"Pike, Christopher - Last Vampire 4 - Phantom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pike Christopher)

I step past him. "We can discuss this later. We don't want to be here a minute more than we have to be."
In the basement of my Beverly Hills home, I pick up the things I mentioned to Seymour. I also take a 9mm Smith & Wesson equipped with a silencer and several rounds of ammunition. My reflexes and vision are not what they used to be, but I believe I am still an excellent shot. All my supplies I load into a large black leather suitcase. I am surprised how much it weighs as I carry it back upstairs. My physical weakнness is disconcerting.
I don't let Seymour see the gun.
We leave Beverly Hills and drive toward Santa Monica. I let Seymour drive; the speed of the surнrounding cars disturbs me. It is as if I am a young woman from 3000 b.c. who has been plucked from her slow-paced world and dumped into the dizzyingly fast twentieth century. I tell myself I just need time to get used to it. My euphoria over being human remains, but the anxiety is there as well.
Who was at the door?
I can't imagine. Not even a single possibility comes to mind. But there was something about that voice.
We check into a Sheraton hotel by the beach. My new name is Candice Hall. Seymour is just a friend helping me with my bags. I don't put his name down on the register. I will not stay Candice long. I have other ID that I can change my hair style and color to match, as well as other small features. Yet I feel safe as I close the door of the hotel room behind me. Since Las Vegas, I have kept an eye on the rearview mirror. I don't believe we've been followed. Seymour sets my bag on the floor as I plop down on the bed and sigh.
"I haven't felt this exhausted in a long time," I say.
Seymour sits beside me. "We humans are always tired."
"I am going to enjoy being human. I don't care what you say."
He stares at me in the dimly lit room. "Sita?"
I close my eyes and yawn. "Yes?"
"I am sorry what I said. If this makes you happy, then it makes me happy."
"Thank you."
"I just worry, you know, that there's no going back."
I sit up and touch his leg. "The decision would have been meaningless if I could have gone back."
He understands my subtle meaning. "You didn't do this because of what Krishna said to you about vampires?" he asks.
I nod. "I think partly. I don't think Krishna approved of vampires. I think he just allowed me to live out of his deep compassion for all living things."
"Maybe there was another reason."
"Perhaps." I touch his face. "Did I ever tell you how dear you are to me?"
He smiles. "No. You were always too busy threatenнing to kill me."
I feel a stab of pain. It is in my chest, where a short time ago a stake pierced my heart. For a moment the area is raw with an agonizing burning, as if I am bleeding to death. But it is a brief spasm. I draw in a shuddering breath and speak in a sad voice.
"I always kill the ones I love."
He takes my hand. "That was before. It can be different now that you're not a monster."
I have to laugh, although it is still not easy to take a deep breath. "Is that a line you use to get a girl to go to bed with you?"
He leans closer. "I already have you in bed."
I roll onto my side. "I need to take a shower. We both need to rest."
He draws back, disappointed. "You haven't changed that much."
I stand and fluff up his hair, trying to cheer him up. "But I have. I'm a nineteen-year-old girl again. You just forget what monsters teenage girls can be."
He is suddenly moved. "I never knew the exact age you were when Yaksha changed you."
I pause and think of Rama, my long dead husband, and Lalita, my daughter, cremated fifty centuries ago in a place I was never to know.
"Yes," I say softly. "I was almost twenty when Yaksha came for me." And because I was suspended so long between the ages, I add again, "Almost."
An hour later Seymour is fast asleep beside me on the king-size bed. But despite my physical exhaustion, my mind refuses to shut down. I can't be free of the images of Joel's and Arturo's faces from two nights earlier when I suddenly began to turn to light, to dissolve, to leave them just before the bomb was detonated. At the time I knew I was dead. It was a certainty. Yet one last miracle occurred and I lived on. Perhaps there was a reason.
I climb out of bed and dress. Before leaving the hotel room, I load my pistol and tuck it in my belt, at the back, pulling my sweatshirt over it.
The hotel is located on Ocean Ave. I cross over it, and the Coast Highway that separates me from the ocean. Soon I am walking along the dark and foggy Santa Monica Beach, not the safest place to be in the early morning hours before the sun rises. Yet I walk briskly, heading south, paying little attention to my surroundings. What work it is to make my legs move over the sand! It is as if I walk with weights strapped around my ankles. Sweat drips in my eyes and I pant audibly. But I feel good as well. Finally, after thirty minutes of toil, my mind begins to relax, and I contemplate returning to the hotel and trying to sleep. It is only then that I become aware that two men are following me.
They are fifty yards behind me. In the dark it is hard to distinguish their features, but it is clear they are both Caucasian and well built, maybe thirty years old. They move like two good ol' boys, one dark featured, ugly, the other bright as a bottle of beer foaming in the sunlight. I think these boys have been drinking beer-and stronger-and are feeling unнcomfortably horny. I smile to myself as I anticipate the encounter, even imagine what their blood will taste like. Then I remember I am not who I used to be. A wave of fear sweeps through my body, but I stand and wait for them to come to me.
"Hey, girl," the one with dark hair says with a Southern accent. "What are you doing out at this time of night?"
I shrug. "Just out for a walk. What are you guys up to?"
The blond guy snickers. "How old are you, girl?"
"Why?" I ask.
The dark-haired one moves slightly to my left. He flexes his fists as he speaks. "We just want to know if you're legal."
"I'm old enough to vote," I say. "Not old enough to drink. You boys been drinking tonight?"
They both chuckle. The blond guy moves a step closer. He smells of beer, whiskey. "You might say we've been looking at the wrong end of a few bottles tonight. But don't let that worry you none. We're still fully capable of finishing what we start."
I take a step back. Perhaps it's a mistake that I show fear. "I don't want any trouble," I say. And I mean it, although I feel as if I can still take them. After all, I am still a master of martial arts. A series of swift kicks to their groins, their jaws, should settle any unpleasantness. The dark-haired guy steps off to my left, and wipes at his slobbering mouth with the back of his arm.
"We don't want trouble either," he says. "We're just looking for a good time."
I catch his eye, and really do wish that my stare was still capable of burning into his brain. Seymour was right-my wishes have already settled into a pattern of wanting what I have lost. Yet I do my best to make my voice hard.
"Sometimes a good time can cost you," I say.
"I don't think so," the blond guy says. "You agree, John?"
"She looks like a freebie to me, Ed," John responds.
They've used their names in front of me. That is a bad sign. It means they're either too drunk to know better, or else they plan to kill me. The latter seems a distinct possibility since they clearly intend to rape me. I take another step back, and am tempted to reach for my gun. Yet I don't really want to kill them, especially since there is no need for their blood. Knocking them unconscious is my preference.