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

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you groping in the darkness and we have summoned you to us so that we could make
amends."
Pascal looked around him wildly, seeking some means of escape. The thought
crossed his mind that he had died back in the sewer tunnels and he was now in Hell,
confronting demons. His mind recoiled from the idea, he did not want to accept it. It
wasn't possible. He couldn't be dead. He did not remember dying. Surely, one would
remember such a thing. Unless, perhaps, he had died in his sleep and it was his spirit
that had come here, to remain beneath the earth, wandering tormented through the
stygian corridors forever. No, he thought, no, it simply couldn't be. After all the misery
that his life had encompassed, surely he was entitled to an afterlife in Paradise. Surely,
he had not been such a sinner that he was now doomed to suffer in Hell for all eternity.
But then, the hooded figure had spoken of redemption. Of life. He clung to that thought
desperately. Perhaps this was no more than a dream. But the reality of his surroundings
seemed unmistakable and the hands grasping his shoulders were strong and solid.
"What do you want with me?" cried Jacques, cringing fearfully. "Please, let me
go! I meant no harm! I have done nothing!"
"There is no need to be afraid," the man said gently, still holding Pascal by his
shoulders. "We are going to give you a great gift, Jacques. You are about to be reborn.
Look at me, Jacques. Look into my eyes."
Jacques could not resist. As he met that intense, emerald green gaze, he began to
tremble violently. He couldn't breathe. Those unsettling eyes seemed to glow brighter
and the grip upon his shoulders tightened. He felt a strange, burning sensation as those
awful eyes glowed brighter still and the whites around them disappeared entirely.
Suddenly, two brilliant beams of green light shot forth from them and struck Jacques in
the eyes, penetrating deep into his brain. He screamed as thaumaturgic fire exploded in
his mind. He tore loose from the man's grasp and fell to the floor, writhing in agony
and clutching his head with both hands. He was suffused with an incandescent, burning
pain unlike anything he'd ever felt before. His flesh felt as if it were melting away from
his bones.
He tore away the muffler covering the lower part of his face and gasped for air.
He brought his hands up to his face. . . . and suddenly the pain was gone. He touched
his face in amazement and wonder. It felt very different. He could hardly believe it. His
face was smooth. Unlined. His scraggly beard was gone, as if it had been burned away.
Slowly, he got up to his feet and found that he could stand up straight. His skin tingled.
He could feel the blood coursing strongly through his veins and the dull, arthritic ache
in his bones was gone.
"What . . . what have you done to me?" he said, and he was startled at the sound of
his own voice. It was no longer hoarse. It sounded young and strong.
"We have given you back that which was lost," the man said. "Behold."
He made a pass with his hand and a full-length, gilt-framed mirror suddenly
appeared in front of Jacques. He stared at his reflection with utter disbelief.
The years had magically dropped away from him. He was no longer an eighty-
year-old man, but the same Jacques Pascal who had appeared in the nightclubs of
Montmartre, young and strong and vibrant. His hair was no longer limp and gray, but
black and lustrous. His jawline was firm, his teeth were no longer rotted, but sparkling
white and even. He stared with disbelief at his youthful features, touching his face,