"Hamilton, Laurell - Blake 07 - Burnt Offerings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Laurell K)

Burnt Offerings


(Book 7 of Anita Blake - Vampire Hunter)


Laurell K. Hamilton


For my grandmother, Laura Gentry, who at 4' 11 " taught me that you could be small, female, and still be tough.


Acknowledgments


To my brother-in-law, Officer Shawn Holsapple, who should have been mentioned in these pages long ago.

Thanks for firefighter info to Paty Cockrum, who among her many talents is also a volunteer firefighter. To Bonnee Pierson, also a volunteer firefighter. To Florence Bradley, member of the Birmingham Fire and Rescue Service Department. She does this firefighting stuff for a living.

Thanks also to Dave Cockrum, who came up with the color for Asher's eyes.

As always to my writing group, the Alternate Historians: Tom Drennan, N. L. Drew, Deborah Millitello, Rett MacPherson, Marella Sands, Sharon Shinn, and Mark Summer. I would be lost without you guys.

Here's the address for the newsletter: Lauren K. Hamilton Fan Club, 2200 Old Highway 21, Suite 162, Imperial, MO 63052.

I look at every piece of mail personally, which explains the slow response time. I'll be getting help soon, which should speed things up.

For those on the information super highway, here's my e-mail address: Lauren K aricia.com

I don't read the computer messages. Someone else handles all the techie stuff.





1



Most people don't stare at the scars. They'll look, of course, then do the eye slide. You know, the quick look, then drop the gaze, then just have to have that second look. But they make it quick. The wounds aren't like freak show bad, but they are interesting. Captain Pete McKinnon, firefighter and arson investigator, sat across from me, big hands wrapped around a glass of iced tea that our secretary, Mary, had brought in for him. He was staring at my arms. Not the place most men look. But it wasn't sexual. He was staring at the scars and didn't seem a bit embarrassed about it.

My right arm had been sliced open twice by a knife. One scar was white and old. The second was still pink and new. My left arm was worse. A mound of white scar tissue sat at the bend of my arm. I'd have to lift weights for the rest of my life or the scars would stiffen and I'd lose mobility in the arm, or so my physical therapist had said. There was a cross-shaped burn mark, a little crooked now because of the ragged claw marks that a shapeshifted witch had given me. There were one or two other scars hidden under my blouse, but the arm really is the worst.

Bert, my boss, had requested that I wear my suit jacket or long-sleeved blouses in the office. He said that some clients had expressed reservations about my ah . . . occupationally acquired wounds. I hadn't worn a long-sleeved blouse since he made the request. He'd turned the air conditioner up a little colder every day. It was so cold today I had goose bumps. Everyone else was bringing sweaters to work. I was shopping for midriff tops to show off my back scars.

McKinnon had been recommended to me by Sergeant Rudolph Storr, cop and friend. They'd played football in college together, and been friends ever since. Dolph didn't use the word "friend" lightly, so I knew they were close.

"What happened to your arm?" McKinnon asked finally.

"I'm a legal vampire executioner. Sometimes they get pesky." I took a sip of coffee.