"Mary Janice Davidson - Betsy 01 - Undead And Unwed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Mary Janice)

I fended them off with the toes of my Manolo Blahniks and screamed for help as loud as I couldтАжso
loud I couldnтАЩt speak above a whisper for three days. Help didnтАЩt come, but the bad guys ran away.
Skittered away, actually. While I leaned against my car, concentrating on not passing out, I glanced back
and it looked like a few of them were on all fours.

Nick was assigned to the case, and he interviewed me in the hospital while they 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 peopleтАФthey didnтАЩt discriminate between women and
menтАФwere being attacked. The last two had turned up dead. So, yeah, I was freaked out by what
happened, and IтАЩd sworn off KahnтАЩs until the bad guys were caught, but mostly I was grateful it hadnтАЩt
been worse.

Anyway, Nick called and we chatted and, long story short, I promised to come in to look through the
Big Book OтАШ 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, swimmerтАЩs build, and looked like
an escapee from a Mr. Hardbody calendar. IтАЩve broken the law, Officer, take me in.

Making Officer Nick my eye candy would be the closest IтАЩve gotten to getting laid inтАжwhat year was
it? Not that IтАЩm a prude. IтАЩm just picky. I treat myself to the nicest, most expensive shoes I can get my
hands on, which isnтАЩt easy on a secretaryтАЩs budget. I save up for months to buy the dumb things. And
those only have to go on my feet.

Yep, thatтАЩs me in a nutshell: Elizabeth Taylor (donтАЩt start!), single, dead-end job (well, not anymore),
lives with her cat. And IтАЩm so dull, the fucking cat runs away about three times a month just to get a little
excitement.

And speaking of the catтАжI had just heard her telltaleRiaaaooowwwww! from the street. Super! Giselle
hated the snow. She had probably been looking for a little spring lovinтАШ and gotten caught in the storm.
Now she was outside waiting for rescue. And when Idid rescue her, sheтАЩd be horribly affronted and
wouldnтАЩt 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 herтАФwhydo I call cats?тАФthen clomped through my yard into the street.

Normally this wouldnтАЩt be a problem, as I live at the end of the block and itтАЩs a quiet street. However,
in the snow on icy roads, the driver didnтАЩt see me in time. When he did, he did the absolutely worst thing:
slammed on his brakes. That pretty much sealed my doom.

Dying doesnтАЩt 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 whatтАЩs
happening, it shuts down your nerve endings. Not only did dying not hurt, I didnтАЩt 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 couldnтАЩt move, not
even to save my life.