"George R. R. Martin - WC 7 - Deadman's hand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

bar along one wall, rows of bottles stacked behind it against a long silver
mirror. Booths across the way. And way in back, set off a little from the rest,
the antique table in the private alcove where Chrysalis herself held court and
sipped her amaretto.
For a moment, in the morning half-light, Jay thought he saw her sitting there,
cloaked in shadow, slim ivory cigarette holder held lightly between skeletal
fingers, smoke coiling lazily through the clear flesh of her throat as she
tossed back her head to smile. "Chrysalis?" he said, walking slowly across the
taproom. But her chair was empty when he reached it.
A strange chill went through him.
That was the moment when Jay Ackroyd knew.
He stood quietly beside the table, listening, remembering what he knew of the
Crystal Palace. Chrysalis lived on the third floor, her chambers crowded with
expensive Victoriana.
Elmo, her dwarf bouncer, lived on the second floor. So did Sascha, the eyeless
telepath who tended bar for her. All the public rooms were on the first floor.
So was her office. Jay decided to start there.
The office was in the back of the building under the stairs. It had a wooden
door, ornately carved, with a crystal doorknob. Jay took a rumpled handkerchief
out of his pocket and turned the knob carefully with two fingers. The door swung
open.
The room was windowless and black, but Jay didn't need eyes to know what he'd
find inside. Death has a smell all its own. The hard coppery scent of blood, the
sweaty stench of fear, the stink of shit. He'd smelled it before. The familiar
miasma was there, waiting for him, and under it all was her perfume.
"Goddamn you," Jay said quietly to no one in particular. He reached over,
handkerchief still in hand, and found the light switch.
Once, this room had had charm. Polished hardwood floors, a gorgeous Oriental
rug, floor-to-ceiling bookcases full of leather-bound first editions, a solid
oak desk older than he was, big leather armchairs that looked as though they
might have come from the world's oldest men's club.
The chairs were shattered, wooden legs cracked and splintered, soft leather
upholstery ripped and torn. Three of the high wooden bookcases had been toppled;
one had been snapped in two. Splinters as long and pale as knives sprang from
where the two halves clung together. Books were scattered everywhere.
Chrysalis lay sprawled on her back across the shattered remains of an armchair,
the leather cushions and broken legs a jumble beneath her. The huge oak desk had
been tipped over across the upper part of her body, hiding her face. She'd been
wearing blue jeans and a plain white blouse. The front of the blouse was
spattered with tiny droplets of blood. Her left leg bent the wrong way at the
knee, and a jagged red piece of shinbone poked through the denim. Jay squatted
by her left hand. He could see her finger bones through the ghostly outlines of
tendons and the smooth, clear skin. All five fingers were shattered, the ring
finger in two places; her crystalline flesh was suffused with the rosy glow of
burst capillaries. Jay took her broken fingers in his own. A faint warmth still


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