"Barbara Hambly - Night's Edge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hambly Barbara)

In the time it took Kiley Brigham to submerge her head, rinse out the shampoo and sit up again, the
temperature in the bathroom had plummeted from "steamy sauna" to somewhere around "clutch your
arms and shiver." Sitting up straighter, with rivulets fleeing her skin for warmer climes, Kiley frowned. Her
skin sprouted goose bumps. She muttered, "Well, what the hell isthis?" and then frowned harder because
she could see her breath when she spoke.

Had late Halloween week inBurnt Hills,New York , turned suddenly bitterly cold? There hadn't been
any warning on the weather report. And even if there had been a sudden cold snap, the furnace would
have kicked on. According to the overall-wearing, toolbox-carrying guy she'd hired to inspect the
hundred-year-old house before agreeing to buy it, the heating system was in great shape. True, she hadn't
run it much in the three days since she'd moved into her dream house, just once or twice during the late
October nights when the mercury dipped outside. But it had been working fine.

She tilted her head, listening for the telltale rattle of hot water being forced through aging radiators, but
she heard nothing. The furnace wasn't running.

Sighing, she rose from the water, stepped over the side of the tub onto the plush powder-blue bath mat
and reached for the matching towel. Her new shell-pink-and-white ceramic tiles might look great, but
they definitely added to the chill, she decided, peering at the completely fogged-up mirror and then
scurrying quickly through the door and into her bedroom for the biggest, warmest robe she could find.

As soon as she stepped into the bedroom, the chill was gone. She stood there wondering what the hell
to make of that. Leaning back through the bathroom door, she felt that iciness hanging in the air. It was
like stepping into a meat cooler, she thought. Leaning back out into the bedroom, she felt the same cozy
warmth she always felt there.

Kiley shrugged, pulled the bathroom door closed and battled a delayed-reaction shiver. She closed her
eyes briefly, just to tamp down the notion that the shiver was caused by something beyond the
temperature, then turned to face her bedroom with its hardwood wainscoting so dark it looked like
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ebony, its crown molding the same, its freshly applied antique ivory paint in between. Her bedroom suite
came close to matching: deep black cherry wood that bore the barest hint of bloodred. The bedding and
curtains in the tall, narrow windows were the color of French cream, as were the throw rugs on the dark
hardwood floor. Ebony and ivory had been her notion for this room, and it worked.

"I love my new house," she said aloud, even as she sent a troubled glance back toward the bathroom.
"And I'm going to stop looking for deep, dark secrets to explain the bargain-basement asking price. So
my bathroom has a draft. So what?"

Nodding in resolve, she moved to the closet, opened the door, then paused, staring. One of the dresses
was moving, just slightly, the hanger rocking back and forth mere millimeters, as if someone had jostled it.

Only, no one had.

She could have kicked herself for the little shiver that ran up her spine. She didn't even believe in the