"Laurell K. Hamilton - Meredith Gentry 5 - Mistral's Kiss" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Laurell K)

were a huge broad spread of muscle humped behind its lowered head. The head raised, revealing a snout
framed by long, pointed tusks. This was no bull, but a huge boarтАФthe thing that had begun as a little pig.
Tusks like ivory blades gleamed as it looked at me.

I glanced back, but knew the crone was gone. I was alone in the winter night. Well, not as alone as I
wanted to be. I looked back and found the monstrous boar still standing there, still staring at me. The
snow was cold under my bare feet now. My arms ran with goose bumps, and I wasnтАЩt sure if I shivered
from cold, or fear.

I recognized the thick white hair on the boar now. It still looked so soft. But its tail stuck straight out from
its body, and it raised that long snout skyward. Its breath smoked in the air as it sniffed. That was bad.
That meant it was realтАФor real enough to hurt me, anyway.
I stood as still as I could. I donтАЩt think I moved at all, but suddenly it charged. Snow plumed underneath
its hooves as it came for me.

It was like watching some great machine barreling down. Too big to be real, too huge to be possible. I
had no weapon. I turned and ran.

I heard the boar behind me. Its hooves sliced the frozen ground. It let out a sound that was almost a
scream. I glanced back; I couldnтАЩt help it. The gown tangled under my feet, and I went down. I rolled in
the snow, fighting to come to my feet, but the gown tangled around my legs. I couldnтАЩt get free of it.
CouldnтАЩt stand. CouldnтАЩt run.

The boar was almost on top of me. Its breath steamed in clouds. Snow spilled around its legs, bits of
frozen black earth sliced up in all that white. I had one of those interminable moments where you have all
the time in the world to watch death come for you. White boar, white snow, white tusks, all aglow in the
moonlight, except for the rich black earth that marred the whiteness with dark scars. The boar gave that
horrible screaming squeal again.

Its thick winter coat looked so soft. It was going to look soft while it gored me to death and trampled me
into the snow.

I reached behind me, feeling for a tree branch, anything to pull myself up out of the snow. Something
brushed my hand, and I grabbed it. Thorns cut into my hand. Thorn-covered vines filled the space
between the trees. I used the vines to drag myself to my feet. The thorns were biting into my hands, my
arms, but they were all I could grasp. The boar was so close, I could smell its scent, sharp and acrid on
the cold air. I would not die lying in the snow.

The thorns bled me, spattered the white gown with blood, the snow covered in minute crimson drops.
The vines moved under my hands like something more alive than a plant. I felt the boarтАЩs breath like heat
on the back of my body, and the thorny vines opened like a door. The world seemed to spin, and when I
could see again, be sure of where I was again, I was standing on the other side of the thorns. The white
boar hit the vines hard and fast, as if it expected to tear its way through. For a moment I thought it would
do just that; then it was in the thorns, slowing. It stopped rushing forward and started slashing at the vines
with its great snout and tusks. It would tear them out, trample them underfoot, but its white coat was
bedecked with tiny bloody scratches. It would break through, but the thorns bled it.

IтАЩd never owned any magic in dream, or vision, that I didnтАЩt own in waking life. But I had magic now. I
wielded the hand of blood. I put my bleeding hand out toward the boar and thought, Bleed. I made all
those small scratches pour blood. But still the beast fought through the thorns. The vines ripped from the