Methodius Buslaev. Third Horseman Of Gloom

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!”