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

It's growing dark. Rooks are gathering in the treetops. I am taking my time,
savouring the experience, when a figure in a long black overcoat steps out of the
blue darkness and comes towards me.
"Antoine, what are you doing?"
It is another vampire. His name is Karl. Perhaps you know him, but if not I shall
tell you that Karl is far older than me and thinks he knows everything. Imagine the
face of an angel, one who felt as much bliss as guilt when he fell, and still does,
every time he strikes. Amber eyes that eat you. Hair the colour of burgundy, which
fascinates me, the way it looks black in shadow then turns to crimson fire in the light.
That's Karl. He's like a deadly ghost, always warning me not to make the same
mistakes he made.
"I am thinking that this house and garden are the manifestation of the owner's
soul," I reply archly. "Will they change, when he is dead?"
"Don't do this," Karl says, shaking his head. "If you single out humans and make
something special of them, you'll drive yourself mad."
"Why should it matter to you if I am driven mad?"
He puts his hand on my shoulder; and although I have always desired him, I am
too irritated with him to respond. "Because you are young, and you'll only find out
for yourself when it is too late. Don't become involved with humans. Keep yourself
apart from them."
"Why?"
"Otherwise they will break your heart," says Karl.
They think they know it all, the older ones, but they will each tell you something
different. You can't listen to them. Give them no encouragement, or they will never
shut up.
We stand like a pair of ravens on the grass. Then I am stepping away from him,
turning lightly as a dancer to look back at him as I head for the house. "Go to hell,
Karl. I'll do what I like."


I am inside the house. The corridors are draughty and need a coat of paint. Yet
Old Masters hang on the walls and I finger the gilt frames with excitement. Riches.
This seems ironic, that Daniel should collect these grimy old oils for their value and
yet consider his own son's potential work valueless.
Following Rupert's instructions, I find the white panelled door of the bedroom,
and I go in.
The father is not as I expect.
I stand beside the bed staring down at him. With one hand I press back the
bed-curtain. I am as still as a snake; if he wakes he will think someone has played a
dreadful joke on him, placed a manikin with glittering eyes and waxen skin there to
frighten him. But he sleeps on, alone in this big austere room. Dying embers in the
grate give the walls a demonic glow. Like the rest of the house it is clean but
threadbare. Daniel is hoarding his wealth. Perhaps he thinks that if he disinherits
Rupert he can take it with him.
Why did I assume he would be old? Rupert is only twenty-three and this man is
barely fifty, if that. And he is handsome. He has a strong face like an actor, thick
chestnut and silver hair flowing back from a high forehead. His arms are muscular,
the hands well-shaped on the bedcover. Even in sleep his face is taut and intelligent. I
stand here admiring the aquiline sweep of his nose and the long curves of his eyelids,
each with a little fan of wrinkles at the corner.