"Esther M. Friesner - Puss" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

back to drop across the still, shrouded, cold clay that shared our hard bed on the
farmhouse floor. He turned his head and saw that in our tumblings we had pulled
aside a span of shroud, leaving her face unveiled. Oh, cold! Winter's own miserly
heart laid bare and bony over lips he had once devoured as madly as mine. I felt
revulsion clutch talons around his heart, with shame to make it burn.
 White as ash, her face, but ashes hold the phantoms of fires. The ghostly eternal
flames that are the pale god's dogs rose up from the corpse. My master thought he
had already pawned his soul, but what is pawned may some day be redeemed. This
crime said he had sealed it irrevocably for the burning.
In guilt, he sought to deny all blame; in fear, he sought to weld blame to another.
Monster! he cried, scrambling from me. What have you made me do? His eyes
darted from the white face of his dead wife to the red of his living babe, and he
stretched out his arms to either one as if they were pinioning nails to be driven
through his helpless hands. Go! Get out of my sight! Mercy of heaven, what have
you done to me?
Then he saw the dagger. It leaped to his handтАФnot to kill me, no, not even
thenтАФand darted for his throat; he would drown the hellflames in blood. My shriek
and spring were faster, my own hand quick to strike the blade away. It spun from his
fingers, and dropped into the cradle.
Yowl, little one! So newly born, so newly blooded. I snatched the babe from the
cradle in fear, then saw our luck: only a scratched cheek. I touched the wound,
blood dewing my fingertips.
He grabbed the baby from me. Dark beast, you will not have him, too!
I pressed my fingers to my lips with the pain his hard words gave me, my fingers
still moist with the infant's blood. How could I resist and still be what I am? My
tongue darted out to tasteтАж
And he saw whose blood it was I'd sampled. Under the weight of ignorance all
his world crashed around him. He sank down, hugging the infant tight against his
chest until I thought him like to smother it. Lost! The gift of blood makes you their
creature! Oh, my son, my son! His moan was wild enough to tear open the burning
paps of the stars.
I crept near. He was tiptoe on the edge of madness, my poor master. A whisper
of wrong saying and he would topple in, taking the babe with him. Hush, you grieve
too deeply. I gave him comfort. To bind, the blood must be a willing gift. He is as
free as any newborn child, I swear.
He dared to lift his eyes from the babe, his face haggard. By what can you swear
? His voice was the rattle of dry bones in armor.
By the gift I meant to give him, I replied, taking breath. I will suckle him. He will
be my son, too, and from me gain the blood-blessed power of unending life. For
the love I bear you, MasterтАФ
For love, you would turn my son intoтАж He did not finish. The frenzy was
draining from him, reason returning. All that he said was, No.
I bowed my head. What bound us now went beyond the laws of blood. He
turned from me, to tuck his son back into the cradle. Every flicker of the firelight that
fell upon his bared and bloodied chest sent an ache of longing through me. You will
notтАФyou will not banish me for this? I begged.
 What a thought! Still turned from me, he rocked the child. After all you have
done for me, for my parentsтАж He sighed. But I do wish you would return to the
shape you had before. It is lessтАж disturbing for me.
Because it was his will and not mine, I could slip back into cat-form without a