"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 3 - Crown of Shadows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

ourselves to be divided, what chance do we have to defeat him?"

He started to respond-and then forced the anger back, forced it out of his mind. Along with the hatred.
Along with the disgust. Because Tarrant was right, damn him. They couldn't afford to be divided. Not
now.
"All right," he muttered. "So what chance do we have? Tell me that."

His only answer was silence. The silver eyes were mirrors that reflected Damien's own misgivings back at
him. So little chance, they seemed to say. Why measure it in words? At last the priest turned away, and
he cursed softly under his breath.

"I have never lied to you," the Hunter said.

"No." He drew in a deep breath, and tried to relax his hands; they had curled into fists of their own
volition. "No, you never have." After a small eternity he managed to add, "Will you be all right?"

It took Tarrant a minute to realize what he was asking. "You mean without the girl."

He nodded stiffly.

"Ah." A pause. "I had hoped she'd last longer-"

"Just answer the question," he snapped.

"Will I live to see port? Yes. Will I be in prime condition to rejoin battle with the enemy when we get
there? Not if I go hungry for a month, Reverend Vryce." He paused. "But you knew that when you
asked, didn't you?"

He shut his eyes and exhaled noisily. "Yeah. I knew."

"Shall I take that as an offer?"

He remembered their voyage to the east, and the nightmares that Tarrant had placed in his mind so that
he might harvest Damien's fear for nourishment. It was not an experience the priest was anxious to
repeat, but what was the alternative? Let Tarrant become so weakened by hunger that when they arrived
in Faraday he was all but useless? Encourage him to feed on the rest of the crew?

With a heavy sigh Damien nodded, wincing. "Yeah," he muttered. "It's an offer. Whatever you need-"

"And no more than that," the Neocount finished smoothly. "I understand."

God. Those dreams. A month of them and a man could go mad. Could the Hunter perhaps drink his
blood instead? There was enough of the vampire still in the man that sometimes that was possible. Was
temporary physical weakness preferable to mental torture?

He looked up at the Hunter again and tried to gauge the hunger in those pale, cold eyes. It amazed him
sometimes how human the man could appear, when the hunger inside him was anything but.

"No dreams of the Patriarch," he told him. "Nor of the Church. Not in any form or manner. Agreed?"