"Charlaine Harris - Sookie Stackhouse 06 - Definitely Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harris Charlaine)

the temperature in the studio was moderately warm. The big light (it looked to
my eyes like a satellite dish) was not as hot as I'd expected.
Al Cumberland was snapping away as Claude smoldered down at me. I did my
best to smolder right back. My personal life had been, shall we say, barren
for the past few weeks, so I was all too ready to smolder. In fact, I was
ready to burst into flames.
Maria-Star, who had beautiful light-toast skin and curly dark hair, was
standing ready with a big makeup case and brushes and combs to perform
last-minute repairs. When Claude and I had arrived at the studio, I'd been
surprised to find that I recognized the photographer's young assistant. I
hadn't seen Maria-Star since the Shreveport packleader had been chosen a few
weeks before. I hadn't had much of a chance to observe her then, since the
packmaster contest had been frightening and bloody. Today, I had the leisure
to see that Maria-Star had completely recovered from being hit by a car this
past January. Werewolves healed quickly.
Maria-Star had recognized me, too, and I'd been relieved when she smiled
back at me. My standing with the Shreveport pack was, to say the least,
uncertain. Without exactly volunteering to do so, I'd unwittingly thrown in my
lot with the unsuccessful contestant for the packleader's job. That
contestant's son, Alcide Herveaux, whom I'd counted as maybe more than a
friend, felt I'd let him down during the contest; the new packleader, Patrick
Furnan, knew I had ties to the Herveaux family. I'd been surprised when
Maria-Star chatted away while she was zipping the costume and brushing my
hair. She applied more makeup than I'd ever worn in my life, but when I stared
into the mirror I had to thank her. I looked great, though I didn't look like
Sookie Stackhouse.
If Claude hadn't been gay, he might have been impressed, too. He's the
brother of my friend Claudine, and he makes his living stripping on ladies'
night at Hooligans, a club he now owns. Claude is simply mouthwatering; six
feet tall, with rippling black hair and large brown eyes, a perfect nose, and
lips just full enough. He keeps his hair long to cover up his ears: they've
been surgically altered to look rounded like human ears, not pointed as they
originally were. If you're in the know supernaturally, you'll spot the ear
surgery, and you'll know Claude is a fairy. I'm not using the pejorative term
for his sexual orientation. I mean it literally; Claude's a fairy.
"Now the wind machine," Al instructed Maria-Star, and after a little
repositioning, she switched on a large fan. Now we appeared to be standing in
a gale. My hair billowed out in a blond sheet, though Claude's tied-back
ponytail stayed in place. After a few shots to capture that look, Maria-Star
unbound Claude's hair and directed it over one shoulder, so it would blow
forward to form a backdrop for his perfect profile.
"Wonderful," Al said, and snapped some more. Maria-Star moved the machine a
couple of times, causing the windstorm to strike from different directions.
Eventually Al told me I could stand up. I straightened gratefully.
"I hope that wasn't too hard on your arm," I told Claude, who was looking
cool and calm again.
"Nah, no problem. You have any fruit juice around?" he asked Maria-Star.
Claude was not Mr. Social Skills.
The pretty Were pointed to a little refrigerator in the corner of the
studio. "Cups are on the top," she told Claude. She followed him with her eyes