"Barker, Clive - Books of Blood 06" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barker Clive)

my profession.' She did not look much reassured. 'If
anyone recognises us,' he told her, Til simply tell them
their eyes are playing tricks.'
She smiled at this, and he kissed her. She returned the
kiss with unquestionable fervour.
'Miraculous,' he said, when their mouths parted.
'Shall we go before the tigers gossip?'
He led her across the stage. The cleaners had not yet
got about their business, and there, lying on the boards,
was a litter of rose-buds. Some had been trampled, a few
had not. Swann took his hand from hers, and walked
across to where the flowers lay.
She watched him stoop to pluck a rose from the
ground, enchanted by the gesture, but before he could
stand upright again something in the air above him
caught her eye. She looked up and her gaze met a slice
of silver that was even now plunging towards him. She
made to warn him, but the sword was quicker than her
tongue. At the last possible moment he seemed to sense
the danger he was in and looked round, the bud in his
hand, as the point met his back. The sword's momentum
carried it through his body to the hilt. Blood fled from
his chest, and splashed the floor. He made no sound, but
fell forward, forcing two-thirds of the sword's length out
of his body again as he hit the stage.
She would have screamed, but that her attention
was claimed by a sound from the clutter of magical
apparatus arrayed in the wings behind her, a muttered
growl which was indisputably the voice of the tiger. She
froze. There were probably instructions on how best to
stare down rogue tigers, but as a Manhattanite born
and bred they were techniques she wasn't acquainted
with.
'Swann?' she said, hoping this yet might be some
baroque illusion staged purely for her benefit. 'Swann.
Please get up.'
But the magician only lay where he had fallen, the
pool spreading from beneath him.
'If this is a joke -' she said testily,'- I'm not amused.'
When he didn't rise to her remark she tried a sweeter
tactic. 'Swann, my sweet, I'd like to go now, if you don't
mind.'
The growl came again. She didn't want to turn and
seek out its source, but equally she didn't want to be
sprung upon from behind.
Cautiously she looked round. The wings were in dark-
ness. The clutter of properties kept her from working
out the precise location of the beast. She could hear it
still, however: its tread, its growl. Step by step, she
retreated towards the apron of the stage. The closed