"Aisling Grey, Guardian- 01 - You Slay Me" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAlister Katie)

"Yes."
"You didn't let me in!" I said, a wee tad bit more petulantly than I would have liked, considering he was still the number-one suspect for the murder.
He tipped his head back like he was smelling the air. "Would you have if you were in my place?"
"I suppose not. So, why were you meeting Mme. Deauxville?"
His brows pulled together in a frown as he turned to face me fully. "I think a more important question is why you insist on lying to me. You are a Guardian, and yet you deny the facts. You deny that a demon has been here. I can feel the very air soiled by its presence, yet you deny it?" He shook his head, moving slowly toward me. "Why a Guardian seeks to lie about something so simple as a demon summoning is beyond me. You will explain yourself now."
I took a couple of steps back, toward the desk. "See, this is where you're confused. I'm a courier-I just told you that. I don't have any kids, my own or anyone else's, for whom I'm acting as a guardian."
His frown deepened. "What?"
"I'm a courier. C-o-u-r-i-e-r. It means someone who transports objects. That's my job. At least it was. There's no telling how Uncle Damian is going to react to my first delivery going to pot like this, but I have a feeling I shouldn't be planning on a raise and a promotion any time soon."
Drake moved around to the far side of the circle, his eyes puzzled as they watched me. "You smell as if you are telling the truth, but you know about the symbols of Ashtaroth. You knew the circle was closed, and not even I can tell if a circle is open or closed. In addition, you are familiar with the rituals for destroying a demon. Only a Guardian would know such things. What game are you playing?"
I spread my hands to show him that I was innocent of whatever it was he suspected me of. "What is it with you telling me I smell? I took a shower this morning! As for the rest of what you said, I'm just trying to do my job."
"Which is to deliver what?"
I shrugged, unwilling to tell him. Despite his badge and claims to the contrary, I didn't know he didn't murder Mme. Deauxville. The intriguing air of danger that surrounded him certainly made it seem possible, not to mention all that double-talk about demons and their guardians. And then there was his obsession with smelling things...". It's just a small statue. Even if you're not a homicide cop, shouldn't you be, like, you know, examining the body and stuff?"
"I am questioning a suspect," he said, moving toward me. The calm part of my mind enjoyed watching how he walked, a sort of powerful glide, coiled strength implied, but not obvious in his fluid movements. "A statue of what? What is it made of?"
"Metal. It's of a creature, nothing special, nothing important," I lied.
His head lifted again, and I could have sworn he was scenting the air. "Gold. The statue is of gold."
I ran for the chair, just barely beating him to it. "You know what? I think I need to see your badge again. You're not doing this questioning thing right at all. You should be asking me my name and where I'm staying and whether I knew Mme. Deauxville and stuff like that, not babbling on about demons and why someone would use the Circle of Ashtaroth to summon one of the demon prince's legions, and what the small, insignificant statue I brought is made of."
"For someone who professes not to be a Guardian, you appear very learned in demon lore," he said in sort of a low growl that sent shivers of mingled thrill and fear down my spine. With a move that was too fast for me to follow, he grabbed my arm and hauled me up to his chest, one hand clamped behind me, the other grabbing my hair and pulling my head back. "Very well. We will play this game as you demand. What is your name?"
"Aisling," I said before I realized what I was doing. My body-traitor that it is-thoroughly enjoyed being smooshed up against him, fully aware of the long hard lines of his body. After several seconds of numbed bemusement, the sane side of my mind regained control. "Hey! What do you think you're doing? You can't manhandle me like this! Let me go!"
"You wished for me to ask questions-I am simply granting that wish. Where are you staying?"
"The H6tel de la Femme Sans Tete. Let go of me!" "Not yet. Did you know Mme. Deauxville?" "No, I told you I was a courier. Stop holding me like this, it's not at all PC."
"Politically correct. Let me go."
His eyes narrowed on me. "A Guardian who claims she is not a Guardian, and yet who understands the steps needed to summon a demon. What a puzzle you present me. I believe it is a puzzle worth investigating." Instead of releasing me, he buried his head in my neck and drew in a deep breath.
"What on earth are you doing?" I shrieked, beginning to struggle in earnest despite the urge to go all girly on him.
"Memorizing your scent."
"What?" I shrieked again, then realized that it wasn't just my own voice that was echoing around the room- police sirens outside the windows were growing steadily louder.
Drake pulled his face out of my neck just long enough to give me a look that left my knees weak. There was something different about his beautiful green eyes. The pupils were slightly elongated rather than round, almost like a cat's eye, but not quite as dramatic. It wasn't just his eyes, though. It was the way he touched me, the way he spoke, the way he ... scented me. There was something not quite human about him that had my heart racing. I understood then what he meant about my fear of him-it was definitely sexually charged, but beneath that was a baser emotion-the fear of being consumed, destroyed by a being who was much more powerful than I.
With a gentle touch that belied the threat in his voice, he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and said, "The police are here, Aisling; thus I must bid you adieu. I do not know for what purpose you are denying the truth, but I advise you to be a bit more circumspect with the French police. They are not known for their tolerance of those who dally with the dark powers."
He leaned forward and brushed his lips against mine, the warmth so quickly withdrawn that he was gone before I pulled my wits together.
"What? Hey! You can't kiss me! And what do you mean to be more circumspect? What dark powers? Where are you going-? No! Stop! That's mine!"
I lunged forward but was too late. Drake snatched up my case and spun around, racing out the door of the apartment before I stumbled forward three steps.
Unfortunately, the three steps were directly into the circle. Instinctively I reached out to keep myself from careening into the body. What I grabbed, though, wasn't Mme. Deauxville. It was a silver object that I suspected had been plunged into her heart, an object I hadn't seen because of the way her body was hunched over. The cool metal slid easily out of her body as I staggered to the side, away from her. I stood staring at the weapon in my hand for one horrified moment. It was long, with a thick curved blade smeared almost to the hilt in blood. I recognized what it was from several of the texts I'd read on demon lore-it was a seax, a medieval single-bladed dagger that was commonly used in the ritual destruction of beings of a dark origin. This seax had a bone handle and appeared to be made of silver. It was said that only silver piercing a demon's heart could destroy it... when coupled with the twelve words, of course.
"A real live example of one of the Demon Deaths," I murmured, the reality of the decidedly unreal situation being driven home by the cold weight of the seax in my hand. I was just thinking about making a sketch of the arrangement of symbols so I could compare them with a book back home when noises in the hall had me gawking in surprise. A number of policemen pushed through the door, all talking at once. They stopped and looked at me in equal surprise, the look quickly turning to one of profound suspicion as they saw the dead woman next to me ... and the bloody seax in my hand.
I sighed as I raised my hands in surrender, the police swarming forward to surround me. What was turning out to be the longest day of my life had just grown a whole lot longer.


3
Hi. I'm Aisling Grey, in room twenty-three. Are there any messages for me?"
The hotel clerk on graveyard duty looked up from his magazine and gave me a martyred sigh before reluctantly setting down his Paris Match and hoisting his bulk out of the chair. "It will require me to check," he said, his voice rich with accusation.
I gave him a feeble smile as an apology. After spending the whole night explaining to the police over and over and over again who I was and what I was doing at Mme. Deauxville's apartment holding the deadly weapon that had been used to kill her, my "be a good American abroad" muscles were all worn out.
"Yes, there is one."
The clerk looked at me. I looked back at him. Neither one of us blinked. When the room started to swim, I decided to give in. "I'm sorry, it's six in the morning, but according to my internal clock, it's two in the afternoon, and I've just spent the last thirty-some hours without sleep, which means I'm more than a little bit fuzzy around the edges. Could you maybe get the message for me? So I could read it? If it isn't too much trouble?"
He sighed and shambled over to the old-fashioned wall of pigeonholes that served as the hotel's room directory, plucking a yellow message sheet from the square labeled 23. With an even bigger sigh, he gave it to me, then stood looking at me as if I were going to demand some other extraordinary act.
"Thank you," I said politely, and glanced at it. It was a message from Uncle Damian demanding that I check in and tell him how the delivery had gone. I crumpled up the note and turned toward die little elevator that the tiny but eccentric Hotel de la Femme Sans Tete (which, I found out at the police station, means "hotel of the headless lady") boasted.
'The lift, it is not marching," the clerk called out after me, with, I couldn't help but notice, an immense amount of satisfaction. With five rooms on each floor, my room was on the fifth floor. My shoulders sagged a bit at the thought of dragging myself up five flights of stairs, but mere was no help for it.
Ten minutes later I collapsed on my bed, having first rallied enough energy to kick off my sandals and peel from my body the dress that had been light and gauzy when I'd put it on, but was now just limp and bloodstained. I figured that being grilled nonstop by the police for more than twelve hours would have sent me immediately to sleep, but I ended up tossing and turning for a long time while the events of the day ran through my head like an annoying song refrain that refuses to stop.
"Oh, this is ridiculous. I'm so tired, I can't even see straight, and yet my mind won't shut up," I said, sitting up and clicking on the light next to the bed. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror visible through the open door-the skin around my eyes looked bruised; my hair, normally cute and curly, resembled brown straw sticking out of my head; and my skin could have doubled for the underbelly of a fish. A sick fish.
"Right, shower first, then coffee, lots and lots of coffee, followed by some exquisite French food, and then, after I've gathered my strength, I'll call Uncle Damian."
The pale face staring back at me in the mirror flinched at the words. The only way I could possibly imagine my day getting any worse was thinking about what my uncle would have to say to me.
"I take that back," I said out loud a moment later as I did a little spin, looking at every possible spot in the small room for a dark blue canvas bag. "Having my luggage stolen out of my room can make my day worse, too. Well, hell."
The bag was gone. The handful of change I'd thrown on the table before leaving for Mme. Deauxville's was still there, as was the airline magazine I'd filched for the article on fun things to see in Paris, so I knew I was in the correct room. But my bag of clothes and sundries? Gone, goner, gonest. The only things I had with me were my money, Rene's card, a small comb, my plane ticket, and my French phrasebook. The police had confiscated my passport, visa, and all the aquamanile documents. I couldn't leave the country, let alone go home.