"Bischoff, David - Night World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bischoff David)

To destroy Satan! That was a fine prospect, to be sure. To travel into the Nightworld and destroy God's principal Enemy. Was this possible? Surely Turner's quest would be a madman's journey. Use the bizarre weapons in Turner's van to eradicate Satan's fulsome nightcreatures on the way to some off-planet ship supposedly holding the weapons that could destroy Satan himself? To that part of Oliver that held fast to the conservative religious beliefs of his upbringing, the notions were absurd. But strangely, to that part of him the idea of an adventure, a holy adventure, a quest of faith to destroy the Father of Lies, was also exciting. And, yes, noble.

His mind churned with indecision. What would his parents say? He would shirk his duties by undertaking an insane quest that might well spell his death, and bring damnation, too? Stepping into the Evil One's clutches, with such doubts as Turner had strewn in his thoughts, would surely be dangerous to his soul as well as to his mortal body.

Oliver just did not know.

The pang of indecision in him intensified his awareness of the messages of his senses: the savory aroma of roast chicken issuing from beneath the red-checked cloth of an old woman's basket; the delicate vermilion and violet wash of sunset draining from the sky; the bustling excitement of the youths jabbing at the ball and smacking into one another; the feel of the totality of the community, warmly and comfortably snuggled around him like a thick, old coat against the cold. How he loved all this. How could he risk losing it? And what was this 'problem' Turner had spoken of? Surprised at the fat man's request, Oliver had neglected to ask. He would have to ask, soon, for Turner expected a reply to his invitation before bedtime. In the late morning, he would depart.

Whether with or without Oliver Dolan, Oliver had not decided.

He went into the castle to dress for the festivities.

Dusk curtained the sky. Glaring electric lamps and smoky torches glimmered, pushing up a ceiling of light in the night, when it happened.

"Yes, yes, quite true," Oliver said to the attentive, gowned girls clustered in an animated, perfumed pool of bows and frills by the badminton court's green turf.

Dramatically, Oliver smote the air, pointing beyond the dark, brooding walls. The gesture shook the milky silk of his wide, ruffled goblet cuffs. An affirmative nod spilled carefully groomed curls onto his brow. "Out there, several hundred yards, a nightcreature did almost get me: a werewolf, to be exact." He put his hands to the long lapels of his dark blue serge topcoat which was cut off at the waist with long tails dropping to the tops of his lustrous brown leather boots. "And an awfully big one. I fell asleep by the stream and woke up, why, about this time yesterday, I'd say. Thing chased me a fearfully long time."

"0h Oliver!" cried a pretty young thing in an ankle-length mauve and green print muslin tea gown, decked with crisp scarlet ribbons, as she artfully placed the back of a petite hand to her mouth. "Weren't you awfully frightened?" Her dewy eyes widened and her bosom heaved slightly with excitement.

"Deuced right I was scared, and you'd be too, just to glimpse a rendering of the monster. And I saw it in the flesh, had the wretched thing on my heels!"

Oliver derived no little satisfaction from the reactions of the fetching young ladies settled about him like butterflies on a particularly attractive blossom. The social life of Fernwold was one of a young man's principle distractions; from the age of seventeen, Oliver had plunged into it with a vengeance. Handsome, mannerly, he had a way with the opposite sex that made him the envy of his comrades. He was thought a bit of a rake.

In actuality, he was rather frightened of women, just as he was frightened of his mother.

"And it was fearsome, if I say so myself! Ten feet tall at least. Claws as wide as any dagger hereabouts, curved like scythes. But did it catch me? Of course not." Oliver spoke in a clipped, understated tone to lend conviction to his hyperbole.

"Well, yes of course I had to run, Fanny. But not before I gave the beast a good jab in the belly with a sharp stick, to let it know who it was dealing with! As a matter of fact, thanks to me that thing prowls the night no more!"

"You mean . . . you killed it?" Fanny asked. Her mouth hung open, revealing her surprise and two rows of imperfect, yellow teeth.

The pleated rose flounces of her gown swished against the luxuriant grass as she moved nearer, as though to catch every scrap of the tale. Suddenly Oliver felt giddy with her closeness and the faint scent of lavender that accompanied her.

"Well, let us say that I was of vital assistance in its. . ."

"Good evening, ladies," rumbled a heavy voice moving into the circle.

Angry at the interruption, Oliver swiveled his head.

He blanched to learn that the voice belonged to Geoffrey Turner.

"Ah, Oliver! I see you are relating last evening's event to an enraptured audience." Turner's eyes gleamed mischievously at the young man. The corners of his mouth twitched into his dark black mustache. Yet the smile was not one of malice, but of friendly conspiracy.

"Yes, ladies!" he boomed, slapping Oliver on the back with his left hand, while his other grasped a pint of brown frothy ale. "Oh, you would have been most thrilled at this young man's actions. T'would have quickened the pace of your hearts almost beyond endurance!" He looked at Oliver, and his corpulent face pulled back in contemplation. The atmosphere around him was redolent of yeasty brew and camaraderie.

"Dear me, lad. I've interrupted you!"

"You mean, sir, that you were a witness to all that happened?" a young girl in pigtails asked, hugging herself with suspense.