"Freda Warrington - The Raven Bound" - читать интересную книгу автора (Warrington Freda)

The Raven Bound
Freda Warrington

I walk a tightrope above an abyss. The silver line of wire is all that keeps me from
1,000 feet of darkness yet I feel no fear. I flit across the rooftops of London like a
cat, I lie flat on top of underground trains as they roar through sooty tunnels. I climb
the ironwork of the Eiffel Tower and I dance upon the girders at its pinnacle, daring
gravity to take me. And all of this is so dull.
Dull, because I can do it.
I move with the lightness and balance of a bird. I never fall, unless I throw
myself wantonly at the ground. Then I may break bones, but my bones heal fast. It
is not difficult. It will not kill me. All these wild feats bore me, for they hold no
challenge, no excitement.
What is a vampire to do?


I see him in a nightclub. He could be my twin: a brooding young man with a lean
and handsome face, dark hair hanging in his eyes; his eyes lovely miserable pools of
shadow. How alone he looks, sitting there oblivious to the crush of bodies, the
women glittering with beads and pearls. He is hunched over a glass of whisky and he
raises a long, gaunt hand to his mouth, sucking hard on a cigarette stub. Dragging
out its last hot rush of poisons.
"May I join you?" I say.
"If you must." His voice is a bored, English upper-class drawl. I love that.
"There is no free table." I wave to emphasize the obvious; the club is crowded, a
sepia scene in a fog of smoke. "My name is Antoine Matisse."
"Rupert Wyndham-Hayes." He shakes my hand half-heartedly. His cigarette is
finished so I offer him another, a slim French one from a silver case. He accepts. I
light it for him тАФ an intimate gesture тАФ and he sits back, blowing smoke in sulky
pleasure. "Over from Paris, one assumes? First visit?"
"I have been here before," I reply. "London always draws me back."
He makes a sneering sound. "I should prefer to be in Paris. Funny how we always
want what we haven't got."
"What is preventing you from going to Paris, Rupert?"
I look into his eyes. He doesn't seem to notice that I am not smoking. He sees
something special in me, a kindred soul, someone who will understand him.
He calls the waiter and orders drinks, although I tip mine into his while he isn't
looking. Presently his story comes tumbling out. A family seat in the country, a
father who is proud and wealthy and mean. Mother long dead. Rupert the only son,
the only child, with a vast freight of expectations on his shoulders. But he has
disappointed his father in everything.
"All the things he wanted me to be тАФ I can't do it. I was to be a scholar, an
officer, a cabinet minister. Worthy of him. Married to some earl's daughter. That's
how he saw me. But I let him down. I tried and failed; gods, how I tried! Finally
something snapped, and I refused to dance to his tune any longer. Now he hates me.
Because what I truly am is an artist. The only thing I can do, the only thing I've ever
wanted to do, is to paint!"
He takes a fierce drag on his cigarette. His eyes burn with resentment.
"Isn't your father proud that you have this talent?"
"Proud?" he spits. "He despises me for it! Says I'll end up in the gutter."