"Karen Koehler - Slayer 03 - Immortal" - читать интересную книгу автора (Koehler Karen)

sensation of shame. What they did, after all, they did on a divan in the middle of a crimson pit of smoke
and lust and there was nothing but a few feet and the haze of the cigarette and clove smoke and incense
of Heaven to separating them from the next couple. But for now it was beautiful. It felt beautiful. There
was something scientific about it, heтАЩd learned. Something about the high that results from the loss of
blood and the odd alchemy of the vampireтАЩs venom mingling with his human blood. But for now, he
found he couldnтАЩt care less. For now it was only about the feeling. Only about being immortal.

Was this what it was like? Was this feeling what they felt every day of their unending lives, these beautiful
beings? Many times he had wanted to ask such questions of Nadine. What she was and what it meant to
her. But in the end he always held off, afraid of the truth. Afraid that if he knew too much about
them--about the vampires of Club Bauhaus--he would spoil the fantasy. And this was his fantasy. His
world away from the world of work and wife and kids and everything that pulled him down into dull,
oppressive normality.
This wasтАжimmortal. And for the few short hours a week that Brett Edelman got to savor it, he called it
his hidden treasure.

2

тАЬIтАЩll make you immortal,тАЭ the guy was saying.

Irena Sullivan snubbed out her cigarette and checked the clock on the wall of the employeesтАЩ lounge.
Ten to nine. She had some time. She looked around. The lounge was a little makeshift room at the back
of JPтАЩs club. There was a couple of folding tables, a vending machine, and a coffee pot she depended on
for her life. Jean Paul didnтАЩt usually allow anyone in the back of the club, but somehow or other, this fool
who thought he was a producer had gotten through.

And he was starting to piss her off.

Her face and hands felt hot and throbbing but she told herself to have control.

Control.

The guy was wearing some kind of outdated John Travolta-inspired lounge lizard suit frumped up for the
new millennium. His badly dyed blonde hair was blow-dried and his shirt was open almost to his navel
where a legion of chains jangled amidst what looked like black wolf hair growing wild on his chest. He
smelled like a French whorehouse, as if heтАЩd been swimming in cologne. But Irena could still smell the
cheapness on him underneath it all. The pimp cheapness. SheтАЩd grown up around these types, after all.
Vampires, every last one. Looking to prey on her kind of desperation.

тАЬSerious acting?тАЭ Irena asked, eyebrows raised as she used her teeth to pluck loose a new cigarette
from the pack.

Mr. Pimp lit it for her with a monogrammed silver lighter.

тАЬThatтАЩs all I employ, sweetness. Serious actresses.тАЭ

But Irena knew serious acting for strippers usually involved arriving on a set at three in the morning only
to be tied down in various unlikely angles for hours at a time while your muscles grew sore and the set
director pumped you full of heroine to keep you going through a fourteen-hour filming shift. That was
what Bess said, anyway, IrenaтАЩs best friend in all the world. Bess had worked in films on the side, usually