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

"How could I tell?"
"I'm not wearing anything else either."
I thought about that. "You're not real."
"You certainly didn't act that way last night."
I glanced at my watch at the next intersection and decided I had time for my evening run before
heading back to the office. Glancing to the right, I noticed odd bits of anatomy starting to materialize in
the passenger area.
"Darling, did you know that the French term for orgasm literally means 'the little death'?"
"You're not real, Jen."
"We should be home in another twenty minutes. Then you'll have another opportunity to prove your
silly little theory."
I shook my head. "You're not real," I repeated. "And I have stuff to do."
"Stuff . . ." I heard her say.
"Can't miss my workout. Sun's going down and I've got to drop some tape off at the office and
review my caseload. If I don't stick to my schedule, I'll start blowing off the exercise at every little
opportunity."
"Just remember that you were the one who used the phrase 'little opportunity.' "
I switched on my turn signal and began humming "Strangers in the Night."
 Chapter Two
The Witch of Cachtice remained on my mind as I jogged into the gloaming.
Gloaming. What a lovely word for that deepening purple twilight between the setting of the sun and
the actual fall of night. My state of mind, however, was anything but lovely as skies downshifted from
azure to indigo and the first stars of the evening faded into timorous glimmers.
Of all the mumbo-jumbo that the so-called fortune-teller had thrown at me, that one phrase continued
to burn in my mind. What else had she called her? Marinette Bois-Ch├иche? I wasn't familiar with the
reference but she had mentioned the "Loa" and that meant Vodoun or voodoo. I'd have to do a little
research from that angle, maybe drive down to New Orleans this weekend.
Or, better yet, fly to Haiti, I decided, loping back up onto the sidewalk as a car approached. Aside
from the assumption that the island source material would be purer, I knew there was a vampire enclave
down in the Big EasyтАФreason enough to not make a return visit.
While Haiti had its own supernatural blood-drinkersтАФspecifically the mauvais airs and the mauvais
nanm of voodoo origin, and such West Indies imports as the loogaroo of Grenada, the asema of
Surinam, and the sukuyan of TrinidadтАФI doubted that the island had any organized demesne system.
The Crescent City enclave wasn't much on structure either but, sooner or later, every badass vampire
wannabe decided to make the pilgrimage and few were said to return. Perversely, I was probably safer
in the jungles of an alien nation than the back streets of an American tourist trap.
Mama Cs├йjthe didn't raise no dummy.
Unless you count my buying any part of Mama Samm's sideshow act.
The car passed by and I hopped off the sidewalk, sprinted across the street, and cut across a vacant
lot. The streetlights were old and mostly out of order in this section of town, which was why I liked to run
here. Even though I didn't huff and puff anymore, I detested being on display for the neighbors. The only
thing I hated worse than jogging out in the open was running laps on a fixed track where the repetitive
scenery is slightly less boring than watching the Golf Channel on cable.
A row of decrepit shotgun houses loomed ahead. Their coffinlike silhouettes provided an appropriate
backdrop to my thoughts as I considered Mama Samm's veiled warnings and her troubling reference to
Marinette Bois-Ch├иche.
The "Witch of Cachtice" made sense in only one context.
The ruins of a castle remain today in the Slovak RepublicтАФCachtice, Slovakia, to be precise. Once
upon a time it lay within the borders of Hungary and was known by a different name. It was the ancestral
home of Countess Erzs├йbet B├бthory, who practiced the dark arts and came to believe that the blood of