"Sean McMullen - Slow Famine" - читать интересную книгу автора (McMullen Sean)

I sat back, leaning against a wheel of the gig as I reloaded my Colt.
"Your drink was drugged. It was Hooper who entered in the darkness and coupled with you. Once
you were comatose Lord Southern would enter, sink his fangs into your neck and drink your blood."
"You're barmy! Nothin' like that ever happened."
"You wear high collars to conceal lovebites."
"Why that I do. I may work as a nymph a-times, but I'm not some bold slut."
"The fang-marks are small and rendered painless by the vampyre's saliva, so you'd not notice them.
Will you unbutton your collar for me?"
She nodded reluctantly, then put my coat down and bared her neck. There, amid Hooper's oval
lovebites, were two puncture marks.
"Will I end up like Pete?" she asked fearfully as she buttoned her collar.
"Have you even licked blood from a scratch on Lord Southern's skin?"
"Never."
"Then you are not a neophyte."
She considered this, still frowning.
"You said his lordship has the strength of ten men, yet has to sleep by day."
"Yes."
"But Pete were a-movin' and the was sun up," she said with a wave at the sky.
I shook my head. "Neophytes only become vampyres after being killed. Pete would have risen at the
moment of sunset, except..." I held up the argentor and pointed it at his body. "With very old vampyres it
is more dramatic. They crumble to dust."
***


She picked up my coat and began working at the bullet hole again. Her sewing was excellent, and
when she was done the rent was not noticeable unless one knew to look for it. I stood up and buttoned
the coat, and was relieved that none of the blood on the shirt beneath could be seen.
"You'd better let me tend that hole in you," said Letitia as she got to her feet.
That would never do. My breasts were not large, but they most definitely did not belong on a man.
Besides, my wound had already been healed by vitality conducted out of Hooper's heart along the
argentor's blade but she did not need to know that.
"I'm not hurt badly, but it's sweet of you to be concerned," I replied with a smile.
"You're a nice one," she giggled as she gave me another push. "Tough as bullock driver, yet handsome
for an elderly gent."
"Strength and age are not excuses for bad grooming."
She slipped an arm about my waist. "It's nice out here."
"You mean to couple with me," I stated baldly. She blinked and stared hard at my face.
"What's the matter? Is it because I'm a whore-- "
She stopped, breathing rapidly as if to hold back sobs. I put my hands on her shoulders and looked
into her eyes.
"This is neither the time or the place for dalliance, Letitia. I am a raptor soldier, and this is my
battlefield. I must be on my guard constantly, for I do not have the supernatural powers of the enemies
that I hunt. If I am killed I shall not rise from the grave at the next sunset."
That much was true, at least.
"Who are you then?"
I shrugged. "A raptor. One of a brotherhood of mortals dedicated to ridding the world of undead
predators."
That was more of a lie. We raptors draw vitality from vampyres as we kill them, vitality that cures
disease, heals wounds and reverses ageing. I am mortal, yet I once served at the table of William the
Conqueror. Letitia folded her arms, half turned, then regarded me through her eyelashes.