"Charles L. Grant - Raven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Charles L)

"I don't like birds," she explained.
He allowed as how ravens were kind of spooky, espe-cially in the middle of winter, especially one that size.
"Bad omen," she answered.
"Sure." He didn't believe it, and couldn't believe she did.
"It looked at me, Neil," she said. Hands back into the water. "Right at me."
Brandt had joined Davies and his sisters in their booth. Loud. Boastful. Regaling them with stories of the wild
animals that roamed the hills around them.
Ken and Trish came down, took a table in the center.
"Right at me," Julia repeated, talking to the water.
"Hey, it's only a bird, for pete's sake," Neil said, not understanding. "C'mon, Julia, it's just a bird."
"You didn't see it."
"Of course I saw it."
"It didn't look at you."
Davies called for another round, and something for his new friend. For a moment, Neil didn't think she would
answer. Then she slapped the water, hard, with her palms, and dried her hands brusquely. An apologetic smile. "I hate
birds. Sorry."
No problem, he told her silently, felt someone take the stool beside him.
Mandy Davies.
"Pretty neat," she said, not looking at him but at the mirror.
She was older than he'd first guessed, certainly older than her sister, close to his own age, fine lines at the corners
of her eyes, which were almost almond-shaped. Her hair, like Ceil's, was short and flipped under to appear even
shorter. Not the fashion, as far as he could tell, but it suited her. The proper frame for her face. Attractive, not
beauti-ful. Her left hand tugging absently at her neckline, pulling it up and failing, smoothing the skin across the flat of
her chest. Keeping the hand there as if trying to hide the exposure of her breasts, the hand sliding away and return-ing
to start the dance again.
He wondered what she was so nervous about.
Her head turned toward the creek. "You get a lot of animals out there?"
"Sometimes. In winter, usually only deer, if I leave something out, and a couple of raccoons."
"You feed them?" She sounded genuinely pleased. A faint accent. Not quite English, definitely not homegrown.
Lilting, but not Irish.
"Sure."
"That's nice."
He shrugged. He didn't think of it as nice, or anything very special. It was just something he did.
When she finally looked at him, he was startled, and she smiled. "Scared you, huh."
He didn't answer.
Her hand drifted away; he willed himself not to look.
"1 thought ..." A glance without moving her head. "That girl, she said birds don't go out at night."
"Some do, some don't."
"Do ravens?"
"Owls, mostly. Some hawks, things like that." A shrug, one shoulder. "Not ravens. Not usually."
 Ken snapped something harsh and touched with acid, the words lost as the music, muted horns and saxophones,
filled the room for a moment.
"You have any pets?"
"Not like a dog or cat, no." He pulled a darkglass ashtray to him, began rotating it slowly between his palms, staring
at a crystal star embedded in its bottom. "Just some buddies that come around once in a while."




"Buddies?" The star revolved, catching the light without flaring. "Yeah," he said without thinking. "Like Rusty."