"Jane S. Fancher - Moonlover and the Fountain of Blood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fancher Jane S)

"Were they to see you as you truly are-" she began, but I interrupted:
"They won't."
"If they loved you, it wouldn't matter to them."
"No one can love that-creature."
"Nonsense. / do."
A ludicrous comment which deserved no answer.
"You get in there now and tell those leeches to leave, or-"
"Or?"
"Or I will."
I laughed, knowing it for an empty threat. My lovers never saw my blessed Mother. I pulled and pushed
myself to my feet, then leaned over to kiss her cheek-carefully, I was still dizzy.
She hissed annoyance, but cupped my face between her clawed hands, matching us lips to lips, and
exhaled into my mouth. I didn't resist, felt, as I knew I would, the weakness evaporate from my knees,
and the vitality elsewhere returning.
Mother didn't need the Fountain. She drew her strength front deep within the earth itself. Hers was a
magic well beyond my understanding, let alone my ability, and I was sincerely grateful for the gift.
I wrapped my arms around her scaled shoulders and held her close, whispered, "Thank you," and
bounded for the house.
The last call I recall clearly from that day was her voice in my head as I left the garden: Don't thank me
too soon.
The rest of that day is awash-murky-with sensations. Sight, sound, smell . . . my very sense of the
lifeblood soared beyond human ken.
I remember running all the way to the baths beneath the ancient tower, rushing to my lovers, so full of
energy, I wanted to have them all at once. I recall my poor servants jumping out of my way, clearing the
halls before me.
I remember flashes of glowing stalactities, the small streams that crisscrossed the path, the exhilarating
rush as I dived, headfirst, into the glowing pool among the smooth, beautiful bodies.
I recall coming up for air.
I recall the horror on their faces.
The fear.
The disgust.
I recall the way they pulled away, pressing themselves to the edges of the pool, and how the cousins,
Jhemin and Jharl, leaped out and disappeared up the pathway, screaming for help.
"Cal?" I asked the nearest, oldest and best of my current lovers, and I reached to catch his arm as he, too,
pulled away. But my voice was not my own, and my hand, my fingers, my . . . claws ... bit into his arm,
scoring deeply before I realized those claws belonged to me and let him go. "Cal, it's me, Tammerlindh."
I struggled, forcing the words past a throat that seemed too stiff to make the sounds, but Cal heard, or
saw, something that made him pause, at least long enough to look more deeply, past the scales, the
claws . . . the fangs I felt pressing my lower lip.
By now, the pool was empty, leaving only Cal, and . . . whatever I had become.
"God of lightning, is it you, Tarn?"

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I nodded, afraid to open my mouth lest he flee as well.
"Wha-what happened to . . ." Cal was shaking. I remember how he sank into the pool, seeking its
warmth. I remember sensing the flow of the lifeblood to the wounds on his arms and how my own
soaring energy drained as the pool sought to heal the deep gouges.
Gouges I had made. "I don't know-"