"Davidson,.MaryJanice.-.Betsy.1.-.Undead.and.Unwed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Mary Janice)

were disinfecting the bite marks. All fifteen of them. The intern who took care
of me smelled like cilantro and kept humming the theme from Harry Potter.
That was last fall. Since then, more and more people?they didn't discriminate
between women and men?were being attacked. The last two had turned up dead. So,
yeah, I was freaked out by what happened, and I'd sworn off Kahn's until the bad
guys were caught, but mostly I was grateful it hadn't been worse.
Anyway, Nick called and we chatted and, long story short, I promised to come in
to look through the Big Book O' Bad Guys one more time. And I would. For myself,
to feel like I was being pro-active, but mostly to see Nick, who was exactly my
height (six feet), dark blonde, swimmer's build, and looked like an escapee from
a Mr. Hardbody calendar. I've broken the law, Officer, take me in.
Making Officer Nick my eye candy would be the closest I've gotten to getting
laid in?what year was it? Not that I'm a prude. I'm just picky. I treat myself
to the nicest, most expensive shoes I can get my hands on, which isn't easy on a
secretary's budget. I save up for months to buy the dumb things. And those only
have to go on my feet.
Yep, that's me in a nutshell: Elizabeth Taylor (don't start!), single, dead-end
job (well, not anymore), lives with her cat. And I'm so dull, the fucking cat
runs away about three times a month just to get a little excitement.
And speaking of the cat?I had just heard her telltale Riaaaooowwwww! from the
street. Super! Giselle hated the snow. She had probably been looking for a
little spring lovin' and gotten caught in the storm. Now she was outside waiting
for rescue. And when I did rescue her, she'd be horribly affronted and wouldn't
make eye contact for the rest of the week.
I slipped into my boots and headed into the yard. It was still snowing, but I
could see Giselle crouched in the middle of the street like a small blob of
shadow. One with amber-colored eyes. I wasted ten seconds calling her?why do I
call cats??then clomped through my yard into the street.
Normally this wouldn't be a problem, as I live at the end of the block and it's
a quiet street. However, in the snow on icy roads, the driver didn't see me in
time. When he did, he did the absolutely worst thing: slammed on his brakes.
That pretty much sealed my doom.
Dying doesn't hurt. I know that sounds like a crock, some touchy-feely nonsense
meant to make people feel better about biting the big one. But the fact is, your
body is so traumatized by what's happening, it shuts down your nerve endings.
Not only did dying not hurt, I didn't even feel the cold. And it was only ten
degrees that night.
I handled it badly, I admit. When I saw he was going to plow into me, I froze
like a deer in the headlights. A big, dumb, blonde deer who had just paid for
touch-up highlights. I couldn't move, not even to save my life.
Giselle certainly could; the ungrateful little wretch scampered right the hell
out of there. Me, I went flying. The car hit me at forty miles an hour, which
was survivable, and knocked me into a tree, which was not.
I heard things break. I heard my own skull shatter?it sounded like someone was
chewing ice in my ear. I felt myself bleed. I felt my bladder let go
involuntarily for the first time in twenty-six years. In the dark, my blood on
the snow looked black.
The last thing I saw was Giselle sitting on my porch, waiting for me to let her
in. The last thing I heard was the driver, screaming for help.
CHAPTER TWO