"William Mark Simmons - Undead 2 - Dead on My Feet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons William Mark)

for air.
"Are you a friend of the family?" he asked once more.
"Um, sure," I said cautiously, hoping that, whatever family I was claiming association with, it would
be large enough to allow me unobtrusive passage. . . .
"Would you care to sign the book, then, sir?"
It took me another moment to figure the trajectory from his gesture: an ornate guest book sat atop a
podium near the doorway to the right.
"Um, sure." I took a couple of steps and recalled that one of my shoes was outside, near the edge of
the parking lot. In fact, I was suddenly aware that, overall, my appearance and apparel were hardly
appropriate for a church service.
Or a funeral.
A closer look at my surroundings revealed that I wasn't as safe as I first assumed. A church enjoys
the automatic presumption of "holy ground" and, therefore, out of bounds to creatures of darkness. A
funeral home, despite its religious symbols and services for families of the departed, is a debatable edifice
on the sacred footage issue. The vampire had not followed me across the threshold, but then it couldn't
follow me across any doorstep unless it received an invitation to enter.
While this might have been an impediment in the nervous North, we were down here in the sociable
South: all that ole fang face needed to do was amble around to the back door, knock, and ask
permission to come in. Sanctuary would give way to sanction.
The deacon cleared his throat behind me. I hurried to the guest book and grabbed the ballpoint pen
that was glued to the bleached ostrich feather. Having spent the past six months living under an assumed
name, I suddenly found myself unable to concoct another fake moniker: Caving in under the pressure, I
signed my real name, figuring no one here was going to attach any significance to Christopher L.
Cs├йjthe's signature.
Outside of taking a little detour through Weir, Kansas, a year or so back, it would prove to be one of
the biggest mistakes of my life.
"We'll be closing in twenty minutes," the deacon intoned, nodding toward the doorway to the
visitation rooms. "The funeral is tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock." He looked at me expectantly.
Expecting me to turn and bolt out the front door, most likely.
I glanced out at the darkness beyond the double entry doors: not bloody likely! My best bet was to
find a hiding place and wait till an hour before sunrise. I turned and limped through the side doorway to
the visitation rooms.
So much for low profile: I wasn't the only white person in attendance but the three or four of us were
a distinct minority. A young black woman in her twenties was surrounded by a throng of young men who
seemed to be competing for the opportunity to offer solace. Other faces turned and began to notice the
banged-up white guy in the scorched tank top and running shorts. I kept moving, trying not to step on the
flailing laces of my remaining shoe, and ducked into an adjoining room.
It was blessedly emptyтАФif you didn't count the open casket at the far end. I limped over to a chair
next to the coffin and started to retie my shoelace then decided to just chuck the whole footwear thing.
I sat down heavily and tried to let my lungs catch up to the rest of my body. As my respiration
slowed, I thought about Mama Samm D'Arbonne's warning. What had she said? Something about Je
RougeтАФa rough translation suggested "the blush" but I'd heard the phrase used once before in a more
compelling context. It was during a lecture on Haitian Vodoun. Je Rouge was the name given to
cannibalistic, evil spirits by the boku or sorcerers who invoked them. The interpretation meant, quite
literally, "Red Eyes."
Which certainly seemed to fit my fanged foe.
What else had she said? That it was hunting for the Goo-goo BattleaxeтАФor something like that. I
should have paid more attention.
So now what?
Scoot out the back door or find a hiding place and wait until morning? The deacon would be closing