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

combined the two. And only one of them was better than she was.
But she was the only one who kept it legal. Ish. And dead bodies
had no place in a legal game.
Wren didn't believe in ghosts. Dead was dead was dead. But . . .
She exhaled once, slowly, letting all the remaining tension flow
from her neck, through her shoulder muscles, down her arms and
legs until she could practically feel it oozing out of her feet and
fingers like toxic sludge. And with it, the buzz of unused current-
magic still running in her system, drawn back into the greater pull of
the earth below her.
she opened her eyes again, the world seemed a little more drab
somehow, her body heavier, less responsive. Current was worse
than a drug; it was like being addicted to your own blood,
impossible to avoid. All the myths and legends about magic, and
that was the only thing they ever really got right: you paid the price
with bits of yourself. She reached almost instinctively, touching the
small pool of current generated by her own body. It sparked at her
touch, like a cat woken suddenly, then settled back down. But she
felt better, until she looked up and saw Sergei staring at her, a
question in his eyes. And the ghostly presence she had felt on
seeing the stiff weighted on the back of her neck again.
What? she asked it silently. What?
Wren bit the inside of her lip. Scratched the side of her chin. Then
she sighed.
It didn't matter if you believed in ghosts or not, if they believed in
you.
They had stored the body in one of the rooms in the basement,
where Sergei kept the materials needed to stage the gallery's
ever-changing exhibits: pedestals, backdrops, folding chairs. Wren
opened the door and turned on the light, half expecting the corpse
to be sitting up and looking around.
But the body lay where they had left it, on its back, on the cold
cement floor. "Hi," she said, still standing in the doorway. That
sense of a presence was gone, as though in bringing it here she
had managed to appease its ghost. But it seemed rude somehow,
to poke and pry without at least some small talk beforehand . . .
"I don't suppose you can tell me what happened to you?" She
closed the door behind her and locked it. Sergei's gallery
assistants were gone for the night, but better overcautious than
having to explain.
Wren swallowed, then put the book she was carrying down on the
nearest clear surface. No point trying to recall anything from her
high school biology coursesЧthat, as her mentor used to say, was
what we had books for. "Rigor mortis," she said, and flicked two of
her fingers its direction. The book opened, pages riffling until the
section she needed lay open. Taking a small tape recorder out of
her pocket, she pressed "record" and put it next to the book.
"The body is that of an older male, maybe a really rough fifties.
He's wearing jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved button-down
shirt. Homeless, probablyЧhis skin looks like he hasn't washed in