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

"Serg?"
"Da."
Utter relief filled her at the sound of his voice, faint and worn-out,
somewhere behind her. "I told you 1 was no good at this," she
said, wiping her face with her filthy sleeve. There was a scrape of
flesh against pavement, then a slow stream of curses in Russian.
"You 'kay?"
She managed to find the energy to roll over and watched as Sergei
fussed with his cell phone. Throwing it down in disgust, he reached
into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his PDA. He glared at it,
then her, then threw the equally useless device next to the cell
phone.
"Oops?" she offered.
He closed his eyes, picked up the gun from where it had fallen
when they translocated. It seemed to click and spin in all the right
places, and some of the lines on his face eased as well. He
replaced it in the holster, then leaned forward and took her hand,
pulling her up with him as he stood.
They leaned against each other for a few moments, listening to the
sound of their still-beating hearts. In the near distance, a car hit the
brakes too hard, squealed again. Farther away, the hum of
engines, horns, sirens wailing call the normal sounds of the city at
night.
"You got it?"
She nodded, touching her pocket. "Got it."
"Then let's get the hell home." He paused. "You have any idea
where we are?"
Wren tried to laugh, couldn't find the energy. "Not a clue."
They came to the end of the alley and paused to get their bearings.
"Wow. I managed to toss us farther than I thought."
"In the wrong direction."
"Bitch, bitch, bitch." She paused, her head coming up like a dog
catching a scent. "Sergei?"
A strangled scream answered her, and they whirled: bodies,
exhausted or not, tensing for a fight. A figure staggered toward
them, its skin crackling with fire like St. Vitus' dance, blue and
green sparks popping and dancing along his skin. He jittered like a
marionette, jinking first to the left, then right, forward and back,
moaning and tearing at himself all the while.
"Oh God . . ." Wren went to her knees, her already depleted body
unable to withstand the barrage of current coming off the man in
front of her. "Oh God, Sergei ..."
The burning figure lurched forward again, and Sergei reached
instinctively. A sudden loud crack cut across the buzzing of the
current in Wren's ears. The figure jerked backward, his eyes
meeting Sergei's with an expression of relief, gratitude, in an
instant before he pitched forward and fell to the ground.
The lights disappeared, and Wren heard a faint whoosh, as though
all the current were suddenly sucked back inside his skin.
Sergei went to the body before she could warn him not to, flipping