"Simon Hawke - Wizard 4 - The Wizard of Rue Morgue" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

3
 Jacques Pascal did not think about any of those things as he shuffled through the
subterranean corridors, the light from his torch throwing garish shadows on the rock
walls and mounds of ancient bones. He did not think to mark his way, nor did it occur
to him that he might never find his way back to the more familiar sewer tunnels once
again. Something drew him onward through the dark and ancient passageways. It was
like walking through the halls of Hades, exploring the city of the dead. After he had
walked for what seemed like hours, he perceived a dim light at the end of a long
corridor ahead of him. He quickened his step, moving toward it like a moth attracted to
a flame.
He came out into a large, rectangular chamber hollowed out from solid rock.
Here, there were niches carved into the walls, some containing piled-up skulls, others
holding entire skeletons propped up like grisly statues. The light came from burning
braziers placed around the perimeter of the chamber. Spiderwebs covered the ancient
skeletons like transparent shrouds and rats nosed among the heaped-up bones. The air
was thick with a peculiar smell, a cloying, pungent odor that came from the burning
braziers, filling the chamber with a smoky mist.
"Come in, Jacques," said a deep, mellifluent voice. "We have been waiting for
you."
He spun around with a startled gasp.
At the far end of the chamber, standing on a rock ledge slightly raised above the
floor, were three black-robed, hooded figures that had not been there a moment earlier.
It was as if they had simply appeared suddenly out of nowhere. The torch fell from his
hand and he started to back away, but one of the hooded figures raised an arm and
Jacques found that he could not take another step.
"Come closer, Jacques," the hooded figure said, beckoning. "Don't be afraid."
The old man was terrified, but he slowly started moving toward the hooded
figures. He couldn't help himself. His heart hammered within his chest like a wild thing
trying to escape, to claw its way out of his rib cage.
"Who . . . who are you?" he stammered fearfully.
"We are your life, Jacques Pascal," the hooded figure said. "We are your life and
resurrection."
He stood before them, uncomprehending, trembling as he gazed up at their
shadowed features. The one who spoke stepped closer to him and brought his hands up
to pull back his hood. Jacques caught his breath. Long, flame red hair cascaded to his
shoulders. It framed perfect, finely chiseled features. The youthfully smooth skin was
of a slightly golden hue. The eyes that gazed at him were a bright, metallic green that
seemed to glow with an inner light. The other two reached up and pulled their hoods
back. One was a young man, as handsome as the first, and the other was a stunningly
beautiful young woman, both with the same red hair and copper-hued skin. They
looked like angels, but there was something frightening about them, something
palpably malevolent.
"How . . . how do you know my name?" said Jacques hoarsely.
"We know everything about you, Jacques Pascal," the first one said. He reached
out and Jacques flinched as the young man put his hands upon his shoulders. "We
know how you have suffered. We know how unjustly life has treated you. We sensed