"Laura Anne Gilman - Staying Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gilman Laura Anne)

The figure knelt by the cornerstone, trailing one well-manicured finger along its rough surface, shivering
pleasurably at the sensation. "But no matter. No matter. I know what you are, what you were. And all
that really counts is that you're mine, now."

Chapter Four



"Hey. Babe. Let me in!"

The very first time Wren had met P.B., she had giggled. The second time, she had screamed. By now,
when he showed up on her fire escape, she merely flipped the safety latch on the kitchen window, and let
the demon come in.

"Thanks. Man, this neighborhood of yours is totally not safe anymore. Some loon started chasing me
down the street, yelling something about a cleansing to come. You got much business with Holy Rollers,
Valere?"

She shrugged. "You must just bring it out in 'em, pal. You got something for me?"

P.B. shook out his fur, a faint mist coming off him. "Damn, I hate rain. Makes my skin itch." He took a
battered-looking manila envelope out from the messenger's bag strapped across his barrel-shaped chest
and tossed it on the table, then scooped up a slice of the remaining pizza. The slice was halfway gone by
the time Wren had opened the envelope. She sighed, and shoved the rest of the grease-lined box closer
toward him. "Here. Eat. You're looking frail."

The decidedly unfrail P.B. snorted, but didn't hesitate in devouring his first slice and reaching for a second
one. "I get first prize for speed?" he asked in between slices, referring to the material in her hand.

"As always," she said, licking one finger and using it to sort through the pages, scanning the delicate
copperplate that seemed so incongruous coming from P.B.'s clawed hands.

P.B.'s real name was all but unpronounceable. The nickname came from an inauspicious moment back in
the early days of their acquaintance, when an innocent bystander had been heard to shriek, "Oh my God,
it's a monster!" To which Wren, somewhat short-tempered at the time, had snapped back, "No, it's an
effing polar bear!" The description had been apt, and the nickname had stuck.

P.B. wasn't her only source, but he was one of the best. Certainly the most reliable. Demons mostly
made their living as information conduits, there not being much of a job market for them outside of
bodyguarding and freak-show gigs. There wasn't anything that one of them didn't know, or couldn't find
out, and what one of them knew, another would hear, sooner or later.

Sooner, if the money was right. And they didn't play politics: you got what you paid for, no matter
whoтАФor whatтАФyou were. It was refreshing, in a disgustingly capitalistic pig kind of way. She wished
more of the Cosa worked that way. But no, the ineptly-named angels had their endless feuds, and the
various fatae-clans their more-special-than-thou attitudes, and humansтАФsome-times she thought humans
were the worst of all, with the mages and their rules and regulations and Shalt Nots worse than Sunday
School for fear of someone breaking rank and having a little fun. "Someone" in the mages' case mostly
being the lonejacks, the Talents who refused affiliation. Unions and scabs, Sergei had described it, but it
wasn't that simple, really. Everyone had a different reason for going lonejack.