"Terence West - Darkness" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Terence)

"Technically," Quinn thought for a moment, "but that's not the whole story. You see," he leaned forward
and lowered his voice, "the Wraith are to blame."

"For what?"

"Vampires."

Saint sat back and looked oddly at her mentor. "Um, yeah. What?" She shook her hands. "How could
we be to blame for vampirism, if it's actually the older of the viruses?"

"You see-"

A knock on the door startled both. They knew they were discussing a taboo subject and quickly became
silent. Saint looked apologetically at her Master as she hopped up from the bed. Rushing across the
room, she grabbed the door handle and pulled open the door impatiently. "Wha-?" She stopped herself
short.

Standing outside her door was one of the council's inner circle of Wraiths. Dressed immaculately, he
wore a maroon tunic below his gray coat, an indicator of his position. "Acolyte St. Louise, your final test
begins in ten minutes. You are to meet me outside the compound, or you forfeit the test." The High
Wraith looked passed Saint. His eyes focused on Quinn. "Master Quinn, your presence is also requested
for this test. Please follow me."

Quinn stood up and nodded. Lifting his hand, he patted Saint's back. "Good luck." He smiled. Turning
away, he left Saint alone in her room to prepare for her upcoming test.

***
Stephanov threw open the doors of his personal chambers and marched angrily into the main room of the
mansion, his black coat flowing majestically behind him. In his hand, he held an embossed gold cylinder,
a scroll of paper folded hastily inside. "I will not even consider this!" Looking down at the cylinder, rage
gripped him. Rearing back, he flung it hard into the wall.

By every account, Stephanov looked like the stereotypical "Hollywood Vampire." He continuously
projected the image of perfectly white porcelain skin over his tall, lithe frame. His deep, rich eyes were
colored an unnatural red, matching the maroon tie he wore knotted at his throat. Adjusting the collar of
his exquisitely tailored black Italian suit, he pulled his knee-length jacket tighter around his strapping
chest. His hair fell nearly to the center of his back, yet he pulled it tightly into a ponytail, only allowing
several strands on both sides to frame his face. A pair of black leather gloves hid his slender, clawed
hands, while only the smallest tuft of facial hair clung to his lower lip.

One of his assistants marched hurriedly behind him, doing her best to attend to her lord. "The message
was hand delivered," the young woman urged. She was extraordinarily beautiful with her wavy chocolate
hair, ashen skin, and cocoa colored eyes. Wearing a simple green cotton dress, she was the epitome of
the-girl-next-door image. "I beg you to reconsider."

"I will do no such thing," Stephanov growled.

Walking across the gothic main room of his mansion, Stephanov headed toward the French doors on the
far side. His image, his home, everything about this vampire was ripped straight from the pages of Bram
Stoker's Dracula . Tall candelabras stood in the corners, each with slender white candles burning in them