"Laura Anne Gilman - Staying Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gilman Laura Anne)The memory of that made her smile, the comforting awareness of Sergei as always tucked somewhere along her spine. It wasn't anything particularly magical; just the knowledge born often years' partnership that, all joking aside, he was there for her, that all she had to do was yell. Well, maybe it was a little bit magical. Sergei wasn't a total null, and maybe she'd sampled a little more of his internal energies than she'd ever told him aboutтАж but it was only so that she'd be able to pick him out in a dark room, in a crowd, if the need ever arose. Not that she'd ever admit to needing him, even when she was asking. Bastard would enjoy that far too much. He'd be more than happy to take over handling her personal finances, too, if she let him. It wasn't that he didn't think she was capable. She hoped, because otherwise she'd have to kill him. He justтАж was overprotective that way. Every way. Sometimes she thought he still saw her as the seventeen-year-old she'd been when they first hooked up, her still foundering in her abilities, and him with a pair of severely pissed-off mages on his tail. Putting the orange juice back into the fridge, Wren turned out the light in the kitchen with a casual slap of the hand against the switch as she went across the narrow wood-floored hallway and into the main room. She turned on the stereo, letting the soft jazz clear out the silence. The music tugged at the tension between her shoulder blades, pulling it down off her body. A world with saxophones in it wasn't a bad world at all. Other than the stereo, two huge speakers, and a comfortable brown tweed armchair, the room was empty of furniture. The acoustics of the room wereтАФastoundinglyтАФperfect. It would have been blasphemy to in any way disturb it. themselves were tiny. In addition to the music room and kitchenette, there were three shoebox bedrooms against the back wall, each with its own window that overlooked the brick wall of the next building over. A bathroom with facilities that had been upgraded within the last decade sent the rent soaring from barely reasonable to moderately painful. Okay, so maybe the neighbors weren't all they could be, in terms of minding their own business. The five flights of stairs were murder, especially in the summer. And the sounds of traffic from over on Houston Street could be pretty bad. Wren didn't care. Two years ago she had walked in the door half a step behind the real estate broker, a hyperkinetic woman glued to her cell phone, and had felt a sense of comfort soak into her bones, like walking onto a ley line, those semi-legendary sources of power. This was home. This was her sanctuary. The moment the building went co-op, as every decent apartment building seemed to, sooner or later, she was going to buy her apartment. That's where all of her money went, right into the savings account that was not ever, on pain of pain, touched. No vacations, no expensive toys or impulse splurges. Well, maybe a few. Mostly, though, she stole what she really wanted. Just to keep her hand in, of course. Wren was a pragmatist. She was very good at what she did, but no career goes on forever. Especially not one with risks like hers. So she planned. And prepared. And kept praying that human nature would maintain a demand for her particular skills. So far, no problem on that front. Someone always wants what they're not supposed to have, and someone's always equally willing to pay to get that something back. |
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