"Allston, Aaron - Doc Sidhe 01 - Doc Sidhe" - читать интересную книгу автора (Allston Aaron)

The newcomer walked around the car and up onto the walkway. His voice was a musical, melodious treat: УSon, donТt do it.Ф
УDonТt do what?Ф
The tuxedoed man shook his head gravely. УDonТt jump. I know things may seem hopeless now, butЧФ
The laugh Harris had restrained finally emerged, a high-pitched cackle that sounded crazy even to HarrisТ ears. УDonТt jump? Mister, youТve come to the wrong place. I wasnТt going to jump.Ф
The man took a cautious step forward. УYou might not have known that you were. But the moonТs full and thereТs a storm in your heart. You could have hit the water before you knew what you were doing. Come away with me.Ф
Ah, so that was it. This guy wanted something. Was he a smooth-talking mugger or a stubborn homosexual who wouldnТt take no for an answer? Harris didnТt care; he waved the intruder away. УScram.Ф
УIs that your name? Scram? I am Jean-Pierre.Ф The man took another careful step forward; he was now within half a dozen feet of Harris. УBut if youТre not going to jump, you can come away with me. IТll take you somewhere safe. Warm food. We can talk.Ф
Harris gave the man his most knowing smile. УYeah. Sure. I donТt know what you want, man, but youТre not getting it from me. And if you donТt get in that freak show of a car and get out of my face, IТm going to have to break your head. You got that?Ф
The man with the French name paused and frowned over that. Then: УYes. Yes, I do.Ф He started to turnЧand then made a sudden lunge for Harris, both hands outstretched.
A bad, clumsy move. Harris stepped sideways and fell into a back stance, keeping his weight mostly off his bad leg; he was surprised to feel himself go off balance from dizziness and he nearly fell over. But he still managed to use his left hand to sweep the manТs arms out of line, a hard knifehand block, and brought his right up in a fast uppercut that cracked into Jean-PierreТs jaw. The man in the red tuxedo looked dazed and surprised, as though some six-year-old had walked up and broken a shovel across his face, and took an involuntary step backward.
Which set him up for a follow-through kick. Harris brought his injured leg up in a front straight kick that ended with the ball of his foot cracking into the manТs jaw. HarrisТ extended leg seemed to scream as the move stretched his wound taut, but Jean-Pierre stiffened, spun partway around, and slammed down to the boards of the walkway.
Weakness washed over Harris again; he swayed and heard a roaring in his ears. The exertion had come close to taking him out, too. But, tired and hurt as he was, heТd won.
HeТd better leave before Mr. Fashion Disaster woke up, though.
He turned, and there she was.
Not Gaby. This woman was short, beautiful, and Asian. All he had time to register was her face, the somber expression it wore, and the stick she held.
The stick she rapped against his temple.
Suddenly the pain in his leg was gone.
Along with his eyesight. His hearing.
He never even felt the impact when he hit the walkway beside Jean-Pierre.

Sound returned first. Indistinct murmurings that became words: У . . . said he wasnТt . . . off-guard . . . stop laughing . . . Ф
Then, sensation. Warmth. Uncomfortable, lumpy softness under his back. A little pain in his leg. The pain was actually comforting. It meant that the events he was starting to remember had actually occurred.
Light through his eyelids.
He opened his eyes, and for the second time in hours saw a face hovering over his.
It wasnТt the beautiful blond man again. This was a large pug nose surrounded by a merry round face and eyes as green as jade; this manТs skin and hair were nearly as brown as a pecan shell. He wore a stiff white shirt, undecorated and short-sleeved, and a large, bulky stethoscope around his neck. He glanced back over his shoulder, revealing his ear to be sharply pointed, and called, УYour rescuee is awake, my prince.Ф His voice was surprisingly light, his accent cultivated and not quite American.
УYouТll be healing yourself if you keep at me.Ф The voice was Jean-PierreТs, and angry. Harris groggily turned his head to look.
He was in a big room, the size of a low-ceilinged gymnasium, crowded with dozens of large work tables. Some tables were piled high with books, others with burners and glass tubes and complicated glass-and-wood arrays Harris didnТt recognize, still others with what looked like mason jars filled with jams and jellies. The walls were paneled in dark, rich wood, and the floor was wooden planking of a lighter tone.
Bright light, the color and warmth of noonday sunlight, glowed from banks of overhead lights that resembled fluorescent light fixtures. Along the far wall, a bank of tall windows looked out over a glittering vista of skyscrapers at night.
Harris found that he was lying on a long paisley sofa in a corner of the room; there was other living-room furniture arranged nearby, including a very large version of the round-screen TVs heТd seen earlier.
On a nearby stuffed chair sat Jean-Pierre, his tuxedo jacket off, a blue bruised spot on his jaw the souvenir of their meeting; he looked irritable. Nearby, curled up in a corner of a divan, sat the woman whoТd clobbered Harris. From ten feet away, she seemed tiny, even more dainty than most of the women heТd seen earlier. She wore some sort of pantsuit cut from burgundy silk, the jacket sleeves full and flaring; her expression was serene. Next to Harris, the man with the nut-brown skin sat on a sturdy high-backed wooden chair.
Jean-Pierre rubbed his jaw and the bruise Harris had given him, then narrowed his eyes. УAwake, are we? Then itТs time to answer a few questions.Ф
Harris ignored him for the moment; he struggled to sit up and pulled himself back so that the high arm of the sofa supported him. Only then did he realize that under the blanket theyТd thrown over his legs he wore only underwear; his pants and shoes were gone. УHey!Ф
The moon-faced doctor grinned. УSorry, son. Had to tend your wound. Your breeches were a loss, torn and bloody.Ф He reached down behind his chair, where a pair of gray trousers lay folded across an old-fashioned doctorТs bag. He handed the pants over to Harris. УTry these.Ф
УThanks.Ф Harris hurriedly pulled the trousers on, barely glancing at the white bandage wrapped around his thigh. His injury wasnТt giving him much trouble; the doctor must have given him something for the pain. УOkay. Where am I?Ф
УThe Monarch Building, up ninety. I am Alastair Kornbock. I hear you have already met Jean-Pierre Lamignac and Noriko Nomura; formal introductions are probably moot.Ф
Jean-Pierre picked up something from his lap, a wallet, which he flipped open. УIs your name Harris Greene?Ф
УYeah. Hey, thatТs my wallet.Ф Harris tried to stand, but weariness tugged at him and he thought better of it.
УYes, it appears to be.Ф Jean-Pierre flipped it shut and negligently tossed it to Harris. УI gather from the way you defended yourself that you really werenТt trying to harm yourself on the bridge. So what injured you?Ф
Harris actually felt himself flinch away from the memory of Adonis. УYouТd never believe it.Ф
УTell me anyway.Ф
УNo, you tell me. Tell me what the hell is going on. What all this crap is about Neckerdam. What happened to the Brooklyn Bridge. The streets. The cars, for ChristТs sake. Barefoot truck drivers and dwarfs whoТve filed their teeth. Because, believe me, I was knocking down some pretty good vodka before all this started happening, and I donТt want to waste time talking to you if youТre just DTs.Ф Harris glanced through his wallet to make sure everything was in place, then pocketed it.
The three of them looked blankly from one to the other before returning their attention to Harris. УSo,Ф said Jean-Pierre, his pleasant tone not quite concealing his irritation, Уwhat injured you?Ф
УYou know, that was just about the worst attempted tackle I ever saw. If thatТs the way you normally try to rescue people, IТd be amazed if most of them didnТt make it into the water.Ф
Jean-Pierre flushed red and stood. He grabbed at something on his beltЧsomething that wasnТt there, but just where the handle of a hunting knife might protrude under other circumstances. In spite of his exhaustion, Harris stood up and readied himself for the attack he saw in the other manТs face. The doctor merely scooted his chair back and got out from between them; he looked from one to the other with interest.
The Asian woman spoke; her speech bore a faint accent that was exotic and appealing to HarrisТ ears. УJean-Pierre. Sit down. He is correct; the attack was clumsy. He has suffered more than you today.Ф Harris didnТt miss the extra stress she put on the last word, nor that she was communicating something else, but he couldnТt read the extra meaning in her statement.
At least Jean-Pierre got himself under control. He sat and angrily drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair. Alastair assumed the same pose and drummed his fingers the same way, a cheerful mockery of Jean-PierreТs motion. Harris sat too, but did not relax.
УNow,Ф Noriko said, Уplease. We donТt know the answers to your questions. We donТt even know what they mean. If you tell us the story of how you came to be on the Island Bridge, perhaps we can puzzle it out.Ф
УThatТs . . . reasonable.Ф For the briefest of moments, Harris saw himself through these peoplesТ eyes, as he sometimes saw himself from the perspective of his opponents; and this time he was an inexplicable creature, a wounded man who was too big and strange, possibly also dangerous and insane. He didnТt like that image. УI guess it started at tonightТs fight.Ф

When Harris reached the encounter with the pointy-toothed dwarf in the street, Jean-Pierre jumped up again. Harris tensed, but the other man wasnТt angry this time. Even paler than before, he stared in disbelief at Harris. УAngus Powrie,Ф he said.