from an obscure village at the headwaters of the Angara.”
“Okay,” Vasilisa said slowly, sounding doubtful.
“The appearance of human languages was not a problem,” continued Dalana. “In some circumstances human language is even a solution; it simplifies things.”
“What circumstances, I wonder,” the girl blurted out. “How about when you want to have sex with someone? There really can’t be a better way than the English ‘wanna fuck?’ – can there?”
“Your thinking is far too narrow,” growled Dalana. “You must learn to look at things from a different angle.”
“Did you learn that?” asked Vasilisa darkly.
Dalana caught her gaze – the direct, profound gaze of an old woman tired of life.
“I’m learning. Still,” replied Dalana.
“Live a century, learn a century, right? By the way, I’ve always considered Asians the most beautiful women.”
These words were uttered through the lips of an adolescent girl whose eyes were bright with mischief.
“I’m flattered,” said Dalana.
“Tell me, that God – the one from the forest – why did he look like a raven?”
“Because humans and animals were formed in the image and likeness of certain Begotten of Old. And for this very reason, many Begotten of Old have the ability to assume the appearance of humans and animals, or rather to pass as a human or an animal. The appearance is actually a shell. It’s all interconnected, like the evaporation-precipitation cycle. Do you understand?”
“Wait, wait,” Vasilisa exclaimed fearfully. “What do you mean by formed? Like in a laboratory?”
Dalana twiddled her fingers at her temple.
“Read less science fiction. How exactly each living creature came to this earth – I do not know. I already said that I’ve never been to the Upper World.”
“Well, alright,” said the girl. “But are they mortal, these beings from the Upper World?”
“Some are,” confessed Dalana. “Some are mortal only in their shells. And there are some who are immortal.”
Vasilisa was deep in thought, trying to prepare her next line of attack.
“Well, so what is the Underworld?” she asked and shifted in her chair, unable to contain her nervous curiosity. The kitten’s ears twitched restlessly in its sleep.
“It’s better that you don’t know,” said Dalana.
“Why?” wondered Vasilisa.
“Because there are beasts living there that it is best not to think on.”
“Like the troll from the basement?”
“Much worse,” said Dalana.
Vasilisa shivered.
“Well, alright, we won’t talk about it,” consented the girl, but she immediately began a new series of questions.
“So, does Gal have children? And in what manner do these creatures beget children?”
“That’s it,” said Dalana roughly. “Enough. Go and amuse yourself with something.”
“With what?” asked Vasilisa aggrievedly.
“Go take a bath or play solitaire,” suggested Dalana. “Rest. Digest the information. It’s enough for your first time.”
“And you?” asked the transmog.
“Me? I have somewhere to be.”
Dalana got up from her chair.
“I understand,” said the girl, sighing in disappointment. “Conducting business with each other is still not cause for taking a bath with each other.”
“You’re so quick on the uptake,” said Dalana as she walked away.
Tell me, though – Vasilisa switched to mental communication – How did you really find that little bitch?
This is the way it works: you pay me, I do my work. You are paying me for a certain result. All the rest is none of your business, Dalana said briskly as she walked into the hallway.
I see, answered Vasilisa, irritated. When will you return? Or is that also none of my business?
So many questions. Dalana was almost at the threshold.
She was going to stop by one of the better technology stores she knew of; she needed to update some of her equipment. But before she left, Dalana decided to clarify an issue that intrigued her.
Tell me something, she said to Vasilisa. Are you sure you still want vengeance?
Yes, blurted out the transmog. Not just vengeance, but the head of that slut Marisa. And I also want to eat.
To eat? Dalana was genuinely shocked. In the last three days you’ve killed and eaten twice and you want to eat again?
Just a moment! Vasilisa flared up in reply. I killed them. The young agent – I simply didn’t have time, and it disgusted me to even touch that bitch.
One thing on top of another, Dalana said. Well, my dear, you’re going to have to endure. I don’t have the time right now to hunt for your dinner.
So don’t hunt. There’s always kitty, right? the transmog replied caustically.
The dismal mood that had retreated once again returned to Vasilisa.
“That’s perfect,” said Dalana in the same tone. “Don’t put a toe outside. See you tonight.”
Dalana slammed the door shut. Silence served as Vasilisa’s reply.
2.
Arrogance is essentially hubris, which announces its existence for all the world to hear.
Francois de La Rouchefoucauld
For Special Agent Pavel Volsky of CRUSS the morning began abominab
ly. Specifically, it began with the news of a new body. Last night in the area near Soigu’s residence a young woman had been killed. Killed and ripped to shreds.
At this early hour Pavel’s wrath fell upon the person who was closest at hand. The scapegoat was Graham, who had come to Volsky with a status report.
“And how is it that you didn’t notice him?” Volsky yelled indignantly. “What did you do, fall asleep?”
He was taking the man to task in the corridor so that the others would not hear.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know,” said Graham, throwing up his hands in bewilderment. “The four of us never even closed our eyes. He returned from Stockholm yesterday and that was it. After that neither he nor his wife nor their son came out of the house. Even the servants sat like rats in their holes.”
“Like rats in their holes, huh?” Volsky mimicked him acidly. “Well, Soigu’s the only one who spent the night in the country. Millionov hasn’t been there for three months and the producer’s been slaving away around the clock at the studio’s editing room. Plus, Millionov was seen yesterday at the Imperial with a woman – some famous model. The woman’s alive and so is Millionov. That shit-faced jerk, Lawrence is still wallowing in his apartment. That leaves Soigu. So what were you doing when he slipped past you?”
“I’m telling you, no one slipped past us,” Graham insisted. “He went into his house and we didn’t see him again.”
“That’s it exactly – you didn’t see!” Volsky almost screamed.
“Because he wasn’t there, for fuck’s sake! He didn’t leave!” Graham exploded.
“But there is a corpse!” roared Pavel.
“That means he’s some kind of devil or he can become invisible,” Graham said. “We really are doing everything we can. He went to his office, but Genaro and Arvid are tailing him.”
“What about the surveillance?” Volsky asked gloomily, having calmed down a bit.
“The ruse worked, everything’s alright,” the man assured him. “He went in disguised as a plumber. We arranged a little blockage in his pipes yesterday.”
“It’s odd,” said Pavel. “In principle, such a rich beast should have a plumber on staff. All of them do now: they have private lawyers, private plumbers – even private assassins.”
“It seems our tycoon is a mean little miser,” sneered Graham. “Or he simply hasn’t had time to acquire one yet. As you said, they haven’t lived there long. His wife, of course, is a complete idiot – she let Viggo in without asking any questions.”
“Why do you immediately assume she’s an idiot?” Volsky took offense for the woman. “Perhaps she’s simply a kind, trusting soul?”
Graham snorted in reply.
“Kind! Sorry, she’s as stupid as a chicken. ‘Oh dear’, she says, ‘do come in. Please just stay on the paths; my husband doesn’t like to have his grass stepped on. Oh dear, it cost us a small fortune. Oh dear, just fix everything quickly or else I won’t be able to take a bath.’ That’s the extent of her problems – that the lawn was wildly expensive and she might not get to take a bath.”
“I don’t know – she does write a bit in her free time.”
“Sure,” Graham said, grimacing in contempt. “But you know what they say – she’s only a woman.”
“You’re lucky that Marisa can’t hear you right now,” Volsky said, snorting. “And personally, I thank heaven for Mrs. Soigu’s idiocy.”
Graham was about to say something to defend himself, when Volsky’s cell phone rang.
“Volsky,” he said into the receiver.
It was Krook, one of the best medical examiners at CRUSS. He’d received the body of the woman found earlier that morning in Danderyd.
“You cannot imagine the kind of nastiness we’ve got here,” Krook informed Volsky gleefully. “He didn’t just kill her and eat her; he screwed her before he did either.”
“What’s the point?” Volsky asked, taking no heed of his colleague’s cynicism.
“Well, it’s like this – he didn’t eat her all of her,” explained Krook. “Mostly just her upper torso. And her reproductive system is almost untouched.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you found traces of sperm in the body?” guessed Pavel.
“That I am,” Krook replied.
“I’m coming to see you right now,” Volsky informed him.
“What I said about women…” Graham said as soon as the conversation between Pavel and Krook ended. “I really only had rich women in mind. And about the sperm – well done Krook. That’s great.”
“Sure, great,” replied Volsky, heading towards the elevator. “You know what would be great? If everyone would take care of business and not stand around prattling like idiots.”
With these words, he turned a corner. Graham could only shrug his shoulders in reply.
“I’d better get to work,” he muttered to himself. “Or else I’ll prattle away my bonus.”
Carefully sticking her head through the opening, Marisa examined the multi-paned glass, or more precisely, she examined what remained of it after it had been expertly cut out. The glass itself, neatly removed from the heavy frame, was whole and unbroken.
“That’s really nice work,” Marisa said darkly.
“Well, they have all this equipment now,” said a senior detective of the CID, a heavyset man by the name of Zilliacus. “The tools of the trade, as they say! It’s far removed from what they had before.”
“The only thing that’s bothering me is – what kind of equipment allows an assassin to get up to the fourth floor and cut out the glass from the outside with surgical precision?” she asked somberly.
“Hmmm, he climbed in from the outside, from the courtyard,” the detective stated the obvious.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” grumbled Marisa. “According to you, he brought a crane into the courtyard? Or maybe he used a pulley?”
“Well, that, as they say, remains to be explained,” said Zilliacus. “Well, alright, I’m going. You have, as they say, your own work, and we have…”
“So they say,” Marisa said coldly.
The detective walked away, not at all offended by her tone.
Marisa walked into the bedroom, where two hours ago beat officers had found the body of Zemfira Nizametdinova. A long-standing client of Zemfira had raised the alarm, amazed that she did not answer the door for their appointment. The door to the apartment was broken down later, almost eight hours after the call was received.
Detective Romano was far nicer to look at than his boss. Marisa noticed that he looked her up and down, and definitely not without interest.
“So, nothing was stolen?” asked Marisa.
“It’s difficult to say exactly since we don’t have an inventory to check,” Romano answered patiently. “But the safe was not forced open. The valuable items appear to be undisturbed, not even the trinkets on the shelves. On the other hand, it’s not really a typical break-in for a random maniac. Such complexity…that glass…. It’s obvious that whoever broke in was tipped off. The thing is – what was the reason for killing the owner? Perhaps it was something ritualistic. She did live by fortunetelling. Or maybe it was something broader, like someone who got deranged over Satanism and black magic, and then decided to kill her.”
“Is there any evidence?” asked Marisa.
“Well, there was something there…it’s just trash,” the detective said dismissively.
“Let me see it,” demanded Marisa.
“Look here, Agent Sukhostat,” Romano faltered for a moment then offhandedly added: “Special Agent Sukhostat…. Oh hell, what do I care? If you really want to get your hands dirty, by all means.”
He stuck his head out of the bedroom and yelled “Skold! Bring that thing here!”
After another moment a thin man came into the bedroom. He walked over to Marisa with a triumphant expression on his face and handed her a transparent evidence bag. It seemed to Marisa that in his little grin there was more moc
kery than a desire to cooperate. Inside the bag was something that looked like a crumpled up ball of paper of weirdly brown color.
“What is this?”
“That which you requested,” replied Romano. “Evidence.”
“And have you determined what exactly this evidence is?” Marisa asked sharply, no longer bothering to conceal her annoyance.
“Oh well, I beg your pardon!” Romano grimaced fastidiously. “You want me to tell you what this thing is? It’s a feminine hygiene product, obviously. Moreover, as far as I can tell, it’s been used. You see? It’s all smeared with blood.”
Laughter broke out in the hallway at these words.
“Where did you find it?” asked Marisa, ignoring the conduct of Romano and his colleagues.
“Between the night-stand and the bed. Near the headboard.”
Marisa realized that Romano’s interest in her as a woman had faded into oblivion. Good.
“If you’d be so kind, give me some tweezers.”
Marisa drew a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and swiftly pulled them on. Taking the tweezers from Skold, who was still smiling nastily, she extracted the object from the bag and gently shook it out. Almost immediately it became clear to her that it was a rectangular piece of paper a bit smaller than her hand smeared with blood, which had already had time to dry. There were some numbers and letters printed on the paper, but most of them were unreadable.
“OOO…unreadable…KKM…7106,” read Marisa.
“Is that some kind of ID number?” wondered Romano. “Or a code?”
“Number…Colon…Mol,” continued Marisa. “Nov…From… 28. 52. Invoice.”
“Damn it, it’s a receipt!” Skold burst out suddenly. “A receipt from a store.”
“From a supermarket of sanitary napkins, I suspect,” Marisa said venomously.
Skold’s smile had faded, but he began to smile again, though this time it was not so much nasty as sheepish. Romano cleared his throat.
“Uh, sorry about that,” he muttered.
At that moment Marisa felt her cell phone vibrating. ‘Volsky’ shone on the display.