Natalie Yacobson - Demon mentor. Crypt of the Seven Angels

This time he didn’t grin.

Her desire was indeed black. Blaise thought that even the magic plant that fell into her hands should also turn black, because she would ask him to kill someone. Her desire is someone else’s death.

She did not believe that clover was magic. Most likely, Damian ripped it off in the de Rosier estate, which had long been locked and abandoned, because it was almost unbearable to live there. They said it was built in a place where climatic conditions and an unusual type of land themselves give rise to various errors of nature. For example, in the garden there were enough thickets of clover with four leaves, but it still did not fulfill anyone’s wishes. Or she just didn’t notice it.

If she could now choose her coat of arms, then it would be a four-leaf clover. Not because of the magic, according to legends, associated with it, but only because the first desire that came to her mind at the sight of it was revenge.

The flower of evil. Whoever wanted evil will receive it. She imagined a four-leaf clover sprouting on the corpses of her enemies, gradually devouring them, and for some reason she felt surprisingly calm. As if the wish had already come true.

Alistair himself did not remember falling asleep on the floor of the chapel. This had never happened to him before. He always maintained control of himself, even when taking a hefty dose of opium. No one should have noticed anything bad behind him. Reputation is the main thing. If it is flawless, then no one has noticed the vile deeds hiding behind it. Alistair long ago learned to fully exploit his fame, covering up everything that he did unseemly with it. It was thanks to these difficult drinking practices that he chose the church service. When you are considered a protege of God, then all the evil you have committed remains in the shadows. Nobody dares to blame you because you are who you are. You are beyond suspicion.

He always had the mind not to deny the existence of a God in which he does not believe, but to ardently condemn others for the lack of very strong faith and self-sacrifice. And now he is a cardinal. Who dares to accuse him of something, even if he did it? Even so, his word will be above all others.

However, tonight he dreamed of a judging angel. Living angel made of marble. It sat directly above him on a flat slab at the altar and looked with such a stern, condemning look that, it seemed, was capable of incinerating. But at the same time, the pose of the angel was something erotic. The half-naked marble body bore traces of wounds. Unusual wounds, no blood. If it were a male body, then Alistair would feel a fit of desire, usually leading to violence, but the body was female, young, not yet formed. And the face… He remembered that face. The face of his victim. Blaise! Her eyes were bleeding profusely, and this made her look even more terrible. The gaze directed at him, as if from hell, where he directed her. Her and her brother, after using it, of course. But why was Blaise the only one to condemn him? He couldn’t rape her. She was a girl. Others wanted it. It was they who dreamed of doing to her what he did to this cute boy, her brother. He didn’t touch Blaise. So why is this eerie bleeding gaze directed specifically at him?

Empty and inexpressibly stern eyes of the angel looked into the soul, making it freeze. Framed by ruby tears, they looked especially cruel. They reminded of some ancient and crushing, nameless biblical evil. But Alistair believed neither in God nor in the Bible, even serving at the altar. For him, everything connected with higher powers is just a routine of promotion and, in general, an empty phrase. He cannot be afraid of what he does not believe in. So why is he so scared then?

He tried to get to his feet from the cold stone slabs, but he did not immediately succeed. The whole body ached, the limbs ached, as if recently they were trying to tear them off. It was as if he had been beaten at night, in a dream, in a locked church. The beautiful image of the holy princess Catherine on the fresco at the altar always seemed to him personally more like a witch. In his dreams, she took suitors from young maidens instead of giving them. Although lately, more often than not, young men have begun to come here to pray to her for good luck in love. Like brother of Blaise once did. He came here to pray for a meeting with a virgin who resembles his secret love, his sister. Alistair lured him here, promising to calm his mental anguish. Here he would gladly make his victim any other who liked him. Some drugs in wine for the sacrament and more persuasion. He always lured his victims to communion, so it was much easier to get them drunk. Communion is a terrible ceremony. It can be of great service to any of the most unrighteous suggestions.

The blood and body of Christ. And some opium. And the person is ready for anything…

But now it was the bloody tears of an angel that did not leave his head.

On the one hand, this is even good. In those narcotic visions that occasionally visited him, he no longer needed any special interpretations. Alistair knew what these vivid, dreamlike pictures meant. If in his visions someone cried blood, then this meant the imminent defeat of this person. But Blaise was already amazed. She was defeated and buried under the rubble of a destroyed building. Everything is already in the past.

However, the vision has been so intrusive so far. As if an angel crying with blood, after his defeat, again went to fight and punish those who defeated him. Alistair could not help thinking about who became the winner precisely after his defeat. Devil! He was defeated before becoming himself. Those who the world knows him. And who he would never have become if he had not lost that first battle. They said the devil had a beautiful face. Like Blaise. He wonder what it will be like if he reappears.

She dreamed of evil.

This is not the first time. Everything was repeated almost as in life. Only in dreams did evil become overwhelming. The events that recently took place in reality were supplemented with details, as if drawn by the hand of an unearthly creator. Nothing so incredible could actually happen. But the dreams lived on their own.

In her dreams, she returned to the events of the night when she was deprived of everything. She now had seven patrons and seven enemies. The even numerical ratio was slightly striking.

Only in reality there were only enemies left. And there really were seven of them, not counting those who are in any way connected with them. But there were no patrons. Only something symbolic remained of them – the statues in the crypt. But there were no statues inside the dreams. The angels were alive, hiding in nothingness and persistently inciting her to something. They were present somewhere nearby. You could feel them, hear them, even catch a glimpse of them, but they remained elusive, as if they had nothing to do with her in a dream. In a dream, they were like air, and you know that it is all around you, but you cannot catch it with your hands.

Dreams lined up in an amazing world, like a pyramid. His staircase went up somewhere. And Blaise could almost feel her steps.

Well, one step, one more, almost all the steps of the narrow stone staircase are already behind. Even turning back was scary, but she was not afraid to look down even from a dizzying height. Probably, this was passed on to her from her ancestors – the feeling that the wings of an angel are about to grow behind her back and, as a result, she is absolutely fearless. Well, okay, even if all family legends are a legend, and still she sometimes felt absolute power over the motionless frozen world lying below, all buildings and people will remain forever there chained to the ground, and she seems to be able to take off. Blaise threw her head back and burst out laughing so that her sonorous, hysterical laugh echoed from the stone walls in frightening echoes. If anyone wins the bet, it will be her. After all, there was some kind of bet? What exactly, in a dream she did not remember.