"Gilman,.Laura.Anne.-.Overrush.(A.Wren.and.Sergei.Story)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gilman Laura Anne)

apartment buildings until she could See the wizzarts scattered
there, siphoning the faintest trace off their auras until she could
weave a leash from them to her. She had found seven, but had
only managed to create three leashes before collapsing from
exhaustion. Just the memory of her shaking, sweating body made
him angry all over again.
"Drink more of the juice," he told her, not looking over his shoulder
to make sure she obeyed him.
The screen displayed a refreshed list of names. Nothing.
"Serg?"
He was at her side before he consciously realized he'd heard her
voice. The juice lay splattered on the carpet, the glass rolling off to
one side, unbroken. He determined that there was no physical
danger and cupped her face in his hands, all in the space of
heartbeats.
"I'm here, lapushka," he told her. The pulse at her neck was
thready, and her eyes were glazed, pain lines forming around
them. He waited, cursing whatever idiotic impulse had ever led him
to agree to this, as she struggled to maintain the connection.
"Got him!"
They had lost the first one that morning, the leash snapping before
Wren could do more than be aware of the attack. She had cried
then, silent tears that left her eyes red-rimmed and her nose runny.
She had never been able to cry gracefully. His fingers tightened on
her chin. "Easy, Wren. Hold him. Hold him ..."
It was dangerous touching her. The overrush of current could
easily jump to him, and he'd have no protection, no way to ground
himself. But he wouldn't abandon her to do it alone.
Sweat was rising from her skin now, dampening her hair against
her face and neck. But she felt cool, almost clammy, tiny flicks of
electricity coursing off the dampness, sparking in the air.
"AhЧyes, that's it, come on, lean on me . . . lean on me, dammit!"
She was chanting instructions to the wizzart, trying to reach into his
current-crazed mind. Trust wasn't high on a wizzart's list, though,
especially for voices they heard inside their own heads.
A bolt rumbled through her, almost knocking them to the side.
Sergei planted himself more firmly, his grip keeping her upright.
She'd have bruises on her face when they were done. He'd have
them, too, on the inside: lightning burns, internal scarring. Pain
ached through his nerve endings. This was insane. For some literal
burnouts they'd never have anything to do with . . .
For John Ebenezer, he reminded himself. For Genevieve.
The air got heavy, and he could almost smell the singeing of hair
and flesh, of carpet fibers cracking underneath his knees, the
fusing of the wiring in the walls, the phone, his computer. A
lightbulb popped, but all he could focus on was her labored
breathing, the voice crooning encouragement to someone miles
away.
Her eyes, which had been squinted half-shut, opened wide, and
she stared into his eyes endlessly. He felt as though he were