"James Rollins - Sandstorm" - читать интересную книгу автора (Romeyn Henry)

The low purr continued on SafiaтАЩs lap, a contented sound.

This, more than her breathing exercises, relaxed the taut muscles of her shoulders. Only then did she
notice the wary hunch in her back, as if fearing a blow that never came. She forced her posture straight,
stretching her neck.

The sirens and commotion continued half a block from her building. She needed to stand, find out what
was happening. Anything simply to be moving. Panic had transmuted into nervous energy.

She shifted her legs, careful to slide Billie onto the comforter. The purring halted for a moment, then
resumed when it was clear he was not being evicted. Billie had been born in the streets of London, alley
feral, a wild fluff of matted fur and spit. Safia had found the kitten sprawled and bloodied on the flatтАЩs
stoop with a broken leg, covered in oil, hit by a car. Despite her help, he had bitten her in the fleshy meat
of her thumb. Friends had told her to take the kitten to the animal shelter, but Safia knew such a place
was no better than an orphanage. So instead, she had scooped him up in a pillow linen and transported
him to the local veterinary clinic.

It would have been easy to step over him that evening, but she had once been as abandoned and alone
as the kitten. Someone had taken her in at the time, too. And like Billie, she had been domesticatedтАФbut
neither ended up completely tamed, preferring the wild places and rooting through lost corners of the
world.

But all that had ended with one explosion on a bright spring day.

All my faultтАжCrying and screams again filled her head, merging with the sirens of the moment.

Breathing too hard, Safia reached to the bedside lamp, a small Tiffany replica depicting stained-glass
dragonflies. She flicked the lampтАЩs switch a few more times, but the lamp remained dark. Electricity was
out. The storm must have knocked down a power line.

Maybe that was all the commotion.

Let it be something that simple.

She swung out of bed, barefoot, but in a warm flannel nightshirt that reached her knees. She crossed to
the window and twisted the blinds to peer through to the street below. Her flat was on the fourth floor.

Below, the usually quiet and dignified street of iron lamps and wide sidewalks had become a surreal
battlefield. Fire engines and police cars jammed the avenue. Smoke billowed despite the rain, but at least
the fierce storm had faded to the usual London weep. With the streetlamps darkened, the only
illumination came from the flashers atop the emergency vehicles. Yet, down the block, a deeper crimson
glow flickered through the smoke and dark.

Fire.

SafiaтАЩs heart thudded harder, her breath chokedтАФnot from old terrors, but from newborn fears for the
present. The museum! She yanked the blindsтАЩ cords, ripping them up, and fumbled with the lock to the
window. She pushed the sash open and bent out into the rain. She barely noted the icy drops.